“Tom, what is your team’s ETA for the Miami and Vegas properties that just came under contract?” Damien asks, switching the focus to the Grey team of EllisGrey. “I’d like to see us capitalize on the spring market and get those listed within the month.”
A few agents from Thomas’s team speak up, giving the rundown on where they’re at in the process, and my brain begins to zone out when the legal side of real estate starts getting discussed.
It’s not that I don’t want to understand the legal side of things; it’s just that I can’t understand it. At all. You know? Just give me properties to use my interior design skills in, and I’m happy.
This is a perfect example of why, if I ever go out on my own and make Daisy Designs its own brand name, it will revolve solely around the design side of things. No contracts, no listings, just interior design for homeowners and staging work for real estate firms.
Ultimately, that is my big dream. To run my own company.
Which explains why my pride is somewhere down around my knees with this whole immigration thing. That big dream is far easier achieved in the United States than Canada. Don’t get me wrong, I love Canada. Always have and always will. But the market in the States holds far more opportunity.
I need that green card like I need my next meal.
“Daisy,” Thomas calls, grabbing my attention again and making me sit up straight.
“Yes?”
“You’ll be working with Tara on Damien’s new Greenwich Village property. Time is of the essence with getting it out there, so I need the two of you to pool all your connections to make it happen.”
Of course. Why wouldn’t I be assigned to direct teamwork with Cruella’s spawn?
“You got it, Tom.”
“Good. Then get out of here. You two don’t need to hang out for the rest of the call. Just get started.”
Tara and I both nod dutifully, pushing back in our chairs and climbing to our feet in the conference room. Tara rounds the table, and I hold open the glass door like we haven’t spent the last week of work together solidifying our opposing positions in a lifelike game of Mortal Kombat.
Dirty looks, underhanded trick questions in front of Thomas, giving me wrong times and addresses for properties and vendor appointments, “accidentally” squishing my food in the back of the break room fridge, and telling the entire office she saw me drying my blouse under the hand dryer in the bathroom—thanks to an unfortunate coffee spillage event—because I apparently have some sort of glandular problem, are just the tip of the iceberg of her full-frontal assault, and this is only my fifth official day.
Now that we’ve been assigned to work together, I might have to invest in a bodyguard. My vote is, of course, for Kevin Costner, but I’m not sure he makes people who try to defraud the government a priority in his schedule.
I step outside the door behind Tara and follow her swaying hips down the hallway to her office. So far, she hasn’t even acknowledged my presence.
She steps inside, rounds her desk, and takes a seat in her chair. I lean into the doorway, keeping the jamb in front of me as a shield of defense.
“Uh, hey, Tara?” I question, making her head pop up almost violently.
“What?”
“I thought maybe we should get a plan together—”
“I don’t have time right now. I have a lunch engagement.” Technically, so do I, with Winnie and Sophie, but I figured, given Thomas’s urgency, I’d reschedule. “I’ll email you the details I have from my vendors, and we can go from there.”
Right. Okay, then. I guess I’ll go to lunch with Winnie and Sophie after all.
I turn to leave, but Tara calls me back. “Oh, and Daisy?”
“Yes?”
“You have something in your teeth…” She points to her own mouth in example. “Right there.”
What a bitch, waiting to tell me until the meeting was over, when we were in the conference room alone for five minutes before it started. I hope she gets on a local train on the way home instead of the express and hits every goddamn stop.
I sure hope lunch is filled with friendlier waters. I’m not sure how much more I can take today without going psycho Daisy Mae on someone’s ass.
Bilbow Gardens is an adorably over-the-top restaurant with cascading florals all over the ceiling and walls, neon signs behind every booth, and pink dimpled leather on the seats. According to Winnie, her husband Wes knows the owner. And I’m thinking that’s probably how she managed to get us a cozy booth in the back corner of the place, away from the hustle and bustle of the kitchen and lunchtime rush.
“So, Daisy, you have to tell us what Flynn is like as a husband,” Sophie says through a big smile on her side of the booth. “I’m dying to know. I’ve spent a lot of time picturing Jude as a husband—my husband—you know, but it can’t be at all what Flynn is like. Is he serious all the time? Does he wear socks to bed? I have to know!”
Winnie nods vigorously. “Oh my God, yes. I need to know too. I don’t even know what Flynn is like as a brother, he’s so freaking mysterious. Tell me all his secrets, please.”
I shift in my seat, trying not to give away just exactly how nervous I am. Any new bride would be feeling the jitters as she sat down with her sister-in-law and another future one and tried to make it into the club, but just like with everything else, my situation is even more complicated. Because I’m not a rosy-eyed newlywed in love, and I don’t know all that many secrets about Flynn—almost assuredly not any more than his own sister has learned about him in a lifetime.
Aside from the length and girth of his penis, which I’m guessing Winnie isn’t all that interested in knowing, I really don’t have a lot of value to add to this conversation.
Still, with a lick of my lips and a deep pull of air into my lungs, I give it my best shot. I agreed to this lunch with them, and they’re really fun, nice people. I don’t want to disappoint them almost as much as I don’t want to disappoint Flynn. Plus, I could use the endorphins from the gossip if I’m going to go back to the land of Tara after this.
“Flynn is…” Dirty, hot, sexy, good with his tongue… “Surprisingly easygoing. He’s never in a bad mood, and he doesn’t get upset if I rearrange his stuff. He’s a really laid-back kind of guy and somehow always seems to know how to quiet my tendency for anxiety and freaking out…” …by fucking me until I can’t see straight.
Winnie’s eyes dance, and Sophie leans forward onto her elbows. “And?”
“And…I actually haven’t seen him use the bathroom yet. Like, I’m not sure he does,” I say with a teasing grin, and Winnie’s and Sophie’s smiles turn to laughter. “I mean, his diet is, like, pretty clean and healthy. His breakfast usually looks like it’s portioned out with the perfect amount of protein and carbs and fats like someone is going to take a picture of his plate and put it in a damn nutritional book. All the while, I’m shoving a bowl full of Lucky Charms down my throat. Honestly, he’s the only person I know who actually does the whole “everything in moderation” thing, so maybe his body doesn’t even produce any waste or anything. Frankly, I’m considering buying stock in the Febreze company because I use so much air freshener trying to pretend I don’t have to go either. Just yesterday, I almost overdosed on the chemicals. Seriously, the cloud of mist in there rivaled the smog in Los Angeles.”