Chapter 3
1826 Words
Chapter Three
Bella
I’ve never been able to play the banter game. I’m the girl who thinks of a comeback five minutes later and curses myself for not being quicker on the draw.
So although I’m not a mean-spirited person, I kind of want to high-five myself for that jab at Carmelo. The man is even better-looking in person than the blown-up version plastered around the city for millions of people’s viewing pleasure.
“Yeah, right.” He puffs out his hard chest a bit, trying his best to put on that smile he probably practices in the mirror every day.
“Oh sorry.” I shrug as if I couldn’t care less that I hit a sore spot.
The elevator opens and I step in, praying he doesn’t follow.
Of course, he does follow. He’s a fighter. That’s his reputation. I might not know Carmelo Mancini, but I know of him. The rumors—the good and the ugly. He’s well known in this city, in this industry.
“Tell me, Ms. Scott, why did you choose this building for your office?” He crosses his arms, his blue eyes searing right into my green ones.
“Miss,” I clarify.
“Really?” He arches a brow.
I hold up my left hand. “Not married.”
“Yeah, I figured you were probably divorced.”
My mouth is so wide open, a hippo could slide in unnoticed. But I know the way men like Carmelo Mancini work, and I don’t want him to know he got a reaction out of me, so I snap my mouth shut. He didn’t assume I was divorced; he assumed I’d be some nightmare of a wife no one could stand.
“You should do better research, I guess.” I give him a saccharine smile.
His gaze bores into me as though he thinks that will intimidate me. “You were a real broker once upon a time. Why go FSBO?”
He knew of me? I’m surprised. Back in the day, I was a very small fish in a massive ocean of killer sharks.
“Tired of the game? Money upfront?” I shrug. “There’re a lot of benefits to switching gears.”
“You wanna talk money? Maybe we should compare paychecks at some point.”
This man seriously wants me to stab him in the eye with my pen. Let’s see how sexy his billboards are after eye surgery.
The elevator dings and I breathe in relief that the elevator didn’t get stuck. That’d be my luck.
“Well, it’s been enlightening meeting you.” I step out into the building’s lobby.
He follows me. “I think we should set some ground rules.”
I laugh, opening the front door and stepping out into the beautiful late spring day. It’s gorgeous out, and I plan on grabbing a sandwich and spending an hour in Central Park. It’s the one day a week I refuse to work through my lunch.
“Call my office and schedule an appointment.” I walk down the sidewalk.
“Pretty sure your calendar is wide open. Let’s figure this out now.” He walks alongside me, flicking his wrist to check the time.
Hopefully he has some dire meeting to get to.
I stop at the street corner although I briefly debate if getting hit by a cab is better than talking to Carmelo Mancini.
I tilt my head and blow out a breath. “Listen, I’m sorry about Mr. Henderbrook. It was never my intention to steal him. He overheard a conversation in the elevator and approached me. I know it must look bad, but I’m not the type to steal clients.”
His sour mood dissipates slightly for a moment. “Still. Let’s agree that neither of us will hand out cards in the elevator.”
I shake my head at him. The white pedestrian sign flashes saying that I can cross. Don’t need to tell me twice.
I step off the curb, but he follows me. Again.
“I won’t give out my business cards, okay?” I say.
He glances at his watch once more. “Maybe we need some other guidelines, like no advertisements downstairs or in the hallway.”
I stop on the other side of the street, outside my favorite sandwich place, but he’s not going to know that. “Fine.”
He nods a few times, stuffing his hands into his pockets and studying me. It looks as though he wants to say more.
Women walking by glance at him from the corner of their vision. I don’t blame them, he’s alluring. Too bad he knows it.
“Let’s discuss it in one of our office’s after lunch?”
“Sorry, I have plans.”
“Client?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I lie because a man like Carmelo will only accept defeat if it’s something he can relate to. If I said I’m going to grab my tuna on wheat, head to a park bench, and enjoy one hour of serenity to help keep my sanity, he’d try to weasel his way in, and I’d probably allow him.
“Okay. Well then, we’re on the same page? I don’t see any other way we can coexist in the same building without those rules.”
I nod. “Sure. Okay.”
He waits for a full minute, staring at me. I’m not sure what else I can say to convince him. “I should go too.”
“Bye.” I wave and swivel on the ball of my shoe.
I wait for him to be lost in the crowd before I slide into line, pissed off that he took ten minutes from my solitude.
The minute I situate myself on the park bench and open my sandwich, my phone vibrates.
I look at my mom’s name and sigh, pressing the voicemail button.
A minute later, it’s vibrating again. If I talk to her briefly, maybe I can salvage a little time to myself. I slide my thumb across the screen and hold the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Mom,” I say.
“Bella. How are things?”
“Good. I’m just having lunch.”
“I have great news,” she says, and her mood is surprisingly chipper—which means she’s met someone.
“Who is he?” I ask.
She giggles as if she’s thirteen and a boy just said he likes her. My mom is a true romantic, but she keeps kissing frogs. If she didn’t manage a successful bakery she loves, I think she’d die of a lonely heart. She desperately tries to find someone. Unfortunately, she needs someone else to pick the person. Her type of man isn’t the grow-old-with-me type.
“I’m blushing right now. You always know when there’s a man in my life.”
Call it twenty-seven years of observation.
I bite into my tuna because let’s be honest, my mom isn’t going to complain if I’m chewing in her ear. “Who is he?”
“You’ll get to meet him because he’s bringing me to New York! I’ll be there either Wednesday or Thursday, then he’s taking me to his house in the Hamptons.” She squeals.
I roll my eyes. “He does own the house, right? This isn’t like the time that guy broke in and the owners found you both naked on a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace?”
“He didn’t break in. He had a key.”
“He stole the key from their hiding place.”
“Well, they should’ve changed the hiding spot after they fired him.”
I sigh. She’s legit sticking up for a man she later found in her bed with some street-corner florist. “Anyway, let me know when you’re flying in and we’ll plan dinner or something.”
“Perfect.”
“What’s his name?” I take another bite of my sandwich.
“Greg Throttle.”
I choke on tuna fish. A small girl in her Catholic school uniform gives me a look of disgust as she walks by, holding her mom’s hand. Just wait, little girl. The world isn’t filled with rainbows and sunshine.
“Mom,” I say. “Where did you meet him, and do you know who Greg Throttle is?”
She sighs into the phone as though she’s remembering, and I wait for her version of their perfectly orchestrated meet-cute. Every one of my mom’s boyfriends has come with some cutesy story about how they met. “He kept coming into the bakery every morning for a coffee and my frittata. He’d tuck himself into the corner by the window and read the paper for a half hour before heading out. I was in the middle of this book I couldn’t put down, sneaking pages between customers. He saw me reading and asked about the book. I told him it was for my book club and he asked if he could join.”
I roll my eyes for the fifth time in this conversation. If she was here to see it, she’d tell me they’re going to get stuck facing the back of my head at some point. But honestly, how does she not see the warning signs? “And you do know Greg Throttle is a huge developer in New York? Why is he in Florida, asking about book clubs?”
It totally doesn’t hold weight. Someone is acting like him and my mom is buying it.
“He said he’s here to look at a few properties on the ocean. You know how so much was wiped out by the hurricane. Our smaller hotels and motels are struggling.”
I suppose that could be true, but the book club? A mogul like Greg Throttle does not have time for a book club.
“Well, I’ll be happy to see you,” I say. I can get a read on the guy when I meet him.
“Me too.” Her tone holds that airy quality it does when she’s in love. Which only means she’ll fall that much harder when his true colors are shown. I have no idea how she can continue to pick herself up time and time again. “I’ll figure out the details and let you know.”
“Sounds good.” I hear her mixer start. “Mom?”
The mixer shuts off. “Yeah, sweetie?”
“Just, you know… be careful.”
She laughs. “One day, Bella.”
“What?”
“One day a man is going to come into your life. Then you’ll believe.”
I take another bite of my tuna sandwich. She thinks because I’m skeptical about men, I don’t believe in love or even want a relationship. That’s not true, but I have a lot on my plate right now. Including a business to build, which she should understand. A love life is last on the list—although I could use a man in my bedroom, that’s for sure.
“And he’ll want to join a book club with a middle-aged woman who’s not an heiress?” I ask.
“Nice, Bella.” The mixer starts again.
“I’m sorry.”
My dad died young. I can’t fault my mom for wanting to find whatever they had with someone else. It’s not that I doubt someone like Greg Throttle could fall for my mom, she just doesn’t have the best track record.
“I have to make a wedding cake for this weekend, so I’ll touch base with you next week.”
“Okay, bye.”
She hangs up with no goodbye, and I mentally kick myself for being so cynical with her. But come on, there have been so many men throughout my life that she thought might be the second love of her life.
Now my lunch is ruined because the guilt of being bitchy to my mom hangs over me like a storm cloud, blocking me from enjoying the sun. I finish my tuna sandwich, toss the wrapper into the trash, and head back to my office, crossing my fingers that I don’t have another run-in with Carmelo Mancini.
- Writer
