“Holy shit,” she mumbles under her breath, then she turns looking at me, almost accusatory. “Sometimes I forget you’re rich.”
“The percentage in a private jet didn’t give it away?”
“That felt less . . . tangible,” she says, shaking her head.
“Soon it won’t be. I’m selling.”
“Glad to hear that,” a new voice joins us. The real estate agent is an older woman with her silver hair pinned back, sensible slacks and a blouse, sedate and professional, but all clearly expensive.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Frankie says. “We’re going to get a block of suites to set up shop.”
“And you came to me first because . . .” I stop myself and cringe when she flinches.
“I don’t . . . I don’t know why I . . . sorry, I can go . . . I can’t check into the hotel for a couple of hours and I figured I’d pick you up first. I’ll go.”
“No!” And now it’s my turn to flinch at the absolute maniac I sound like, shouting like that. “I mean, it’s great . . . good that you’re here.”
“Yeah?” she asks, and there’s something in her voice, a little bit fragile, that has me stepping closer, just barely stopping myself for reaching out for her.
“If this isn’t a good time, I can come back?” the realtor asks from the doorway.
We both freeze and turn back to her. Her eyes are flicking between us with a tiny smirk.
“No, no, it’s fine,” I say, beckoning the woman further into the house. “I can show you around and then,” I turn back to Frankie, “lunch?”
All traces of uneasiness are gone from her face. “Lunch is good.”
“Not breakfast?” The realtor suggests, checking her watch.
“She’s on New York time.”
“I’m on New York time.”
Our words jumble together and the realtor’s smirk becomes a smile. “Okay, let’s get started so you two can go get your lunch.”
Frankie settles down in the living room while I take the realtor, Greta, around the property. The tour doesn’t take long, as the house was always more about the location than sheer size: three bedrooms, three baths, along with the mostly open concept main living area, whitewashed walls lined with wooden beams across the ceiling, a pool out back, and the view, obviously, which Greta dutifully documents with her phone.
“We have an office in New York and a colleague of mine will be in touch when you’re ready to return to Brooklyn. There are several options we’ve already curated for you that fit within your budget.”
How exactly she got my budget when even I’m not sure what I want to spend, I have no idea, though Gregory’s sheer efficiency isn’t exactly a surprise.
“Appreciate you taking the time.”
“It was my pleasure, Mr. Avery. We’ll get back to you with more information and a suggested range based on the current comps by the end of the day and, with your permission, we’ll do some preview showings in the next week or so to drum up interest before we go to market.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for coming out.”
I walk her to the door and turn to see Frankie curled up in a corner of my couch, her laptop open, her fingers still on the keys, but her head lolling against the back cushions. I don’t know what time she got the news about Nakamura’s posting, but the odds are that she hasn’t slept since. Her breathing is deep and steady, her face totally relaxed, peaceful. But, shit, that position can’t be comfortable and if she’s sleeping that way, it’s because she’s bone tired.
Yeah, there’s no way she slept at all.
And now I’ve got a problem. Do I leave her there, neck at an awkward angle, one foot still in those heels she insists on wearing or . . . do I get her somewhere she can actually sleep?
Easy enough. I’ll ask her.
Crouching down, using the overstuffed arm of the couch to keep my balance and take some of the weight off my knees, I whisper, “Sullivan, you want to sleep here or in a bed?”
She sighs a little bit, shifting against the cushions and my reflexes are still good enough to catch her computer before it slides off her lap and crashes to the floor.
