Down & Dirty

Chapter 1

Emerson

This can’t be happening. Not today. Please, please, please, I’m begging you, not today.

I’m not even sure who I’m pleading with. God, the universe, fate . . . anyone and everyone who might take pity on me and make my damn engine turn over.

But fate is a fickle witch—no one knows that better than I do—and so is the universe, apparently, because all Suzanne does when I turn the key for the fifth time in as many minutes is wheeze a little. Then cough. Then die all over again.

Of course she does. Of fucking course. Why wouldn’t my ten-year-old piece of shit Corolla choose today to die? It’s not like it’s my first day at work, not like I need to make a good impression. And it sure as hell isn’t that I need this job or anything.

Oh, right. I do. I really, really do—at least if I want to avoid going into default on my student loans. Not to mention pay my rent. And eat. I mean, sure, my ass can stand to lose five pounds, but actual starvation’s not the way I want to accomplish that. Just saying.

“Please, please, please, Suzanne.” It’s my mantra as I turn the key again. And again. And again. All to no avail.
“God Bless!” I grab my bag, then slam out of my car in a rush. A quick glance at my phone tells me I’ve got exactly twenty-three minutes to get to work. Which, if an Uber magically appears at this very second, I just might make. But since my fairy godmother has been taking a break for pretty much ever, I doubt that’s going to happen.
For a second, I think about calling my best friend, Sage, but at this hour she’s probably in the middle of teaching a yoga class at her mom’s studio.

So, in the end, I pull up the app and order an Uber anyway—a guy named Rajiv accepts the fare. I can’t afford it, but if I lose this job, I won’t be able to afford anything. And desperate times call for desperate measures. It says six minutes to arrival, which is six minutes too long, but again, it’s not like I have a choice. As usual. Lately my whole life has been one lack of choice after another.

It’s getting really, really old.

I spend the next eight minutes pacing back and forth in front of my apartment complex, willing the damn Uber to just get here. It’s drizzling out—because why wouldn’t it be—and already I can feel my curls frizzing as they escape, one after another, from the tight ponytail I slicked them into this morning. I consider running back to my apartment for an umbrella, but I’m afraid I’ll miss the damn Uber if I do.

How is this my life? I mean, seriously, how is this my life?

I’ve always been a success, always managed to do whatever I put my mind to. At school, in relationships, in life . . . at least until I graduated from college with an art degree ten months ago and got stuck in the real world. Now I feel like I’m floundering almost all the time, and those times when I’m not floundering . . . it’s only because I’m drowning.

I gotta say. Adulthood sucks. It really, really sucks.

Another glance at my watch says it’s ten minutes and counting.

Stupid, late Uber.

Stupid, temperamental Suzanne.

Stupid traffic.

And most of all, stupid me for not leaving earlier . . . considering what my hair probably looks like right now, I really shouldn’t have bothered spending all that extra time on it today.

The Uber finally shows up at twelve minutes and counting, and I pretty much throw myself into the car. “Go!” I all but shout as I slam the door and reach for my seatbelt all at the same time. “I need to be at work in eleven minutes!”

The driver doesn’t move. Instead, he just sits there watching as I practically hang myself on his seatbelt. Sometimes it really sucks being short—who but me would actually get strangled by a seatbelt in a Prius, for God’s sake?

“Did you hear me?” I demand, pointing to the clear road and stoplight that is somehow magically green in front of us. “You are Rajiv, right? I have to be downtown in eleven minutes.”

He grins, and—not going to lie—it’s a little creepy. He’s trying too hard and showing too many teeth for my liking and for a moment I consider getting right back out of the car. But the seconds are ticking away and if I lose this job, I won’t have anything to live for anyway. Or, more importantly, any way to live. And since running home to Mommy and stepfather number four isn’t an option I can live with, I really, really need to get to work.

I settle for scooting all the way against the door, putting one hand on the handle and shoving the other one into my bag where my canister of pepper spray is attached to Suzanne’s currently useless key ring.

“Welcome,” he tells me in a barely discernible accent, his hands sweeping wide in front of him. “Welcome to my car. I am Rajiv and it is such a pleasure to drive you today.”

“Umm…thank you.” So, not serial killer creepy, I decide as I relax my grip on the pepper spray. Just Zen master crazy. I should be relieved but something tells me this is going to be so much worse.

“Please,” I reiterate as he checks his mirrors for the fifth time in as many seconds, still idling at the damn curb. “It’s my first day. I can’t be late.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promises in a voice so sincere it sets my teeth on edge. “But the GPS says twenty-four minutes from here. And the GPS is seldom wrong.”

“God, please don’t tell me that,” I moan as he finally pulls into traffic—only to get stopped at the light half a block up. The light that takes forever and is rarely ever green at this time of the morning. The light that was green for nearly two minutes while Rajiv sat there making my blood pressure shoot through the roof.

I check my own GPS app, and sure enough Rajiv is right. Shit.

Seconds drag into minutes as we wait for the damn light to turn green and I can feel myself starting to sweat. It’s not that hot out—with the light rain, we’ve barely made it up to the mid-seventies that is usual for San Diego at this time of year—but my nerves are going nuts as I can’t be late, I can’t be late, I can’t be late runs through my mind like a clock-maker’s mantra.

Not to mention, it feels like Sage’s hot yoga studio in this damn car. Seriously, it has to be ninety degrees in here.

The light finally turns green—thank God—and I all but scream, “Go.”

Rajiv just shakes his head and gives me a vaguely disapproving look. “You need to remain calm,” he tells me in a slow, deep voice. “We will get there when the universe wants us to get there. There is no use in struggling against our fate.”

Oh my God. Ohmygod. OH MY GOD. How is this happening? HOW did I somehow manage to get the one Zen Uber driver in all of freaking San Diego?

Fuck. My. Life.

“But there is something we can do about it,” I tell him as I jab my finger at the dashboard like some kind of self-obsessed lunatic. “We could go. We could go right now. It’s green! The light is green!”

“Calm,” he repeats as the car finally starts moving. “All will go as it should go.”

“Me getting fired is NOT how this should go!”

“You won’t get fired,” he says as he flashes me that big, creepy grin again. “I have a good feeling about this.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” I mutter as I pull my now sticky blouse away from my skin in a futile effort to cool down. I’d ask him to turn the heat off, but now that we’re finally in motion, the last thing I want to do is distract him. He doesn’t exactly seem like the type who can walk and chew gum at the same time…

“Trust the universe, Emerson. Trust the universe.”

“Yeah, well, it hasn’t exactly done anything to make me trust it lately.” Except get me this job, which I’m about to lose.

“Today that will change,” Rajiv tells me in a fortune-teller kind of voice, all slow and mystical. “Today will be a good day for you. I promise.”

“I hope so.” I really, really hope so.

As we make our way toward downtown in the steadily worsening rain, I debate whether or not I should call my new boss and tell her what happened. But when Kerry hired me, she told me she was always a little late to the office, so if luck is with me—and if Rajiv will actually get the car up to the speed limit in this century—maybe I still have a chance of beating her to work. Please, please, please, let me make it to work before she does. This might be a crappy job, but it’s the only one I’ve been able to get and I can’t lose it.

I just can’t.

Twenty-seven excruciating minutes later, Rajiv pulls into a parking spot at the front of the real estate office I’ve been hired to work at. I’m exactly sixteen minutes late to my first day of work, but at least I’m here. That’s something, right?

“Thanks, Rajiv!” I call over my shoulder as I fling the car door open and dive out. There’s a huge puddle in the street, so I aim for the sidewalk—and the colorful overhang directly above it. Considering I’m wearing a white blouse, the last thing I want to do is show up wet. I’m praying late won’t be a deal breaker, but late and looking like a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest…let’s say the odds won’t exactly be in my favor.

Why, oh why, didn’t I check the weather this morning? Oh, yeah, I was too busy trying to tame my hair. Total wrong move there. But in my defense, it’s San Diego. Ninety-nine percent of the time it’s blue skies and seventy degrees. The fact that it’s raining today is obviously just another sign that I have somehow offended the universe.

Once I’m safe on the sidewalk—and only a little damp—Rajiv toots his horn and waves before pulling back into traffic. I spend a couple seconds straightening my red pencil skirt and getting my excuses in order. Then I paste a huge, fake smile on my face and take a step toward the office door.

But that one step is all I get before a huge black truck veers quickly into the parking spot Rajiv just vacated. As it does, the front tire hits the puddle I just managed to avoid and sprays me with water from the tips of my rapidly frizzing hair to the hem of my now spandex-tight skirt.

Fuck. My. Life.

Chapter 2

Hunter

“Are you serious right now? Are you freaking serious right now?” the curvy little redhead squawks as I let myself out of my new truck. I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or the sky—her head is tilted back and her arms are out like she’s questioning the whole meaning of life—and I’m not sure if she knows, either.

Normally I’d feel like an ass for spraying her like that, but what kind of idiot stands that close to the curb on a rainy day anyway? Besides, she looks really good dripping wet. Really good. She’s got a hell of a rack on her and with her shirt plastered to her like that, I can see not just her lacy bra, but her breasts and her hard, rosy nipples, too.

Not to mention the way that polka-dotted skirt is now plastered to her shapely thighs makes it really hard to regret that puddle.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart,” I say as I hit lock on my key fob and step onto the curb. “But it’s a great look on you.”

Her eyes grow wide at her first sight of me, her mouth opening and closing though no words are coming out. I get that reaction a lot, so I just grin and give her a little wink as I walk up to the front of the real estate agency where I’m scheduled for my third appointment in five days. Which is a damn shame considering I’d rather stay out here awhile and flirt with Little Miss Raspberry Nipples. At this point it seems a much better use of my time than going from one inappropriate house to another, which is all I ended up doing during the last two appointments.

But I need this house even if I don’t want it—and since I have to close ASAP, the sooner I find one that meets my specs, the better. As the reason for the urgency settles over my shoulders, I quickly lose the good mood afforded by my early morning peep show.

I hate that it’s come to this, hate more that there’s nothing I can do about it. I have more money than I can spend in three lifetimes, but what the fuck does that matter if it doesn’t change anything? What the fuck does any of it matter?

I’m just reaching for the door when Little Miss Raspberry Nipples finally finds her voice. “Are you freaking kidding me?” she screeches, and this time she grabs on to my arm just to make sure I know she is indeed talking to me and not God, the universe or some imaginary friend of hers. “You just ruined my whole outfit—because you can’t park, I might add—and all you’ve got to say to me is, ‘It looks good on you’!”

“To be fair, that’s not all I said. I did apologize first.”

“You called me sweetheart!” she all but spits at me. “That negates your very lame attempt at an apology.”

“Really? Because I kind of thought it made the apology. There are a lot of women in the world who’d do anything just to hear me call them sweetheart.”

Her mouth drops open at that, and as I stare at the plump pink lips that are currently forming a perfect O, I can’t help thinking about how good they’d look wrapped around my dick. Or about how good she’d look on her knees in front of me, my hands twisted in all those red curls as I fuck down her throat.

It’s probably not what I should be thinking right now—especially considering the way her blue eyes have gone all dark and dangerous. But what can I say? I live for danger. Besides, everything about this girl screams red-hot sex and I’d have to be a monk not to notice.

And a blind monk at that.

Since I’m not, and because fantasizing about her is taking my mind off my reason for being here, I reach into my back pocket and take out my wallet. Then I pull out a hundred-dollar bill and hold it out to her. “But if my words weren’t apology enough, let me pay for your dry cleaning. It’s the least I can do.”

I don’t expect her to take the money, figure instead she’ll try to work this whole scenario into a dinner invitation like every other woman I meet these days. Which is exactly what I’m angling for here. I certainly won’t mind spending a couple of hours across the table from this little sweetheart as long as it ends with me spending a couple more hours between her very toned thighs.

I don’t normally make the first move anymore—I don’t have to—but she intrigues me enough that I’m about to save us both the whole song and dance when she reaches out and snatches the money from my hand. “Damn right, it’s the least you can do. Asshole.”

She shoves the money into her purse then pulls the door open so hard and fast that I have to take a quick step back just to keep from being hit by the thing. My hand snaps out of its own volition—call it reflex or shock or just pure intrigue. Whatever it is, I slam my palm into the edge of the door and shove the thing shut again.

“Did you just take the money?” I ask. I know I sound shocked, but come on. No woman ever takes the short and easy route. Not when she has my attention. And definitely not when she thinks she has a shot at a whole lot more.

“Of course I took the money,” she answers with a sneer. “If you didn’t want me to, you probably shouldn’t have offered it. Sweetheart.”

Fuck, she’s got a mouth on her and fuck if I don’t like it. Besides, sparring with her is so much better than getting lost in my own head. Which is why, when she reaches for the door again, I keep my hand where it is, pinning it closed—and this time I actually put some muscle into it.

“Are you serious right now?” she demands, tugging hard at the door handle. “I need to go inside.”

I keep my hand where it is. “What’s your name?”

She rolls her eyes. “I thought you already figured that out. Sweetheart, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t really suit you, does it? And since you didn’t seem to like it much, I figured I’d ask what you prefer to be called.”

“Well, isn’t that magnanimous of you. Too bad it’s my policy never to tell my name to strange men with deplorable manners.”

“Aw, come on now. I’m not that strange.” I flash her my most charming grin, the one that got me my nickname at that first Monday Night Football game nearly a decade ago. “And I’m working on improving my manners.”

“By barring the door to my workplace and making me even more late? Great job, there.” She tugs at the door again.

I still don’t let go. How can I when she looks like she just rolled out of bed after a marathon sex session—all bright eyes, flushed skin and messed up hair. She’s the hottest woman I’ve seen in a long, long time (which is saying something considering professional cheerleaders practice their routines less than fifteen yards from me on a regular basis). She’s also completely intriguing in a way I don’t see a lot and I’m not about to let her walk away without at least giving me her name and number.

She has other ideas, though, because just as I pull out my phone, she grounds the heel of her red pump down on the top of my foot. Hard.

Chapter 3

Emerson

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a great deal of satisfaction watching Hunter “the Golden Boy” Browning hop around on one foot as he tries his best not to whine like a baby. I’m not normally a sadist, but come on. I’ve had my fair share of pain today—at least half of which is his fault. The least I can do is spread the wealth.

And if a sore foot keeps him from performing his best in Sunday’s game, well then, so much the better. It’s the least he deserves for that lame-ass apology and calling me sweetheart in that condescending tone. Maybe he’ll actually learn something about how to treat women who have bigger plans in life than the easy ride that comes with being arm candy for some dumb, conceited jock.

I still can’t believe he actually expected me to throw myself at him—even after he’d soaked me with that ridiculous small penis overcompensation device he likes to call a truck. Seriously. What kind of women is this guy used to? Oh, right. The kind who are dumb enough to think fucking a football player will actually give them a shot at the brass—no, make that diamond—ring. I know the type well, courtesy of my mother’s four failed marriages and innumerable relationships.

But now that his death grip on the door has finally lifted, it’s not like it matters anyway. I’ll never see him again—thank God. While I like football as much as the next girl (and maybe even a little more), arrogant, Super Bowl–winning quarterbacks I can definitely do without. Even when they look like Hunter Browning. Especially when they look like him, all bronzed and buff and too beautiful for his own good.

Not that I’m deliberately paying attention to how he looks, but it’s not like that shit is easy to ignore. You would think I’d be immune considering that, like the rest of the world, I’ve seen him on TV and online and in magazines hundreds of times since his rookie season nine years ago. And he’s absolutely gorgeous every single time, no doubt about that.

But seeing all six foot five, two hundred sixty pounds of him up close (not that I know the stats for every member of the Lightning’s starting lineup or anything) is different. Because it’s not just about his shaggy dark hair, bright green eyes and laser-cut jaw perennially covered with several days’ worth of stubble. No, now it’s about the sex appeal that rolls off him in waves, the charisma that makes it impossible to look away from him no matter how annoying he is.

And he is annoying, I remind myself. Annoying and arrogant and currently in my way. I don’t have time to drown in all that sex appeal—I have a job to try to salvage and an explanation to think up. One that makes it seem totally reasonable that I showed up for my first day as a receptionist looking like I should be working a pole in the middle of some X-rated adult water park.

Just the thought sends a new wave of irritation through me, and for a second I think about sucker punching the great Hunter Browning right in his perfect jaw. He’s bent over clutching his foot right now, so I could actually do it without too much difficulty. But punching him—and dealing with the fallout—would take more time than I’ve currently got, so I settle for yanking the door open and slamming the edge of it into his forehead this time. The pained grunt he lets out almost makes up for all the trouble he’s caused me.

Almost.

Except I barely get three feet inside my brand-new office when the door opens again. I glance back—I can’t help myself—just in time to see Hunter stroll in like he owns the place. Even his new limp and the red streak across his forehead don’t distract from the fact that he looks like he belongs here while I look like I belong anywhere but.

“Seriously?” I hiss as he gets closer, giving him the look I usually reserve for drunk frat boys trying to put a hand up my skirt. “You’re following me now?”

“Wow. Your ego’s a little out of control there, isn’t it, sweetheart?” He’s smirking at me, and—I’m not gonna lie—it’s a good look for him. One that would probably curl my toes if I wasn’t so damn mad. And if my shoes weren’t so damn wet that I can feel the fake leather actually shrinking while I stand here.

I comfort myself with the knowledge that the red line running diagonally across his forehead looks like it hurts. And is slowly turning into a bruise. I should probably be ashamed of myself, and with a normal guy I would be, but he is the one who blocked the door…He should count himself lucky all he got was a limp and a headache considering I can feel my lips turning blue as the air-conditioning kicks in.

“My ego is out of control?” I finally manage to squawk past my outrage.

He waggles his brows. “I’m glad to see you recognize it. Admitting there is a problem is the first step to getting help.”

“Are you fucking with me now? I mean, you have to be fucking with me, right?” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Because no guy is actually—”

“If I was fucking with you, I guarantee you wouldn’t have to ask. You’d know.” He shoots me his patented grin, the one that has women from eighteen to eighty dropping their panties after just a glimpse of it.

Despite everything he’s done, I can feel my own panties start to slip. Which pisses me off so much that I snarl, “Can you be more of a cliché?”

“Have a drink with me and you can find out. We’ll call it an apology and, if things go well, you’ll know what it feels like to be fucked with by me.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t drink with men who get me wet.”

Fuck. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a mistake. Even before his grin turns wicked and his eyes go dark. And while I’m normally all for trading double entendres with a sexy man, this one sets my teeth on edge. And not in a good way.

“Now that seems like a pretty bad policy all the way around, sweetheart,” he tells me with a wag of his eyebrows. “I mean, what’s the point of drinking with a guy who doesn’t get you wet?”

“Call me sweetheart one more time and I’ll—”

“Mr. Browning, so glad you could make it in this morning, after all. I see you’ve met our new receptionist. I hope you weren’t caught in the rain, too.” My boss, Kerry—who is very definitely in the office—strides past me with her hand extended toward Hunter.

As she does, she gives me a cursory once-over, one that makes it evident just how displeased she is with my appearance—and the fact that I was mouthing off to Hunter, who is obviously a very important client.

“No problem.” The wicked edge leaves his smile as quickly as it came, and when he takes Kerry’s hand, he looks totally professional…except for the wink he shoots my way. “I want to get this process over with as quickly as possible.”

“I know looking for a house can be frustrating,” Kerry soothes as she turns to escort him back to her office. “But I’ve done a lot of research since we met last and I have five houses I’d like you to take a look at. Any one of them should meet your needs nicely.”

“I hope so. I’d like to get settled in the house as soon as I can.”

I don’t hear any more as they’ve reached my boss’s office and she shuts the door once they’re both inside. Terrific. Not only do I show up late and looking like a drowned rat on my first day, but I also insult a client who is probably planning on dropping millions on a house. It will be a miracle if Kerry doesn’t use her four inch stilettos to punt my ass straight out the door at her earliest convenience.

But I’m here now, I decide. I might as well get to work—if I’m lucky, maybe she won’t get around to firing me until this afternoon. The hundred and twenty dollars I’ll make between now and then will go a long way toward paying for this morning’s Uber ride and next week’s groceries.

First though, I need to clean up. A quick glance at the mirror over the receptionist’s desk—over my desk, at least for now—tells me that it’s even worse than I feared. I’ve got raccoon eyes, electric socket hair and my very carefully chosen outfit looks like it’s been through the Hunger Games…twice. And lost both times.

Damn it. I so didn’t hit Hunter hard enough with that fucking door.

Figuring the last thing Kerry wants is a receptionist who looks like she slept under a bridge after a late night bender, I make a mad dash for the bathroom. I don’t have much with me—just a tube of red lipstick and a ponytail holder, but I do the best I can.

I use hand soap to wash my makeup off, determinedly ignoring the too-tight feeling it gives my skin. Then I use my fingers to scrape my war-zone hair back into a ponytail. It’s not a perfect look—or anything close to it with the way my curls are kinking up all over the place—but it’s better than the drowned rat look I was rocking when I came in here.

My shirt is the biggest problem, and while I don’t have an extra blouse in my bag, I did bring a cardigan in case the air-conditioning got to be too much. I start to slip it on, but the sweater is white, too, and I’m still so soaked that I’m afraid it’ll just mold itself on top of the blouse. And while it won’t be see-through, it sure as hell won’t do anything to disguise the fact that my nipples are very definitely standing at attention.

With a muttered curse, I step into one of the two stalls and shrug out of my blouse and my sopping wet bra. Then I pull on the cardigan and button every button. Unfortunately, it’s got a V-neck that stops right at my breastbone so I’m still exposing more skin than I’d like—at least for my workplace. But it’s better than the alternative, so I go with it. If nothing else, I can spend the hours until I get fired hunched over like Quasimodo. Surely no one will notice.

Pulling out my phone, I text my bff, Sage.

Me: FML

Sage: What’s up????

Me: Going to be fired on my first day

Sage: Employment is highly overrated

Me: Just like eating and paying rent

Sage: Exactly

Sage: What happened?

Me: Hunter Browning happened

Sage: Who?

Me: You really should crawl out of your yoga studio every once in a while

Sage: FYL

Me: Exactly

I shove my phone back into my bag, take another look in the mirror. Then, figuring I’ve done the best I can with what I’ve got—and promising myself that I will never again leave the house without a makeup kit and a change of clothes stashed in my bag—I square my shoulders. Take a deep breath. Tell myself that once the worst has happened, everything from here on out is smooth sailing. Well, right up until I get fired, at least…

Feeling a little more human, and a lot more calm—maybe Rajiv is right, the secret is accepting what the universe has planned instead of fighting it—I make my way back through the suddenly bustling office to the front desk. I was only in the restroom a few minutes, but in those few minutes, the place filled up. There are suddenly close to a dozen agents sitting at their desks or milling around what I assume is the break room, coffee cups in hand.

I met most of them last week, when Kerry had me come in to do all the paperwork for the job, and Alice—one of the younger agents—waves to me from where she’s waiting in line for coffee. I wave back, and start to walk over to say hello (and maybe get some tips on how to salvage the mess I’ve already made of my first day) when the door to Kerry’s office flies open hard enough to slam against the wall with a bang.

Her eyes scan the room, obviously searching for something before locking onto me. “Emerson, could you come in here please?”

For a moment, just a moment, I can’t help hoping that she means some other Emerson. I even glance behind me, just to make sure no one else is standing there. Unfortunately, no one is. And when Kerry quirks a brow, silently asking what’s taking me so long, I start walking. And planning Hunter Browning’s murder with every step I take.

It doesn’t take a genius to know that Kerry isn’t happy. Her body is stiff, her fists the next best thing to clenched and her smile is way too aggressively bright. Looks like I won’t be surviving until this afternoon, after all. That’s okay, I tell myself as I follow her into her office. Eating is highly overrated.

“Have a seat,” she tells me, nodding stiffly to the only available chair in the room. Which just happens to be next to Hunter. Of course.

He grins at me as I slide into the chair next to him, way more relaxed than either my boss or I at this point. When I glance back at Kerry, her eyes are darting between us like she’s looking for something. God only knows what.

Another look at Hunter doesn’t give me any clues and I can’t help wondering what’s going on. Am I expected to apologize for what happened outside even though he’s the dick who started the whole thing? Or is Kerry going to fire me in front of him in order to appease him? I’m searching her face now, looking for some cue to how I’m supposed to behave. But she’s still smiling that fake smile, looking like she wants to stab me with the pen she just picked up.

“So, Emerson,” she finally says, her voice so sickly sweet that I find myself sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting for her to slide that damn pen between my ribs like a shank. “Hunter tells me you two really hit it off this morning.”

Hit it off? Umm, okay. Definitely not what I was expecting to hear. But Kerry is obviously waiting for me to speak, so I say, “I think that might be a bit of an exaggeration.”

“Oh, don’t be modest. He’s been singing your praises.” Her smile turns razor sharp. “He’s particularly impressed with your initiative. So impressed, in fact, that he insists you be the one to show him houses from now on.”

Shock holds me immobile for long seconds, my brain refusing to compute what she’s saying. When it finally sinks in, though, I start to stutter. “But it’s my first day. I just got my real estate license a few weeks ago and I haven’t done any research on homes in the area. I—”

“All valid points,” my boss agrees. “Points that I’ve already explained to Hunter at great length. But he says you two have a connection and he is certain that you’ll be able to figure out what he wants better than anyone else. Even someone with fifteen years’ experience in the real estate market who owns her own firm.”

Wow, she doesn’t sound bitter at all.

Kerry takes a deep breath, then fixes a saccharine sweet smile on her face before sliding the folder across the desk to me. “So, here are the houses I was planning on showing him today. You can start with these, and then go from there.”

“Go from there?” I ask faintly.

“Well, you do have a connection. If none of these houses are a fit for him, I’m sure, you’ll be able to find one that is.”

The “or else” hangs ominously in the air between us.