23| Selling sunset

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The buildup to this house viewing is worse than the last time. Maybe it's because this is my first real chance to prove myself or that I don't have Milo to give me a pep talk this time. But either way, I spend the next few hours staring into the abyss of my screen while I imagine all the ways this could go terribly wrong.

At three, I swivel my chair toward the window and stare at the herd of people going about business. It's already dark out, with the buildings lit up like stars on the vast horizon. For a second, I imagine what it would be like to take off into the night, free from the confines of the 9-5 rat race. What it would feel like to go somewhere away from the responsibilities that await me each morning. What it would feel like to breathe.

I turn to my desk and stare at my computer screen. But I can't focus on the work in front of me, not because of the view but Milo. I keep thinking about the way he'd looked in our last elevator tryst, hand wrapped in my hair, eyes dark with seduction. Eyes closed, I picture the way his lips grazed my skin as his voice came low and hard in my ear.

I'm not going to kiss you, Kennedy.

"Kennedy?"

I jerk forward as Miranda walks in. She stands by the door, her thin eyebrow arched as she studies me carefully. "You looked like you were having a stroke."

"I'm fine." I grab my electric sharpener to make me look less conspicuous, but I move so fast that it flies off the table and breaks into pieces on the floor. Miranda's gaze lowers to the plastic near her foot before she sidesteps away. "Just came to check on you. Ready for the viewing tonight?"

"Ready as ever," I lie.

She smiles, but it's the kind that suggests she doesn't believe me. "Well, I'll see you in a little while."

I nod and return to my desk, determined to not dwell on the email Wyatt sent. Clearly, I'm reading too much into it. He's interested in the property, not me – that's all there is to it. I pick up my phone, about to call a potential client when Laurelle barges in with a To-Do list as long as my arm. If there is one thing I've learned this past week or so, it's that working on seven means seeing – and hearing – Laurelle more often than I'm used to. As soon as her door clicks, I hold my breath and wait for the clickity-clack of her heels to deliver me a brand new list of commands.

"I have a list of clients I need you to reach out to," she says, dropping the To-Do list to my desk, "preferably in a casual setting. Perhaps over drinks."

I glance at the list of names on the top and frown. Remembering the disaster over drinks with Dean, I say, "Of course, but I prefer to catch up with clients in a more professional setting."

Laurelle blinks once. Then twice. I should have known better; she's not used to hearing anything other than yes. "Here on seven, we deal with clients who choose us for our personal touch. They want a friend, a confidante, someone they can trust when handing over large sums of money. Your job is to make that happen." Before I can speak, she heads toward the door before turning. "I hope I've made the right decision with this promotion," she says and disappears down the hallway.

It feels like I've been scolded. I swallow hard, trying to brush off Laurelle's comment, but it's already worked through my facade and settled into my bones. If tonight doesn't go as planned – better than planned – Laurelle will think promoting me was a mistake.

Maybe she's right.

The ping of my phone drags me from self-pity ville. I glance at the screen, surprised to see Milo's name appear, the words, Good luck, beneath it.

My heart stops. Not just stops but leaves my body and returns moments later, where it stutters and thrums with excitement. He's the only one who can do that to me, whose simple message can send me into an unparalleled frenzy; I both hate it and crave it.

For the next thirty minutes, I work on Laurelle's list and try not to think about the viewing. It's worse, in a way, having us all there at once. The others will be watching me, ready to report back to Laurelle like good minions. This is less of a house viewing and more of a test trial – I'm the one on the stand.

When I can't take staring at a screen any longer, I get to my feet and head to the coffee machine, which is empty as usual. Those on seven prefer to sip at green tea and forgo the caffeine, which further reminds me of the things I miss about Milo. I'd never really noticed it before – I'd thought the opposite was true – but we're similar in more ways than one. If things had worked out, if whatever we had hadn't imploded before us, would that have made things harder or easier?

"Kennedy."

Charter is at the door to deliver the news: it's show time. I grab my stuff, glancing out of the office window one last time before following her toward the elevator. The other girls fall into line behind us, stepping into the elevator one after the other like they're escorting me to my doom. Charter looks over, flashes what I hope is a reassuring smile, and presses the button for the lobby.

A second passes. Then another. We reach the sixth floor before the doors slide open, and in steps none other than Milo. If I thought his good luck message unraveled me, seeing him up close in all his glory is enough to send me into overdrive. I face the front, determined to ignore his presence, but our eyes catch in the door's reflection, and it's game over.

He's undressing me with his eyes. They take in my dress, which appears to meet his tacit approval, before slowly working their way up my body and back to my lips, where they stay for the next few seconds. I stare at him, subtly pulling my lip between my teeth, and his eyes grow black. Another second passes, and he loosens his tie. The air feels thick, electric, and if it weren't for the three other people in this elevator, bad – terrible – things would have happened by now.

The five of us step out into the lobby. With one last look, Milo nods briefly before heading through the revolving doors, disappearing onto the street. It's not like him to take off this early, which leaves me to wonder where he's going, and who he might be going there with. Still, I don't have time to dwell on it now: I'm about to meet my fate.

By the time we survive the subway and get to the property, it's almost five. I stare at the building, lost in its beauty and grandeur once again. Despite having visited thousands of properties, there is always something a little bit magical about each one.

"Come on," Charter says as Lucas and Miranda head inside, "let's give the place one last look over, test you on some key features, and then it's show time. The girls and I have agreed to let you take the lead on this one. If I were you, I'd try and hone in on a handful of people you think are more serious."

I tear my eyes away from the building and place them on her. "Sounds good."

We head inside to check everything before the clients show up. I'll admit, Charter and the others – barring Lucas – are not what I expected. As we fluff up pillows and rearrange flowers, Charter offers words of encouragement and tidbits to help me to impress Laurelle.

"She seems like a hardass," she says, "but it almost makes it easier to understand her. She's straightforward, and she'll tell you how she wants things, so as long as you listen, you won't have a problem."

"Even if she tells you to talk to clients over drinks?" I ask.

It's been playing on my mind since I saw that To-Do list. Maybe the old me would have said yes without affliction, but my conversation with Milo that night about having drinks with Dean was a wake-up call. It reminded me that if it wasn't Milo's job to appease our wealthy clients, why was it mine?

"We've all had to do it," Miranda says. "Make your boundaries clear, and you'll be fine. Are we all set?"

The four of us look around the fourth floor to catch any glaring mishaps, but there are none. I glance at the clock, which now reads five-thirty, and ignore the quick pang in my chest. Any moment now, the various clients we've all pooled together will be sauntering through the walkway.

"Break open that champagne bottle," Lucas tells Miranda. "In celebration of Kennedy's first viewing on seven."

He grins as Miranda hurries to open the bottle before pouring each of us a glass. "To Kennedy's first viewing," she says, lifting her glass and the rest of them cheer in my honor. I raise my glass, too, smiling a little as I take my first sip. Despite Lucas' annoying and unwelcome presence, this is the first time since my promotion that I've felt like I belong.

I just hope it will last.

A/N

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