Page 1 of Daddy's Naughty Realtor

CHAPTER1

I’m getting too old for this, I think to myself as I walk through the marble foyer of the Blackwell estate. I could have retired already, I have enough in the bank to live out the rest of my life comfortably. But with college tuition prices on the rise, I want to make sure I can provide for my children. My heels click against the floor like I'm keeping time to my own personal power anthem– something mixed between Madonna and White Snake. This six-bedroom waterfront property is my biggest listing this quarter, and I'm not about to let anything, or anyone, mess it up.

"The original owners imported this Carrara marble directly from Italy," I tell the Martinson’s, gesturing around us with a practiced flourish. Mrs. Martinson nods appreciatively while her husband checks his Rolex for the third time in fifteen minutes.

Another reluctant husband being dragged to showings. At least pretend to be interested, buddy.

After fifteen years in luxury real estate, I've developed a sixth sense for these things. I could write a field guide to the species of home buyers: The Never-Committals, The If-Only-It-Hads, The We-Need-To-Think-About-Its. My specialty is turning all of them into The Sold-Signs.

"The kitchen was completely renovated last year," I continue as I lead them into a space that would make celebrity chefs weep with envy. "Sub-Zero refrigerator, Wolf range, custom cabinetry,” that probably cost more than my first house.

I don't actually say that last part out loud.

Rule number one of Gina Long's Guide to Selling Luxury Real Estate: Never reveal how impressed you are by the wealth. Act like you live in a place twice as expensive, even if your mortgage for your modest three-bedroom keeps you up at night.

"It's... nice," Mr. Martinson says, with all the enthusiasm of someone commenting on beige wallpaper.

Nice?

This kitchen was featured in Architectural Digest, you philistine!

"The view from the master suite is truly the selling point," I say instead, because I am a consummate professional, who doesn't call clients philistines to their faces. "You can see clear across the bay?—"

The sound of the front door opening cuts me off mid-sentence. I pause, my brow furrowing. I'm not expecting anyone else; the property manager gave me exclusive showing rights for the afternoon. If another agent is trying to horn in on my commission, they're about to think again.

"Hello?" I call out, my voice bouncing off the high ceilings. "The house is currently being shown?—"

And then I see him.

I close my eyes and reopen them slowly.

It's like one of those scenes in a movie where the music stops, the background blurs, and time slows down to a painful crawl. Except there's no director yelling "cut" to rescue me from what's about to happen.

Jeremy Ford.

Six-foot-two feet of salt-and-pepper perfection in a tailored suit that probably costs more than my car payment. Broad shoulders that still fill out a jacket exactly the way I remember. Of course, we’ve both aged and he’s only grown finer with time. And those eyes—steel blue and sharp enough to cut—lock onto mine across the foyer. Eyes that made me melt a few decades ago… eyes that with just one look, dampened my panties.

Thirty years fall away in an instant, and suddenly I'm twenty-two again, breathless and stupid with feelings I thought I'd composted into emotional fertilizer decades ago. No. I’m not the girl I was. I won’t fall for his empty promises and smoldering glances.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, his voice still that same low rumble that used to whisper filthy promises against my ear. "The door was unlocked. I'm here about the property."

My professional smile freezes in place like I've been hit with a Botox dart.

This can't be happening.

Jeremy Ford can't be standing in my showing, looking like that, speaking in that voice that still somehow manages to slide down my spine like warm honey.

Get it together, Gina. You are a successful businesswoman, not some lovesick girl who still writes his name across her notebook.

"Mr. Ford," I manage, my voice remarkably steady considering the circus act my internal organs are performing. "I wasn't aware you were interested in this property."

His mouth quirks up at one corner. It’s the same infuriating half-smile that used to make me want to either slap him or climb him like a tree. "I'm interested in a lot of things these days, Gina."

The way he says my name, like he still has the right to it, makes something twist in my chest. He gave up that right. He walked away. From me. From us. From what might have been.

The Martinson’s are looking between us with the delighted curiosity of people who've stumbled onto free entertainment. Mrs. Martinson's eyes are practically gleaming with the realization that she's witnessing a situation.

"You two know each other?" she asks, because of course she does.

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