At this hour, there’s little traffic, so I trot across the street to the brick building and hurry inside. The heat of the coffee is burning through the cup in my hand, and I wish I’d thought to pick up one of those cardboard sleeves to help insulate it. Too late now. Seth’s office is on the second floor. I take the stairs two at a time, my haste only partly fueled by the hot drink I hold. I can’t wait to see Seth again.
There’s a brass plaque on the door at the end of the hall that reads Jackson Realty. I hesitate—do I knock?—but through the floor-length window beside the door, a receptionist spies me and waves me in. Relieved, I push through the door and stop when I see Seth’s friend Lonzo standing next to the desk.
“Hey,” I say, my voice a little weak.
The receptionist is a busty brun
