AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“The Diamond Square or Savoureax,” I suggested. “Both have fantastic service and food.”
“The Diamond Square?” she questioned.
“I have connections with Oliver Fox and Sawyer Walsh. We could get the chef’s table at either place if you prefer,” I offered.
“Chef’s table?” Her tone sounded intrigued but also slightly confused.
I rolled my eyes. Mrs. Ducane was acting as if she’d never been to an exclusive restaurant, which was unlikely given her wealth.
“Are you interested?” I prodded.
“I’ve never been to Savoureax,” she admitted.
I wasn’t surprised. Despite her wealth, she pinched every penny. Since I was paying, this was her chance to experience Savoureax fantastic food without paying.
“Say 1 p.m.? Would you like the chef’s table?”
“Maybe we could share a meal at the chef’s table another time,” she suggested.
“Very well. I’ll make the reservations.”
Mrs. Ducane was out of her mind if she thought I’d take her out again after our deal was done. She was one of the worst clients I’d ever had, and despite her deep pockets, I could easily pass her off to someone else.
“Thank you,” she said, her tone softer.
“You’re welcome,” I replied, relieved to have ended the call. It was the nicest she’d been since we started working together, but I couldn’t wait for the paperwork to be signed and for her to be out of my life.
The ten minutes wasted on the call meant I was now running short on time. I dashed into the shower, quickly towel-drying my hair. With a bit of pomade, a swift shave with the electric razor, and some minty toothpaste, I was almost ready.
As I pulled on a fresh pair of boxers, thoughts of Erika flashed through my mind, and I felt myself stir. I willed my erection away; I didn’t have time for it, and I preferred to come inside someone rather than into thin air. Maybe I’d catch her at the gym in the next few days and strike up a casual conversation.
I raced out of my apartment and jabbed the elevator button, hoping to avoid sharing the ride down. When the elevator arrived, I wasn’t so lucky—two young girls in short dresses, giggling and whispering, got on at the eighth floor. What was wrong with kids today?
Outside, the warm snap had given way to a chilly wind, making me shiver. I wrapped my long wool coat tighter around me and hailed a passing cab. My showing was on the Upper East Side, and I wanted to get there before my client—a young banker looking for his first place. He had money to burn, and I hoped he’d be an easy client to handle.
Traffic was a nightmare, and I couldn’t stop checking my watch, praying for even five minutes to do a quick run-through of the place. I’d made the appointment days ago, and the seller’s agent had assured me everything would be in order, but I knew better than to trust promises in this business.
Unfortunately, with the way my ride time was looking, I’d have to rely on them. When the cab finally slowed, I shoved a twenty into the driver’s hand and jumped out a few doors down from the prewar building. I took a deep breath, gathered myself, and strode to the entrance, announcing myself to the female concierge at the desk.
She smiled at me, a blush creeping up her soft cheeks. Her short, lifeless brown hair and long nails weren’t appealing, but she was kind, and that counted for something. I flashed her my million-dollar smile, showing off all my straight white teeth. There wasn’t enough time to go upstairs and check the place before my client arrived, so I leaned on the black granite counter and made small talk, keeping her engaged and feeling appreciated.
Milton Beasley arrived a few minutes later. My first impression was that he was tall, almost scrawny. His expensive suit hung awkwardly on his too-thin frame, and for a guy in his twenties, his hairline was already in full retreat. With his crew cut and sharp nose, he reminded me more of a rat than a banker. He offered a limp handshake, which I accepted with a firm grip before we stepped into the elevator.
Milton leaned against the mirrored wall, staring down at his shoes while I scanned my phone for emails. I could tell he wasn’t the type to make small talk, so I left him to his thoughts. On the seventh floor, we stepped out into a gray-carpeted hallway, and I shifted into sales mode.
“This place has all the amenities,” I began, my voice smooth and confident. “Doorman, concierge, dry cleaning service, and in-apartment washer-dryer combos.”
“What’s the maintenance fee?” Milton asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he spoke.
“Nineteen hundred,” I replied.
He whistled, a low sound that made me wonder if he could really afford this place, despite what his financials said.
“Remember, this is an investment,” I said, trying to steer him back to the bigger picture. “You understand, don’t you?”
“I took economics in college,” he muttered.
“Then you know what I’m saying,” I responded, flashing another smile.
