The house viewing is scheduled for six. After a lengthy board meeting first thing with Laurelle, who explains to me in no certain terms that this is my chance, Charter and I make our way to the property to add some last-minute touches.

It's a six-bedroom property in Upper East Manhattan, the kind of place you'd expect to see in an episode of Gossip Girl or maybe in The Real Housewives of New York. Spread over seven levels and equipped with a roof deck, the property is an equal mix of complex engineering and timeless design – if you have 50 million.

Charter shows me the lowest level first, with a 100ft square open cellar filled with every kind of wine imaginable, from a 2017 Bruno Giacosa Barolo to an 1869 Chateau Lafite. According to Charter, she'd had most of them imported from France just yesterday and spent all last night unpacking them. I step inside, running my hand along the different wine labels.

Impressed, I say, "You ordered them alphabetically." Last night, while I'd been asleep having less-than-innocent dreams about Milo, Charter had been here ensuring our clients got the best first impressions. Either she takes this job too seriously, or I'm not taking it seriously enough; I can't decide which is worse.

"It's the finer details that make the clients choose us," she says as she wipes off imaginary dust from a bottle, "the finishing touches. When they walk into a house, they need to feel like they're already home."

"Of course," I say and follow suit as she sits on the floor to unpack the last few bottles. I study each label, unable to believe that clutched between my fingers is a wine worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. One bottle costs more than what I make in six months, which means the price of a drink is the same price I pay not to become homeless.

"With open viewings like these, we tend to take turns staging the properties," Charter says. "Miranda took the last one, which is why this project was mine – I guess you'll take the next one."

I nod as we finish up before getting to my feet. It's almost ten, which means in another five minutes, Milo will be making his trip to the coffee machine. I imagine him waiting, foot tapping against the marble floor as he readjusts his tie for the millionth time. It's Mickey Mouse today – I'd caught a glimpse through his vampire coat as we stood in the elevator – but seeing him wearing it hits differently after his impromptu invite to Disney World; it's a trip we'll never make.

Depressed, I follow Charter through the rest of the level, straightening out picture frames and rearranging flower bouquets. The interior is exactly what one might expect from a property like this: fresh, modern, and flooded with natural light from the overhead skylight. There are several rooms on this floor alone, each about three times bigger than the whole of my apartment, and I spend most of the morning with a permanent Piccachu expression.

Charter, however, remains indifferent. "When you see enough properties, the allure soon wears off."

Maybe she's right. Maybe once the novelty wears off, so does the magic, but if that's the case, it's all the more reason for me to appreciate it now. "So, any tips for the open viewing?"

"Yeah," she says, smiling, "don't screw up."

With that, we head into the elevator, constructed as a crescendo where each floor becomes more striking. I focus ahead, trying not to think about being in an elevator. If I do, I'll think of Milo. That's the last thing I need right now.

The doors slide open, no creaking or groaning like the ones from our office, and we step onto the fourth floor. The foyer boasts a grand entrance leading to an open-plan living room encompassed by floor-to-ceiling windows. The glass facade – bulletproof and shipped from Germany – is the property's main attraction, curving around the living room's edge for a wider view of Manhattan. I hurry to the window, a sucker for a view, and peer out onto the busy, snow-laden streets.

Taxis navigate the slushy roads, their tires leaving tracks in the freshly fallen snow. Pedestrians hurry along the sidewalks, bundled up in coats, hats, and scarves, their breaths visible in the freezing air. It's impossible not to feel like the king of the castle up here. I'm staring down at the dot-sized people, watching as they merrily go through life, and for a moment, I'm no longer Kennedy James; I'm some rich tycoon with enough money to burn that I can afford a place like this.

"Come on," Charter says, "help me add the finishing touches to the kitchen."

The kitchen in question is an open-air space with two double refrigerators and a terraced dining space. The sleek cabinetry is made of a dark wood finish and contrasting white countertops, with a beautiful tiled backsplash that adds a touch of elegance. We get to work polishing the granite countertops and laying out matching silverware. Charter, at one point, even straightens out a slightly crooked napkin, a detail I'd missed, but somehow, she caught.

"I'm nervous," I say as I scan the room, "open viewings have never exactly been my strong suit." It's true, too. While I'm more than in my element in a one-to-one scenario, it's hard when dozens of clients demand your attention. But if there's one thing I'm good at, it's doing my research, and I've studied this property inside out. If I can win my clients over with knowledge, I think I'll be okay.

We get to work on the fifth floor, next walking past the media room that separates a large bedroom on the north side and two on the south side, all with ensuites. In the master bedroom, the largest room on this level, a skylight illuminates the way to a private roof deck with 360 views of the city. My heels are moving faster than my legs, desperate to get out there and inhale the crisp air, which I'm convinced is fresher up here.

"You really do appreciate a good view," Charter says.

Giddy, I say, "Who doesn't?"

She laughs and sidles over before resting her arms on the railing. "My ex didn't. He thought standing in one place and staring at the scenery was the most boring thing in the world."

"No wonder he's an ex."

She laughs again, and even though I'd considered her frosty, she's starting to warm to me. "So," she says, "you have anyone special in your life?"

I pause and then, "Not really, just my cat."

"So, the rumors about you and Milo aren't true then," she says.

My eyes do that thing where they practically bulge from my head. "Rumors?"

"About you guys hooking up at the Christmas party. Plus–" her eyes flit over as if about to confess to something juice, "–Lucas told everyone he stopped by your apartment, and Milo was there. Said you guys were dating."

That little weasel. If I didn't hate him before, I sure as hell do now. Thinking fast, I wave my hand dismissively and say, "We were never dating."

She frowns like she doesn't believe me, which means I need to change the subject fast. Turning back to the view, I wrack my brain for something to say and blur out, "Do you have any cats?"

Her face scrunches. "I'm allergic to cats. Oh, hold on, my phone's vibrating." She pulls out her phone and says something about needing to take this call, so I turn back to the view. And then, even though I know I shouldn't, I think back to the first time Milo and I went to look at our properties.

Lucky for some, I remember he'd said, and I'd felt him behind me, warm and comforting and solid. Even back then, before I'd known it, I wanted him. I wanted him closer, to feel the pull of his arms as he wrapped them around me, shielding me from the cold. But I couldn't have it then, and I can't have it now, so I follow Charter back into the apartment.

With the last few finishing touches done, we're good to go. Charter does one last check around the apartment – clearly, she's a perfectionist – and then we make our way back to the office in time for me to catch Laurelle as she strides toward her office. I think she will ignore me at first – it wouldn't be the first time – but she stops as she passes, coffee to her lips, and gives me a disconcerting look. "All set for the viewing tonight?"

"All set," I say with my brightest smile, and she saunters into her office.

Back at my desk, I'm busy unpacking the contents of my bag and searching for my lipstick when my email pings. I briefly glance up, my Plumberry Perfect tube between my fingers, as I read the email's sender.

Wyatt Chauverly.

It takes me a good five minutes to figure it out, but when I do, it clicks. Wyatt, the tall, handsome specimen from my last open viewing. Trust fund brat Wyatt. Eyebrow reading Wyatt. That Wyatt.

I click to open the email, interested to see what he's after, and skim through the first few lines:

Dear Kennedy,

I've been informed about an open house viewing tonight in Manhattan, and as I'm still looking for a property, would love to drop by. Could you send over the details?

Kind regards,

Not-a-trust fund-brat

(Wyatt)

I'm certain whoever he'd heard this from could have given him the address, but I respond right away with all of the details and get back to work. It only takes a second for my screen to ping again. Eager, I click back on the email.

Great, can't wait to see you.

I blink once, then twice.

Oh.

A/N

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