It takes Emerson a moment to come back to herself, her dazed blue eyes staring sightlessly into mine for one second, two. Seeing her like that—as affected by this one random encounter as I am—makes it nearly impossible for me not to kiss her again. More, not to say to hell with it and fuck her right here in the ridiculous driveway of this ridiculous house.
But instinct tells me that would end things before they ever began and while I don’t know what I want from her yet—and am in no place to want anything, if I’m honest—I know that I want more than a quick tumble in the front of my truck.
She blinks, once, twice, awareness slowly creeping in. When it does, her eyes widen and her skin flushes a soft pink that I want nothing more than to touch.
“What was that?” she demands, her voice husky and a little rough.
I don’t know what to say to that—God knows, I can’t tell her the whole truth, that it all started because I had to get out of my head and kissing her was a convenient way to do that—so I concentrate on the other half of the truth. The half that is undeniable.
“I like you. I want to take you out.”
The look she sends me is unimpressed. “Thanks to your own machinations, I am now your real estate agent. I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to take me anywhere.”
“Seriously?” I can’t help but laugh. “You aren’t my shrink. I’m pretty sure there’s no rule against sleeping with your clients when you’re a real estate agent.”
“I thought you wanted to take me out?” She shoots me a look. “No one said anything about us sleeping together.”
“I thought it was implied.”
Now she just looks incredulous. “I’m supposed to sleep with you because you offered to buy me dinner?”
“No. You’re supposed to sleep with me because”—I reach over and run a thumb over one still tight nipple—“you want me as much as I want you.”
To her credit, she doesn’t deny it. And she doesn’t blush anymore, either. Instead, she looks me dead in the eye and says, “I want a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I can have them. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean they’re good for me.”
Not going to lie, I’m even more intrigued now. “Like what?”
“Like Fruit Loops. Tequila. Chocolate cupcakes.”
“And me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Given the choice between you and cupcakes, I pick the cupcakes.”
“No law that says you can’t have both.”
“You mean besides common sense?” She bends over and picks up her folder from the truck floor, then starts rummaging around inside of it. “We should get going. We’ve got four more houses to see.”
I want to push her, want to get her to agree to go to dinner with me. But I can tell that’s not going to happen now—her eyes are shadowed, her jaw set. Everything about her, including her full, gorgeous lips, is one firm, no-nonsense line. And while I understand the value of a blitz attack—every successful quarterback does—I also understand the importance of the finesse play. Of biding my time and waiting for an opening in the defense.
Which is why I put the car in gear without a protest.
Why I follow her directions to the next listing without comment.
And why I don’t complain when my first look at the house confirms what I already know—that meeting Emerson is the only thing keeping this day, and this house search, from turning into a total shit show.
Chapter 7
Emerson
Hunter isn’t happy. He hasn’t said anything negative about any of the houses we’ve gone to, but then he hasn’t really said anything at all. After that first one, when he refused to take a step past the all white foyer, he hasn’t even been difficult. No, he’s toured all three of the houses Kerry picked out for him without complaint. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any, simply that he’s decided to stop sharing them with me.
Because of that stupid kiss.
More like because of that mind-blowing, breath-stealing kiss, my sense of honesty compels me to admit. But the fact that the man kissed me like no one ever has before—and probably never will again, I’m willing to admit—doesn’t mean anything. And it certainly doesn’t change anything. After all, he’s kissed hundreds of women. Thousands, probably. I’d be a lot more concerned if he couldn’t kiss.
Besides, just because he’s a good kisser doesn’t mean he’s a good person. My stupid toes might have curled the second he put his lips on mine, but that doesn’t mean I’ve completely lost my mind—or my sense of perspective. He’s still the same jerk who splashed water on me and then didn’t even have the decency to feel bad about it. The same jerk who offered me money for dry cleaning and then was shocked when I actually took it.
The same jerk who grabbed me and kissed me the moment I climbed back into his truck. The fact that I’ll be living on that kiss for a while doesn’t matter. Nothing does but selling Hunter Browning a house before I lose my job. Which means, kiss or no kiss, I’d better figure out what he doesn’t like about these houses and fast.
“The swimming pool in that last house was nice,” I say as we pull out onto the quiet, tree-lined street in the gated La Jolla neighborhood that boasts some of the most luxurious homes in San Diego.
“Yeah.” His voice is as flat as his one-word answer.
“And the view was spectacular, don’t you think?”
He shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”
Frustration ramps through me. These are houses that most people can only dream about and he sounds like I just forced him into a double root canal at the dentist. “Look, I get that you don’t like the houses. That’s fine. But I’m flying blind here. If we’re going to find a house you actually do like, you need to talk to me.”
“I have talked to your boss. Numerous times. And it’s made no difference. I’m about to cancel the contract—I’m sick of wasting my time.”
Frustration turns to alarm. If he kills the contract now, I’m fired for sure. And without the benefit of a one and a half percent commission to fall back on, I’ll starve to death. Or worse, have to go home with my tail tucked between my legs. And since my mom would never let me live it down—not to mention probably make giving up my art a condition of helping me out—I am so not ready to do that. Not even close.
“So talk to me!” I tell him, fighting to keep the desperate edge out of my voice. “You made a point of pissing off my boss and demanding that I be the one to show you houses. Give me a chance to do that.”
He stops at a red light and glances over at me. “You’ve spent the last two hours raving about those ridiculous houses we just went through.”
“Because I thought they were what you wanted! And because—ridiculous or not—they are absolutely gorgeous. Even you have to admit that.”
“I’m not looking for gorgeous. I’m looking—” He breaks off as the light turns green.
“For what?” I demand, exasperated. “I’m not a mind reader. How the hell am I supposed to help you if you don’t give me some kind of fucking direction here?”
“Is that what they taught you in real estate school?” he asks with a smirk. “To swear at your clients?”
“When they’re as frustrating as you, yes!”
He nods, his grin widening. But he doesn’t say anything else and I’m done trying to push him. My whole livelihood hangs in the balance here, but screw it. I don’t beg men for anything.
We drive in silence for a few minutes and I’m so mad that it takes me most of that time to figure out that Hunter is taking us in the opposite direction from my office. I start to correct him, but a quick glance at his face tells me that now might be a good time to shut up. His jaw is tight, his eyes narrowed with concentration. Even his hands are clenched on the wheel.
Wherever he’s taking me, it definitely isn’t an accident. And while a small part of me wonders if I’m about to be kidnapped by the best quarterback in the NFL, the rest of me is intrigued enough to wait him out. He doesn’t seem like the kidnapping s
ort and, besides, I can dial 911 with the best of them.
So I keep quiet as we wind our way down the 5, heading away from La Jolla at eighty-five miles an hour. Long minutes pass silently, and as we head out of my comfort zone—I’m definitely not a South County kind of girl—I can’t help wondering where we’re going.
At least until a huge bridge appears in front of us. “We’re going to Coronado?” I ask, a little incredulous. “Seriously?”
“I like Coronado.”
“Who doesn’t? But I can’t just go to the beach for the afternoon. I have to get back to work. I have to…” I trail off as I realize how unprofessional it would sound for me to start whining about how I have to go grovel to my boss and try to save my job. Not as unprofessional as kissing a client in the front of his truck, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.
He doesn’t say anything else as we head up the narrow-laned bridge. I try to remain nonchalant, but all it takes to have me clutching at the door handle is the car next to us swerving a little into our lane. I love Coronado but I hate, hate, hate this bridge. It’s a death trap just waiting to happen.
Hunter speeds up a little to get away from the erratic driver, but I don’t relax. I can’t. Not until we’re off this thing.
I’m trying to be subtle, trying not to show my fear—aside from the fingernails I’m digging into the armrest—but I’m pretty sure it’s not working, even before Hunter rests his hand on my knee.
“It’s almost over,” he says as we come around the curve and start the downward plunge back to land. “I’m sorry. It didn’t occur to me to ask if you were afraid of heights.”
His apology is about a million times more heartfelt than the one he gave me outside my office, and I feel myself melting just a little. I know better—of course I do—but there’s something about a strong, gorgeous guy touching me with obvious concern that’s an automatic panty dropper.
Especially if that guy is Hunter Browning, though I’d die before admitting it to him or anyone. “I’m not afraid of heights,” I tell him as we finally—finally—make it back to solid land.
He shoots me a doubtful look, but doesn’t say anything else. And neither do I. I could explain to him that it’s not the height of the bridge that bothers me. It’s the water underneath it. But that’s way TMI and I’m not going there, not now and not with Hunter.
Driving onto Coronado is like driving into some kind of private world out of time. The beaches are pristine, the houses immaculate and city ordinances prohibit anything as unsightly as the sign from a fast-food restaurant from marring the landscape. Home of the Hotel del Coronado, a famous U.S. naval air station and a lot of reclusive rich people, it’s got some of the most desirable properties in Southern California. But if he’s trying to get away from the grandiosity of the La Jolla homes we just looked at, this probably isn’t the place to go. Here on Coronado, having money—and showing it off—is pretty much a religion.
We make a few turns and then we’re driving down the Silver Strand, the main road that runs from pretty much one end of Coronado to the other. I figure we’re cruising toward Spinnaker Way—home of some of the most elite properties on Coronado—or maybe the Point, but instead he turns onto Ocean Boulevard and we head toward the older part of the island.
It’s midday, so traffic is light and it’s only a few minutes more before Hunter is pulling into a parking lot at the beach. It’s empty, the beach deserted on this Tuesday in early October. The rain has stopped, thank God, but the wind is ripping past us, kicking up sand and leaves and a few discarded aluminum cans in its wake.
Knowing he’s waiting for me to ask what we’re doing here, I bite my tongue to keep from doing just that. It’s hard, though, especially when he climbs out of the truck and gives me a “so, are you coming or what” nod.
I start after him, more than a little put out at this point. I don’t like being kept in the dark and I sure as hell don’t like being kept in the dark by a guy who has way too much charisma for his—or my—own good. Especially when my job, pathetic though it may be, is on the line.
He waits for me a few feet in front of his truck, then starts walking toward the beach. I follow him, keeping a watchful eye on the seething Pacific. He turns as soon as we make it to the sidewalk, though, and then we’re walking parallel to the water. He’s moving fast, and I have to scramble a little to keep up with my high heels and un-giant-length legs. I’d call him on it, but he’s obviously somewhere else, his gaze disconnected and far away.
We walk for about a half a mile, following the bends in the road. And then he stops, dead, and points to a house set back from the street by about a hundred yards. It’s white, with the bones of a house designed at the turn of the twentieth century. The yard is full of trees, one of which has a tire swing hanging from it. And while there’s a privacy gate blocking the driveway, it blends into the architecture instead of making the place look like a compound.
It’s beautiful and elegant and nothing at all like what we’ve been looking at. While it’s large—and is definitely worth seven figures because of location—it’s not a mansion by any stretch of the imagination. Maybe five thousand square feet, maybe six. Either way, I’m pretty damn sure there’s no candy room anywhere in the place. And no dance club, either, unlike the third property we looked at.
In fact, this house—and all the houses on this street—aren’t meant for celebrity consumption at all. In other words, “That’s a family home,” I say, turning to look him full in the face.
It takes him a minute, but eventually he looks down at me. And when he does, his green eyes are so filled with torment that it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to gasp. Not to reach for him. Not to try to comfort him even though, in that moment, everything about him screams that he is inconsolable.
I don’t understand. Hunter Browning is single, no kids, never been married, never even been engaged as far as the media has reported. And since the media reports everything about him, including what brand of boxers he likes to wear, I’m pretty sure I would know if he had a family. Or, more, if he’d lost one.
I wait for him to respond to my comment, and long seconds pass before he finally blinks. Before the agony in his eyes is hidden behind a blank stare. “That’s what I want.”
“You want that house?” Not sure why he needs a real estate agent if he already knows the house he wants. Especially since it’s not actually for sale.
“No.” He shakes his head adamantly. “Not that house. But one like it.”
I have questions—a lot of questions—but I can’t bring myself to ask them. Not now, when I can feel the tension radiating from him. Not now, when I can see traces of pain lingering in the shadows of his eyes.
Instead, I pull out my phone. Snap a couple pictures of the front, making sure to get the address so I know what to look up. Then I take a picture of a few more houses on the block, just for good measure. “You want a house on Coronado?” I ask, wondering why the hell we spent the morning looking in La Jolla if that’s the case.
“I just want to be near the water. La Jolla, Del Mar, Coronado. It doesn’t matter.”
“That’s fair.”
He turns his gaze on me then, fire burning in the depths of it. “I need a house, Emerson. And I need it soon.”
I nod even as my mind races. There’s something going on here that I don’t know about, and whatever it is isn’t good. “I’ll find some options as soon as possible. Can you go out looking tomorrow?”
“I’m at the stadium until one tomorrow. But I’m free after that.”
“Okay, then. If you give me a little more time today—I want to narrow down exactly what you’re looking for—I’ll set up appointments at as many houses as possible tomorrow afternoon and evening. If we’re looking, we’ll find something that fits. Sound good?”
He studies my face, like he’s trying to figure out whether or not to believe me. I’d be offended, except Kerry’s failed him so completely that I can see
why he’s wary. No wonder he was ready to break the contract today. I’d probably do the same thing if I were him.
We walk back to his truck at a much more reasonable pace, and I take the time to ask more questions about the kind of house he really wants. That it also distracts me from the fact that he’s eased us across the street and we are now walking entirely too close to the ocean for my comfort is a nice side benefit.
We cover the pool question—as long as the ocean is outside his door, he can take a pool or leave one.
The acreage question—he wants a decent backyard.
The style question—he wants something comfortable, where he can kick back and relax and not worry about getting dirt on the pristine white walls.
It’s only when I get to the number of bedrooms and entertainment spaces that he falters, his laconic smile dropping away as he stares moodily out to sea. “At least three,” he says, his voice hoarse.
There is so obviously something more to the story that it takes a lot for me not to push. But he’s a client and—despite the admittedly legendary kiss we shared—this is not a date. Just because he suddenly seems a lot more human than he did this morning when he was looking me over suggestively and calling me sweetheart doesn’t mean he isn’t still that guy. Everyone has personal problems and Hunter Browning’s are definitely none of my business.
Chapter 8
Hunter drops me back at the office at a quarter after one. I’m starving—the granola bar I had for breakfast wore off a while ago. I’ve got an apple stashed in my bag, and I think about digging it out and eating it before heading inside to face the music, but I’ve barely closed the door on the truck when I notice Kerry lurking near the big picture window at the front of the office.
No chance of putting this confrontation off, then. I take a moment to square my shoulders and get my head in the right space, as if that’s even possible, then head for the front door for the second time today.
The fact that there’s no gorgeous quarterback to hassle me this time around is something I am both thankful for and a little sad about. I don’t make it a habit of hiding behind a big strong man—I can stand on my own pair of red pumps, thank you very much—but it would be nice to have Hunter as a buffer right now. If Kerry was focused on him and the very big payday his house will bring to her agency, then she’d have less chance to tear me a new one. As it is, I’ve got one shot to convince her not to fire me.