Page 5 of Daddy's Naughty Realtor

Jeremy: When can I see you?

Me: You can't.

Jeremy: I'll be at Martino's tonight at 8. Join me.

It's not a question. It's a statement. A confident, commanding, presumptuous as hell, statement…

Me: No.

No is a complete sentence. He doesn’t need, no screw that, doesn’tdeservemore of an explanation from me.

Jeremy: Yes, you will. Because you're dying to know why I'm back. Why I'm here. Why I'm reaching out to you after all this time.

Damn him for being right. I am incredibly curious. Not only about why he’s here, but also, why he left in the first place.

Me: Maybe I don't care.

Jeremy: Then why are you still texting me?

I put my phone away without responding, seething. I gather my things and head for the elevator, determined not to look out the window again.

I fail, of course. Jeremy's still there, still watching. He stands as I appear, buttoning his suit jacket in a fluid motion that draws attention to shoulders that have, somehow gotten broader with age. How is that fair? I have to suffer through Pilates three times a week just to maintain my current weight, while he seems to have only improved with time. I’ve never met a more infuriating human being in my life.

I turn away and jab the elevator button, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. But as the doors close, I can't help but wonder if I'll end up at Martino's tonight after all.

* * *

I don't go to Martino's.

I'm not that weak.

Instead, I meet up with a client at Bella's, the Italian place two blocks away from Martino's. Pure coincidence, obviously. The client picked the restaurant. I’m getting a bit annoyed with the coincidences occurring today, but what can I do?

"The lakefront property has potential, but the asking price is steep considering the renovations you'd need to make," I tell Mrs. Heywood, a widow looking to downsize from her mansion now that her kids are grown.

She nods, picking at her pasta. "I was thinking the same thing. What about that Tudor in Oakwood?"

I'm about to answer when a familiar voice cuts through the restaurant's ambient noise.

"Gina Long. What a surprise."

Jeremy stands at our table, looking like he just stepped out of a luxury menswear catalog. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. He smells like cedar and something darker, more complex.

My heart does a traitorous little flip in my chest.

"Mr. Ford," I say, my voice admirably steady. "I'm with a client at the moment."

"Of course you are," he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You were always so... dedicated."

The way he says "dedicated" makes it sound like something else entirely.

Mrs. Heywood looks between us, her eyes bright with interest. "Don't let me interrupt," she says. "I need to powder my nose anyway."

Before I can protest, she's gathering her purse and heading toward the back of the restaurant, abandoning me to Jeremy's mercy.

"You're not at Martino's," he says, sliding into Mrs. Heywood's vacated seat without waiting for an invitation.

"I had a prior commitment."

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