Authors: Bebe Wilde
“Listen I’ve pulled some comps and—”
“Fuck comps,” he said. “There is no other house comparable to this one because there is no other house like this one.”
I sighed and bit my tongue. He was going to be a
hardass, that
was for sure. I crossed my arms and said, “Just tell me what you were thinking.”
“I would like to have seven,” he replied without missing a beat.
I thought about that. He didn’t buy it for anything close to that. And the renovations, while extensive, didn’t come close either. He wanted a hefty profit and I understood that. Five or so years ago I could have made it happen.
But now?
There was no way.
“It’s more like five,” I said.
“I won’t take five,” he told me.
“It’s just what’s happening right now in real estate,” I replied.
“Forget about that and find the buyer,” he said and held out his hand. “Sell it for seven. If someone likes it, they will pay that.”
I was hesitant to agree. Seven would mean future price cuts, as well as multiple showings and with my other listings, this could mean an enormous amount of work and time. If I took it on, I also took on the financial responsibility for advertising it and paying for open houses. It would call for a lot of out of pocket expenses, not to mention the time my assistant would have to put in helping me sell it.
But if I could get seven…
Wow. That would be an enormous commission. But the sparkle of lots of money wouldn’t hold weight right now. It was about the reality of the situation. No one would even look at this place for that amount, especially with the high property taxes and the maintenance it would require. I would have to find a sultan to even consider it. And I didn’t have any sultans on my contact list.
I stared at him and wondered why he wanted so much. He was asking way over what it was worth, I knew that. I knew it wasn’t about the money. It couldn’t be. He had plenty of that to burn. He didn’t have to have any extra. He would make a good profit at half the price. But it was not my place to judge. It was my place to sell.
He and I stared at each other and I got a number in my head,
then
held out my hand, “How about six and a quarter?”
“Six and a half,” he countered.
Fuck! He was going to be a pain in my ass, I could tell. But I conceded, as I had no choice, “Six and a half it is.”
He grinned and shook my hand, then stepped back to stare at me. “You don’t dress like a woman,” he said abruptly after a few seconds. “You dress like a… Like a small child.
Or a school marm.”
Where the hell did that come from?
My face burned with embarrassment. I could have slapped him. I always wore these kinds of dresses and I loved them. They were all the rage at the moment, though I had been wearing them for years and always got complimented on them. And they were super expensive. They were dresses made of gauzy material with black grosgrain ribbons or leather skinny belts at the waist that hit just below the knee. I had them in blacks, pinks, reds, and blues. I wore them with my black, nude or tan Italian leather ballet flats. They made me look rich, feminine, but never overpowering. They were a modern throwback to the fifties when women wore dresses of this style out to the market and always wanted to look their best.
What the hell did he know anyway? Even though I was seething, I ignored his comments and stuck to business. “Well, okay. I’ll be going then. I’ll fax you the contract.”
“No,” he said and nodded towards the house. “Let me give you something.”
“Huh?” I asked but he was already in the house. I groaned under my breath and followed him. He was in the bedroom, in the gigantic walk-in closet that had the most fantastic cabinetry I’d ever seen. As with all the other cabinets, it was made from solid walnut and had spaces for shoes, shirts, pants, everything. Everything was neat and in its place. He opened a door and pulled out a dress.
“Wear this,” he said and handed it to me.
Was he serious?
I stared at him and took the dress, a black cocktail number that was, in a word, sexy. “I don’t understand,” I said.
“When you show my house,” he said. “Wear that.”
I then noticed a tag on it, glanced at the price, and nodded with approval when I checked out the designer. This was easily a two-thousand dollar dress. What was he doing with it?
“The designer is my friend,” he said as if reading my mind. “He always sends things for my girlfriends, even when I don’t have one, as I haven’t for some time. I keep them not to hurt his feelings by returning them.”
I wished I had a friend like that.
And his friend?
Top notch, to say the least.
I owned only one of his dresses that I’d been lucky enough to find at a thrift store years ago when I first moved here. It was fantastic but I didn’t wear it much just because it wasn’t my style. It was like a lot of really awesome designer stuff one could find at thrift stores in Hollywood; it was cool but something so completely odd a person would never wear it. That dress I had found at the thrift store was of the same ilk. It just wasn’t my style. However, this dress was another story entirely. It was, in a word,
awesome.
But I was still smarting from his comments earlier about my dress. I didn’t need fashion advice from a guy who built houses.
I handed the dress back. “I can’t.”
“You will,” he said and went to another door, opened it and then pulled out a pair of four-inch heels by the same designer. They were black kid leather and to die for.
“With these.
No panty hose, either. I hate that.”
“First of all, I don’t wear panty hose,” I said, shaking my head and trying not to sound condescending.
“Mainly because we are in
Southern California
.
Secondly, I don’t allow clients to dress me.”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “This house gives off a certain message. The agent who lists it needs to be like the house, sleek and sophisticated. Pull your hair back, too. I like a ponytail.
Oh, and just a little makeup.”
I was going to slap him. I always wore my hair down, flowing around my shoulders. It was one of my best features! No. No. No.
And no.
And I wasn’t wearing a lot of makeup, either. I don’t know where that came from. I forced him to take back the dress. “I can’t,” I said. “We need to keep our relationship professional.”
“But we are doing what men and women do,” he said and forced the dress back at me.
“Interacting, even when they’re not being professional.”
I stared at the dress. I guess if this was what it took, that’s what it took. Besides, he wouldn’t be at any of my showings or open houses, so he’d never know if I wore it or not. “Now, we need to sign the contract.”
“I will only sign if you will agree to wear the dress when you show the house.”
Was he serious? I stared at him. He was.
“Teagan?” he asked.
I groaned. He wanted me to look like a chick in that Robert Palmer video! In the old days, I would have told him to fuck off and that he was being inappropriate.
But now?
Now I couldn’t chance it.
Fuck!
I needed this listing. I needed the commission. I couldn’t fuck it up over a dress and I knew that. He would win this one. I would have to allow it. I glanced at him and realized he was a full-on control freak. From the meticulousness of his house to his insistence I wear that dress, he wanted everything under his control. I’d play that game as long as I got the listing.
“Fine,” I said. “So, are you ready to sign a contract?”
“I am now,” he said with a smile.
I tried not to growl at him. Instead I said, “I will need an agent key to the property.”
“Excuse me?”
“An agent key,” I said. “You
know,
a key so I can get in the house. You know, to let potential buyers in and for the broker’s open.”
“Oh!” he said. “I’ve just never heard it called that.”
“What have you heard it called?”
“Just a key to the house,” he said and smiled at me, a smart-assed twinkle in his eye.
I stared at him, hating my life for just a hot second. I shook my head and said, “If you can just send one to my office, I’d appreciate it. And, of course, I’ll fax the contract to you.”
He nodded. “I will.
And Teagan?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget to wear the dress, s’il vous plait,” he said.
“Merci.”
I bit my bottom lip to keep from telling him off. This was going to be one hard, long row to hoe. If he hadn’t been so handsome, I would have already told him to fuck off.
When I got home later, I was in a state of absolute consternation. The other listing appointment had gone better than expected and I had it too, in addition to the one with Roman. This meant that I had two houses under contract and no money with which to advertise them and it would cost me a pretty penny to advertise them. Then there were the broker’s opens, the open houses, the private showings…
A lot of work.
A lot of time and a lot of money.
I groaned and sat down on my couch, looking around at all my nice things. I’d bought this house, a nice, yet smaller two-bedroom bungalow in the Hills with a lap pool in back, right after my divorce. It had been a find and everything I had wanted at the time. It had been totally renovated and had a gigantic walk-in closet with custom built-ins. The kitchen had been upgraded with marble counters, the finest appliances and cabinetry money could buy. The dark wood floors complimented my lighter, linen sofa and my camel colored leather chairs. The tall built-in bookshelves were painted a nice, crisp white and housed my flat-screen TV as well as the design books I loved to study. The walk-in closet in the master bedroom was what had sold me on the house, though. It was the size of a small bedroom and had floor to ceiling built-ins that housed all of my clothes, bags, accessories and shoes.
As I looked around, the amounts of money I had spent on each item cha-chinged in my head like a cash register going off. Lots and lots of money spent on lots and lots of things. Could I sell this furniture off to pay for everything I needed to do to sell these houses and then replace it once I was back in the black?
Probably not.
That would take too much time.
Where
the fuck
was I going to get the money to take on these listings?
I stared at the phone, thinking about calling my mother who, despite working for very low wages, had managed to save some money for retirement. Would she give me a loan? Probably but she would also give me a hard time, too. And it would cause her to start worrying, too.
So, no.
That was out of the question. I could call my brother… No. He was in the military and I didn’t want to bother him with my problems.
My eyes went down the hall and to my bedroom door. I groaned. Oh, no. Not
that.
But I forced myself up and into the bedroom and to the walk-in closet and to the row of thin black velvet lined drawers that went waist high and contained all my jewelry.
Well, they used to contain my jewelry.
I opened the top drawer and saw my beautiful diamond earrings. They were exquisite, flawless, my sign of success,
the
last pair I had left. They were worth a lot of money. I studied them, already missing them, knowing they’d go to someone else who would also love them. It hurt to sell things that meant something. But I had no choice. I was down to my last few bits of jewelry. I’d exhausted almost all resources to keep myself in business. This would be it. After I sold these earrings, I had nothing left to sell. Everything else was gone, too. All the jewelry I’d gotten over the years, gone. If things didn’t change, I’d be out of a house, too. I wouldn’t be able to afford the mortgage much longer.
And the lease on my uber expensive European sports car?
Well, I couldn’t afford it, either. Soon, I’d have to give it back and hope they’d take it without penalizing me too badly. I should have never wasted money on leases. I should have bought a car, paid cash for it and now I wouldn’t be worried about how I was going to get to work.
I felt like crying. But I’d cried enough. This was it. If I couldn’t make this happen, I would have to leave real estate. I couldn’t live hand to mouth much longer. It just wasn’t worth it. The last pair of diamond earrings was it. Once the money was gone from these, I’d have to find a new career. It was that simple.
Just then, the doorbell rang. I sighed, thinking it was Hailey, who sometimes stopped by for a glass of wine. I could use one, so, I put the earrings back and went to the door. But it wasn’t Hailey. It was my ex-bastard. I
mean,
ex-husband. His name was Kier O’Mark. Yes, that was his real name. He was confident and handsome with dark brown hair and light blue eyes, had the superb body of a former model and a Texan accent that made women swoon.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Not you.”
“Yes, me,” he said and grinned, trying to push his way in.
I barred the way. “I know why you’re here and you’re not getting in.”
“I’m just here to see my lovely ex-wife,” he said.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Come on,” he whined. “I’ve missed you.”
“Let me see,” I said. “Which one finally found out what a bastard you are and left you?”
“Ah ha,” he said and wagged a finger in my face. “You do read the tabloids. You know, it’s all true, whatever they say.”
I rolled my eyes. “What you do want?”
“You,” he said.
I rolled my eyes.
“
That
you can’t have.”
“But I want it,” he said.
“You just want sex.”
“Don’t you?” he asked. “You’re horny too!”
“Not enough to be your booty call,” I snipped.
“Sure about that?”
I wasn’t. Even though I hated it, I had to admit that Roman Juniper did turn me on and he turned me on a lot. But I was a little horny, as Kier had so eloquently put it. Well, more than a little. And he was a charming bastard, even if he had broken my heart. Or, rather, pulled it out, stomped on it and then left it for dead. Yes, I was still resentful over that.