Page 2 of The Broker

I nodded. “What kind of updates will they get about the project?”

“Typically, I send photos when the piece is finished.”

The woman on stage had finished teasing the guy. She reached a hand behind her, likely to steady his cock, and moved to lower herself on him. Her eyes hooded and his head tilted back, and they both let out a deep sigh of pleasure.

Fuck.

It was sexy as hell watching her take whatever she wanted from the man. The muscles in his arms flexed and corded as he tried to reach for her but was held back by his cuffs. But I knew it wasn’t because he wanted to stop her. His hands probably ached to grasp her waist and control the tempo she fucked him with, but—no.

She was in charge.

When he lowered his head to look out at the few people watching the scene, it seemed like he loved being her plaything.

Focus.

“Would you be open to letting me inspect the pieces before shipping?” I asked.

Clay’s eyebrows tugged together. He wasn’t exactly frowning, but I could tell he didn’t love the idea. “You’d have to do that at my workshop, and I don’t typically let clients down there.”

I sensed he wasn’t concerned I might find his quality lacking; his discomfort was caused by something else. Maybe he viewed his workshop as a safe space and didn’t want to sacrifice his privacy.

But as their broker, I had a duty to my clients.

“This isn’t a typical order,” I said. Meaning if he wanted to close, he needed to be flexible here.

“No, it’s not,” he reluctantly agreed. He pushed the side of his suit coat back so he could rest a hand on his hip. “If your clients want you to inspect the finished pieces, I’m fine with allowing that.”

“Excellent. Then my clients accept your quote and,” I thrust my hand forward, “I think we have a deal.”

Clay had a decent poker face. His pleased smile was restrained, but his eyes gave him away. The guy was fucking pleased, and why shouldn’t he be? He was going to make a decent chunk of change off this—but it wasn’t just the money. His work was art to him, and it deserved to be seen.

After we shook hands, my gaze drifted back to the couple playing on the St. Andrew’s Cross. The man stared at his partner with such hunger, I felt it deep inside. Not for the woman he was with though—my longing was more general and widespread.

I was envious of the connection they had.

In all the years I’d lived in New York, I hadn’t found anything like that. But I’d been so stressed out and busy, I’d barely had time for myself. Certainly not time for anyone else.

Was there any chance things would be different here in Nashville?

I fucking hoped so.

The first thirty minutes after my realtor told me the offer on the house had been accepted, I’d felt both excitement and anxiety. I’d done the numbers a bunch of times and knew I could afford the mortgage. Plus, I had plenty of money in my ‘rainy day’ account. No matter what, I’d be fine.

And yet, no amount of convincing seemed to help with my unease.

I’d never owned a house before. And this one wasbig.

It was way too much for a thirty-six-year-old single guy, but I loved the house. Not just the space, but the neighborhood, the proximity to my new job, and best of all—I’d gotten it for a downright steal. It had sat on the market for months and gone through several price reductions. I didn’t know the seller’s situation, but it was clear she was motivated.

Thankfully, my anxiety evaporated by closing day.

My agent had told me everything was ready to go. I had the final walkthrough scheduled for nine a.m., and then we’d head to the bank where I’d sign and get the keys. I felt more like an adult than I ever had.

My agent’s car was out front when I pulled up, but there was another car parked in the driveway as well. The seller of the house was waiting for us in the entryway.

“I’m Judy,” the woman said.

She looked to be in her mid-fifties, and was so skinny, it seemed likely a strong breeze might blow her over. Her face was severe even as she attempted to smile at me.

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