Page 21 of Best Offer Wins
“Thank you! Your shirt is my favorite color.”
“Pink?”
She makes a confused face. “No. Coral.”
This kid is such a trip. Jack comes up behind her, looking like a movie star in meticulously pressed chinos and a lightweight cream sweater.
“Hey, guys,” he says. “You must be Ian.”
If Ian’s still nervous, he doesn’t let on. “Great to meet you, man,” he says, grabbing hold of Jack’s hand, then passing him the bottle of prosecco I picked up earlier. “I hear you and Curt have a lot to toast these days.”
Jack thanks him, then turns to hug me. I hand him the plate of oatmeal cookies I spent the afternoon baking. “I know you said not to bring anything, but these freeze beautifully so you can have them anytime.”
“I’m making out like a bandit here,” Jack says. Ian and I both laugh, maybe a touch too hard. “Well, come on in. Curt’s this way.”
And just like that, I’m inside the house. My senses feel reborn—like they were dead before this and now they’re alive and starving for every last detail. It smells expensive in here. Leather mixed with some type of fancy candle. Sandalwood maybe? A flush-mount fixture, tasteful and classic, illuminates the foyer, its milky shade turning the light gauzy and soft. The handrail of the staircase that leads to the second floor is stained ebony, the curve of it so polished that it could be liquid.
I have to find a way to get up there.
Before we follow Jack through the archway into the kitchen, I size up the living room, off to the left. It has a fireplace where I expected it to be, with a Carrara marble surround that matches thekitchen countertops. They’ve laid it out just the way I imagined—it’s like the house has been talking to me—with a pair of sofas facing each other in front of the hearth.
To the right, behind a set of glass doors, I spy a more casual den with a plush-looking sectional. Floor-to-ceiling built-ins full of books flank a wall-mounted flat-screen. I can’t think of anything I’d do differently. These rooms announce the second you walk in that their owners are classy and smart and stylish. It would be impossible not to be happy here.
“There they are!” Curt, shirt sleeves rolled up under a chambray apron, stands in front of the range—which, I can now confirm, is indeed a Thermador. “Margo, wonderful to see you again.” He wipes his hands on the front of the apron before extending one across the island: “And you must be Ian.” A wooden board, two feet long, is heaped with charcuterie and cheeses.
“What are we drinking?” Curt asks. “I have a pitcher of gin martinis ready to go, or if you’re wine people, we also have some very nice Sancerre chilling in the fridge.”
“I would love a martini,” I say. “This is such an impressive spread. And your house! My God, it’s impeccable.”
“Oh, well, it doesn’t always look quite this perfect,” Jack chimes in. “Your timing couldn’t have been better. We just had the place shot today, for the listing. I was chasing the photographer around until a couple hours ago.”
My stomach drops. It’s not a shock, of course, that they’d take pictures to sell the home. But the thought of these immaculate rooms on display for the greedy hordes floods me with panic.
Ian clears his throat.
“How exciting!” I say, powering through. “When are you putting it on the market?”
“Two weeks from tomorrow. I still can’t believe it,” says Jack. “Feels like yesterday Penny was in a booster seat at that island.”
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks.
“Well, I’m sure people will be lining up for it,” I say calmly. “It’s stunning.”
“Yeah, this market is absolutely bonkers,” Curt says as he pours Ian a martini. “Our agent told us a couple weeks ago that someone was already sniffing around about it. I mean, how would they even know? Can you believe that?”
Ian and I both shake our heads, martini glasses pressed to our mouths.
“But we don’t need to tell you how ridiculous the market has gotten, do we?” Curt continues. “I hear you’ve been through quite the house-hunting ordeal yourselves.”
My breath catches. I’m not ready to go there yet—we haven’t even made it past the appetizers.
“Daddy?” Penny interrupts. “Can I please have some Manchego on a date crisp?”
I exhale.
“Sure, sweetie.” Jack gets to work assembling the cracker.
“Gosh, what a sophisticated palate you have,” I say, seizing on the change of subject.
