Page 8 of Wicked Lies Grow Wildflowers
“Marie? Really?” There’s an air of amusement and suspicion in his voice now.
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No.Marie. I should be going, too.” His voice is so low that it travels through my ear and straight to my toes, covering me in goosebumps. He walks away, leaving me stunned and alone.Because just like last time, he’s gone again, and just like last time, I’m flustered. And intrigued.
What the hell is going on between us?
CHAPTER SIX
XANDER
I needto think critically here. I still have a job to do and don’t need a distraction—no matter how easy the hit is. If I just do a little digging I can sate some of the need I have, I only want to know a little more, that’s all. I can find out some basics, learn something that’ll turn me off and then leave her alone, but I also know that curiosity killed the cat.
The devil on my shoulder wins out and I decided to do a little sleuthing on my . . .infatuation.That’s a good name for her. I really hope this doesn’t all backfire because I can easily see her becoming my obsession instead. I’ll just do a quick search, a few minutes is all I need. I am a professional at digging up information on absolutely anyone, after all. Plus, I know she’s going to make it oh so easy as I’m sure she’s a typical millennial with her whole life broadcasted across social media.
Most people don’t understand just how dangerous that is. You never know if someone like me is watching and able to hunt you down with the little scraps of info you leave scattered around. It may seem harmless to post your favorite restaurant and tag the location, or where you get your coffee every Sunday at noon, but piece enough of those breadcrumbs together andyou can find out someone’s entire day-to-day pattern, exactly where they will be and when. Who they hangout with, where they work, where they live. It’s just so easy if you know what to look for.
After searching her address online, I was able to trace her apartment back to a name, apartment number four rented by a Miss Maeren Marie Laughlin. Does every single female have the middle name Marie? At least she wasn’tfullylying to me about her name last night. She seems single from everything I can gather, which oddly pleases me. Not that it matters, I won’t have to compete with anyone either way because this won’t go any further. A whisper in the back of my mind tells me I’m a liar. Why else would I be spending the early hours of the morning like this?
I push the thought aside and keep digging.
Her mother is Leanne Butler, a middle aged divorcee. She’s the only known family I could find—which is interesting. No siblings, nothing of note on her father who Maeren shares her last name with. Looks like they divorced when Maeren was just a small child. Dennis was his name, but there’s no criminal record on him and he hasn’t been around here in over two decades. Virtually irrelevant.
Maeren works at a local real estate firm, a modest one, which explains her living quarters. Land of Lakes Realty, a fitting name for a Minnesota business. Looking at their website I find all the little employee bios and ah—there she is. She’s been with them for four years after graduating from the University of Middle Minnesota with a degree in business management and a minor in marketing, before obtaining her real estate license. I wonder what led her to this job. The degree correlates a little bit, maybe for a manager, but not for a simple real estate agent. Did she choose this path, or was this what life chose for her? Not that itmatters. I shut my laptop and lean back in my chair, rubbing my chin as I think over everything I’ve just learned.
Oh Maeren, you have no idea how fucked you may be by opening yourself up to me like this. Inviting me into your life, even if it was done unknowingly, was your biggest mistake.
When I set my sights on someone, Ialwaysfollow through. I’m a hunter by nature, and you might just be my most worthwhile prey yet.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAEREN
The week wentby in a blur and I spent most of it reeling over the fact that my plan to find my mystery man actually worked. I honestly didn’t expect to run into him like that—if ever again. For all I know he’s just visiting or he’s like me and never bothers to go out. I wonder if that was pure chance or if he was hoping I would come back too. Is he thinking about me as much as I am him?
There’s an allure to not knowing anything about the man encroaching on all of my thoughts. It feels almost taboo to be so focused on him, especially since it’s been days since the second time we met.
My mind sobers when I realize I went the whole week with zero contact from my mother. It isn't unlike her to go so long without calling or texting me, but I know it's only a matter of time before she’s blowing up my phone to yell at me about something stupid that isn’t my fault and has nothing to do with me. My peace of mind is a ticking time bomb, slowly winding down until the moment she comes calling. Thenboom, I'm thrown back into the mental prison she loves to keep me in.
I try to disassociate from the impending doom, busying myself in preparation for the last showing of the week in the most beautiful part of town. I look up the details of the house and refresh my memory. It's a two-million-dollar build, which isn't insane as far as real estate goes, but still nicer than anything I could ever dream of affording.
As I lock up my apartment, I notice three flowers lying on my welcome mat, carnations specifically. I scrunch my face in confusion and try to figure out what they’re doing here. Maybe someone dropped them on their way to one of the other apartments in the building? I’m on the top floor with only one other apartment situated directly across from me, but maybe they were dropped on the way there? I don’t dwell on it too long and leave them there, needing to get to my showing on time.
Pulling into the driveway, my jaw drops in awe. It's even more gorgeous than the listing made it seem. The first thing I notice is the beautiful front porch and four-car garage. Continuing down the long driveway, I find the circular parking area, feeling more broke than I have in my entire life. The whole home is surrounded by large trees and intricate landscaping, despite the shrubbery being well on its way to the grave from the plummeting temperatures. I park and grab the key from the lockbox next to the massive front door. Letting myself in, I take a quick, routine walkthrough to familiarize myself with the layout before my client arrives.
I swoon at the gorgeous kitchen with shiny stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, and bold green cabinets. As I make my way through the house, I find the primary bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in shower, and a separate soaking tub big enough to fit two people. A freaking dream. A huge walk-in closet is on the same wall as the bathroom and is adorned with built-in shelving.Swoon.Andoh my God,the sliding glass door walks out to the fenced-in backyard, and inthe center is a freaking pool. I knew to expect it all but seeing it in person is completely different. I think this is the nicest house I’ve ever seen in person. If I can sell this place, I’ll make enough commission to pay for several months of rent and student loans.
A slight panic sets in because Ireallyneed to make a good impression with the potential buyer. I have to sell my ass off. While I’ve been a real estate agent for four years, I still get nervous sometimes, especially when I know how much money is on the line. Hopefully my client is a serious buyer and not just someone who wants to look for the sake of looking. I hate when that happens because it’s a waste of my time. And I get it, I really do. I’m nosey too, it's part of why I like this job, but man, does it suck to not close a deal.
I hear an engine approaching and take a few deep breaths as I put my selling face on and steady my nerves. I’ve got this, it’s just another day with another house, no biggie at all.
Opening the front door reveals a sleek black Mustang parked in the driveway. I’m not a car girl so my knowledge ends there, but I can tell it cost a pretty penny as I side-eye my beat-up Camry. Maybe I’m in luck and this is a serious buyer after all.
I step out from the foyer and onto the porch to meet the client, a man named Xander Morris according to the required showing questionnaire.
The man gets out and it’s a testament to my professionalism that my jaw doesn’t hit the floor. He’s gorgeous in his dark jeans that hug muscular thighs, dress boots, and navy blue blazer that dresses up the white t-shirt underneath. Fit, but not overly so, he looks like he walked right off the page of a menswear catalog.
As he gets closer the blood drains from my face. Dark hair, steely gray eyes, tall, imposing. My mind flashes back to the first night at the bar, realizing thatthisis the rude and slightly creepy man I accidentally stumbled into.
