Page 5 of Famous Last Words
“Hold on.”
I gasp. Hold on? He isn’t hanging up on me.
Muffling comes through the line, and I can hear the murmured sound of a voice, maybe two. And a few seconds later, Mr. Hoffman returns to the call. “Can you do three o’clock?”
I swallow the lump of emotion that threatens to ruin my already depleted composure, but honestly, I could cry right now.
With a deep breath, I try to sound casual in my reply, “Three o’clock works. I’ll send you the details.”
With a curt yet professional goodbye, I end the call before he can change his mind. Staring down at the screen on my phone, my mind is working a mile a minute, my excitement making way for self-doubt and anxiety as they rear their disheveled heads.
I tamp down the doubt with a deep breaths “You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.” The sheer notion that I do, in fact,got thisis laughable, but this is my last chance.
Standing by the wall of glass that looks out over Manhattan, I release a sigh, taking in the dizzying vista of sky-scraping buildings, trying not to check my watch for the millionth time in the last five minutes.
For the record, Andy Hoffman is forty-two minutes late. I know Midtown traffic can be a fickle bitch at the best of times, so I’m really trying not to get in my head too much, despite my subconscious trying to convince me that he’s a no-show. Thankfully, I know better. This is nothing more than a power play. The oldest trick in the book. Andy Hoffman is trying to show me who’s in charge. But he doesn’t know how desperate I am. I can wait.
Suddenly, the silence is inundated by the shrill buzz of the intercom, and I release the breath I’ve been holding as I practically bolt for the security panel, pressing the button.
“Miss Keller, I have Mr. Hoffman and his client in the lobby.”
“Thank you. Please send him up.” Honestly, I almost tell the man I love him.
Wait. Did he just say Mr. Hoffman and hisclient?
My stomach dips. Is Andy Hoffman a buyer’s agent?
Oh, God, please, no. That is literally the last thing I need right now. I am in no way prepared to be dealing with a fast-talking buyer’s agent who thinks he knows more than I do.
I unlock my phone and start scrolling to Andy’s email from last night, re-reading his signature.
Andy Hoffman
Managing Director, HMC Management Inc.
The name of the company doesn’t ring any bells. But just as I’m opening Google, I’m interrupted by a knock on the door.
Shit.
Fumbling, I lock my phone, gripping it like it’s my lifeline as I slip my feet back into my turquoise pumps and tread carefully across the shiny floor to the foyer, all while attempting my most no bullshit game face.
When I pull open the door, I’m met with a handsome man who looks to be in his late thirties, dressed down for a buyer’s agent in a pair of chinos and an untucked button down. Slightlybloodshot eyes meet mine and a kind, if not slanted, smile greets me.
“Mr. Hoffman?” I hold a hand out, willing it not to tremble and give away just how nervous I am.
“Ms. Keller,” he says with a curt nod, shaking my proffered hand before inviting himself inside. As he passes, I’m almost certain I catch a whiff of whiskey in his wake, and I’m forced to tamper down the annoyance that bubbles inside of me when I realize that’s likely the reason he’s late. Don’t get me wrong, I love a sneaky mid-week wine like the rest, but not at the risk of being late to an appointment.
A man—the illusiveclient, I presume—hangs back in the hallway and I study him while I stand awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if he’s coming in or not.
He’s tall, at least six-foot-something, broad shouldered, dressed casually in sneakers, faded jeans and a sweatshirt, head down, focused intently on the phone in his tattooed hands, dark hair sticking out underneath a Red Sox ball cap that shields most of his face.
“Hi, I’m Fran Kel—” I’m stopped mid-sentence the moment he lifts his chin, and I swear, it’s as if everything around me comes to a violently crashing stop.
It seems he’s just as stilted, stumbling over his own feet as recognition flares in his dark gaze. A deep crease burrows between his eyebrows as he looks me up and down in a combination of shock and thinly veiled disdain.
My shoulders sag on a resigned sigh, eyes narrowing, and I know I have a duty to remain professional, and this is hardly the time or the place, but unfortunately the words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “You have got to befuckingkidding me.”
CHAPTER 3
