“And if he can’t?”
“Call that other guy. No, call Suzanne. She does good work.”
Leila returned to her desk and frantically scrolled through the master file, an elaborate spreadsheet of Monica’s creation. Chris Hopper agreed to the appointment. Nick was on his phone when she popped in to tell him. He mouthed, “Great.” Soon thereafter, he came out with keys in hand.
“Ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“A site visit.” He glanced at his watch, a sleek Patek Philippe with a black-lacquered face. “Or is it too late? I never asked. Do you have kids? Monica couldn’t stay late, either.”
Even as he talked, Leila stood and shrugged off the cardigan she wore to keep warm in the chilly air-conditioned office. The cotton knit fell weightlessly to her chair. Underneath, she wore a sleeveless mini-dress.
Was it her imagination or had his eyes faithfully followed her every gesture?
She grabbed her purse. “I don’t have kids.” And I’m not Monica.
“Then let’s go.”
From the reception desk, Emilia waived them off with a wry little smile. And while they waited for the elevator, Leila explained that no one had told her she’d have a chance to visit properties or do anything other than answer the phone and manage his calendar. She was grateful for the chance to get out on the field, so to speak.
“It helps if you know what I’m working on,” he said. “I make most of my decisions on site.”
The elevator opened. Nick pressed G for garage.
“Don’t worry. I’m very flexible.” The doors slammed shut. Nick studied her with those keenly perceptive eyes but said nothing. She felt the need to clarify. “Meaning I can work long hours.”
“Sure.”
They rode in silence. A FedEx deliveryman joined them on the ninth floor and got off on the sixth. When they were alone again, Nick said, “Leila is an uncommon name.”
“It means ‘born at night.’”
“Were you?”
She nodded. “Midnight.”
“The bewitching hour.”
She smiled. “Clever.”
“Amis is French, right?”
She nodded. “You know that because you’re from Canada.”
“And you’re from Florida’s west coast.”
“How do you know?”
“Your résumé says you went to school in Naples.”
“You’ve read my résumé?”
“Jo-Ann gave it to me.”
There wasn’t much to her résumé. She was embarrassed by how thin it was: high school and some college. She’d earned her real estate license a year ago, but her only sales experience was in entry-level retail. Leila gripped the handle of her purse to keep from fidgeting nervously. This had to be the longest elevator ride in history.
When they reached the garage, she followed him to his reserved spot. He drove a black Mercedes coupe. She sank into the leather seat and admired the chrome accents of the dashboard. It was all the things her modest Mazda roadster aspired to be but fell short of. She watched as he pressed the ignition button and put the car in reverse.
“This car makes me—”
He stomped on the breaks. “Makes you what?”
Leila grappled for the right word. “Happy. It makes me happy.”
“Is that it?”
Was her seat on fire? “What else is there?”
He lifted his foot off the pedal. “Leila, are you into cars?”
God, she loved the way he said her name.
“Sort of. Sure.”
“I’m into women who are into cars,” he said with a wink. “But don’t tell anyone.”
* * *
The listing was a one-story, mid-century home in Miami Beach’s exclusive Bayshore neighborhood. The original layout had been tweaked to appeal to modern tastes. The renovated kitchen opened to an all-purpose living, dining and TV room. All closets and bathrooms had been updated. The showstopper was the yard that backed onto Collins Canal and the dock that could accommodate a decent-size yacht and flatter the ego of any budding millionaire.
While the photographer snapped pictures for the agency’s website, Leila tried to imagine the daily routines of the family who’d once lived in the vacated rooms. On a sunny day, they’d probably have breakfast outdoors. Did they throw birthday parties by the pool or spend holiday weekends boating?
“What do you think?” Nick asked.
“I think it’s a lovely home.”
“Would you like to live here?”
They were in the master bedroom. Leila opened the plantation shutters to admire the water views. “I could get used to this. But how much would it set me back?”
“Four million.”
Her heart stopped. “Are you kidding?”
“Why does that surprise you?”
Well, when she thought of millions, she thought of mansions. This lovely family home was by no stretch a mansion. “You know this same house in any other neighborhood wouldn’t cost that much.”
“That doesn’t change anything.” He leaned against the low cherrywood dresser. Every room had a furniture-showroom vibe. “Leila, I need you to believe in the sale.”
She laughed. “You’ve got me confused with a magical fairy.”
He grew quiet, a shadow passing over his face.
“It’s a joke,” she said, worried she’d gone too far.
“I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh before. You’re so serious all the time.”
“Because I’m trying to impress you, Nick!”
Saying his name had leveled the playing field somehow. They’d swapped the rigid employee-boss dynamic for something looser, less defined. Something trickier. And Nick hadn’t missed it. His face lit up with satisfaction.
“Could you stop trying so hard?” he asked.
He hadn’t been exactly easy to read or to warm up to. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words since she’d taken the job. Every morning she dressed like an Office Assistant doll, worried she didn’t measure up to the ghost of Monica.
“Maybe if I knew what you expected from me...”
“Here’s the thing,” he said. “I could run my business under a bridge. I don’t need an assistant, not really. But I’d like to have someone on my side. Can you be that someone?”
“Good luck getting cell phone reception under a bridge.”
He gave her a wry smile. “That’s more like it.”
The photographer tapped on the open door. “Hey, Nick, I think I’m done.”
He left to review the man’s work.
Leila leaned against the wall, caught in exquisite turmoil.
She could be that someone.
* * *
On the drive back to the office, Nick said he hadn’t