Page 13 of Daddy's Naughty Realtor

Thank you for dinner. And the compliment.

His response is immediate.

Jeremy: You're welcome. For the record, I'm counting the days until I can tell you exactly what I want to do to you without crossing your professional boundaries. Let’s close this deal quickly.

CHAPTER6

"Mom, you're not listening." My daughter, Sydney, waves a hand in front of my face, pulling me back to the present. "I said, can Jeremy come to the barbecue on Sunday?"

I nearly choke on my coffee. "What?"

"Jeremy. Your hot developer guy. Can he come to the barbecue?"

We're having our weekly breakfast at the little café near Sydney's apartment. At twenty-three, my daughter is everything I wasn't at her age– confident, grounded, unafraid to speak her mind. She's also apparently been conspiring behind my back.

"How do you even know about Jeremy?" I demand.

She rolls her eyes in that particular way only daughters can master. "Aunt Carol told me you've been seeing some silver fox who broke your heart back in the day. Then I looked up who's developing that big property you're always talking about, and found Jeremy Ford." She grins. "I did a little Instagram stalking. He's seriously handsome, Mom. Like, criminally."

I make a mental note to murder my sister later. "We're not seeing each other. We're working together."

"Uh-huh." Sydney's expression makes it clear she doesn't believe me. "So that's why he keeps commenting on your Instagram posts from three years ago?"

"He what?" I don’t run my social media accounts. I hired a tech savvy social media manager years ago. She carefully chooses what to post on all my accounts. I’ve never been much into social media. It became popular about ten years after I’d graduated from college. I have accounts, mostly for professional reasons, but I’m not addicted to the platforms and rarely log in.

Sydney slides her phone across the table, open to my Instagram account. Sure enough, Jeremy has liked and commented on photos from years ago. Including pictures of me at charity galas, on vacation, at award banquets. Now I know how he knew about the dress.

"He's been doing a deep dive," Sydney says, sounding delighted. "That's not business, Mom. That's a man who's interested."

I push the phone back toward her, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. "It's complicated."

"It doesn't have to be. Invite him to the barbecue."

"Absolutely not."

"Why not? The whole family will be there. Aunt Carol said she really liked him back in the day. It'll be the perfect way to see if he fits in."

"Fits in?" I echo. "Sydney, we're not dating."

She gives me a look that's far too knowing for her age. "He’s the one who got away, Mom. He’s your second chance at love. You know you want to."

Do I?

The past month has been a dance of professional meetings interspersed with texts that grow increasingly personal, dinners that stretch late into the evening, and moments—brief, electric moments—where his hand brushes mine or his eyes linger a beat too long.

We haven't crossed any lines. Not officially. But every day, those lines blur a little more.

"It's not a good idea to mix business and pleasure," I say, falling back on the excuse that's becoming increasingly threadbare.

"The deal's almost done, right? So soon it won't be business anymore." Sydney steals a piece of my bacon. "Just invite him, Mom. What's the worst that could happen?"

He could break my heart again. He could make me need him, then disappear. He could become part of my life, part of my family, and then leave me wondering what I did wrong.

"Fine," I say instead, because I'm apparently a masochist. "I'll ask him." Sydney's triumphant smile should worry me more than it does.

* * *

I don't actually plan to invite him. I really don't. But then we have a breakthrough with the city council, when they actually approve the zoning variance and Jeremy suggests we celebrate with dinner.

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