Beauty and the Billionaire: The Wedding Page 11

  Someone like her? She’d class things up just by walking into a room. And a girl like her wouldn’t have anything to do with a guy like me. Not before I got rich, that is. “All right. I’ll take her.”

  “You mean someone like her?” Clay asks, amused.

  “No, I mean her. I like the way she looks.” I study the picture a moment longer and then tuck it into my back pocket. I’m gonna jerk off to it later, picturing that sweet, pink bow of a mouth closing over the head of my cock. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea.

  A classy woman. Yeah. One to stand at my side and look like a peach, and make all those other bastards jealous. One I can dirty up and show just what a roughneck likes between the sheets.

  I like this idea. I like it a lot.

  But Clay just laughs, and even Knox looks amused. “It ain’t a girlfriend catalog,” Clay comments. “It’s an advertisement. You don’t know nothin’ about her.”

  “I know she’s classy. That’s all I need to know.”

  “If she’s so classy, how you gonna get her to date you?” Knox raises an eyebrow at me. He takes a sip of his drink and I notice it’s full. Again. I wonder how he does that—switching glasses without anyone ever noticing. And then I wonder what else he switches when we’re not paying attention.

  “I’m rich, ain’t I? That convinces a lot of women.”

  “Not the ones worth having,” Clay adds.

  He’s got a point. I stroke my beard thoughtfully. “You said I needed a fancy house. I guess I’ll have her sell me one.”

  “What if she’s married?” Knox adds. “You still want her then?”

  I frown at them and pull the picture back out of my pocket. “Ain’t married,” I say after a moment, studying her small hands. “No ring.”

  “She’s the ad candy,” Clay points out. “Put a pretty girl in there with all the sausages in suits so guys like ol’ Boone here think they have a shot if they go in and buy a house.” He elbows me, grinning. “Works, too.”

  “You’re a dick,” I tell him, and thump the picture. “And you’re just jealous you didn’t see her first.”

  “Nah,” Clay says. “I like my women a little rough around the edges.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “So when you gonna meet Miss Classy and scope her out?”

  I eye Miss Classy in the picture, and my gaze goes down to those long legs. Might be nice to get laid before the weekend, if I can talk this sweet piece into it. I’ve never dated a classy girl before, so maybe she ain’t that type. She might be cold. Hell, she might fuck with that same starchy look on her face. That’s a depressing thought.

  Only one way to find out, though. “Guess I go house hunting tomorrow.”

  My brothers just smirk.

  IVY

  A familiar tweed suit passes by the print room while I’m standing over the copier. I immediately abandon my task and race after him. “Oh! Jack! I didn’t realize you were in the office! Wait up!” I hate that I have to scramble after him—in heels, no less—but the bastard’s not slowing down an iota. I hobble after him on the marble floors of Three Jacks Real Estate’s swanky office, hoping I don’t fall on my ass and make a fool of myself in front of the others. When Jack doesn’t stop, I have to speed up just to catch him. “Jack!”

  He finally stops, right at the front doors of the office, and frowns at me like I’m an annoying puppy. “What is it, Ivy? I’m on my way out the door, as you can see.” He gestures at the large glass double doors like I’m an idiot. “Let’s make this fast.”

  “Of course!” I put on my fake, cheeriest realtor smile. “I was just going to say that my day is clear, and I know LaDonna had that big house on Forsyth that was scheduled to have a showing. I’ve made flyers—well, actually, they’re on the copier right now—and I can go handle things, maybe pass out a few cards—”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Is LaDonna out?”

  “Um, she’s having an emergency appendectomy, remember?” I bite my lip as he continues to look blank. “It was emailed out to everyone?”

  “Mmmhmmm?” The look on his face tells me he didn’t read it, or doesn’t care.

  “So I thought I’d pitch in and help with her listing for today? It’s a really great house and I’ve researched the neighborhood, and I can chat with some prospective buyers and—”

  His lips purse and he holds up a finger. “The house is on Forsyth?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the Twin Oaks development?”

  I nod. It’s the hottest area in the suburbs at the moment, and there’s a waiting list for properties. This one’s a little pricey but I also know it’ll fly off the market within days. It’s such a big opportunity.

  “How much is the list price?”

  There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I ignore it. I have to. I’m this far in. “It’s listed as one point one million.”

  Jack pulls out his phone and starts to type. “Street address?”

  I give it to him.

  “Great. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Oh,” I say, fighting the crushing disappointment I’m feeling. “But I can do it, really. I’ve done comps and I’ve got flyers ready and—”

  “Now, Ivy. You said it’s a million dollar house, right? It’s been a lean month for the company and we need to make sure we land all the commissions we can.” His tone goes condescending. “And I just don’t know that you’re the right person to take on such a big task.”

  “I can absolutely do it, Jack—”

  “Now, if I wanted an ice cream cone, you’d be the first one I’d call.” He winks at me, the jerk. Winks. Like it’s a funny joke. “But for a million dollar listing? Let’s make sure someone with a lot more experience handles it, all right? Oh, and I’ll take those flyers, too.” He gives me a I’m-the-man-around-here look. “And can you grab me a coffee while you’re in the copy room? Super. I’ll wait right here.” He winks. “Make it snappy. I’ve got an open house to handle.”

  “Right. Sure.” I force a smile to my face and turn on my heel, heading back toward the copy room to retrieve the flyers I’ve been working on all morning.

  It’s not fair. It’s so not fair. Every time something decent even comes close to landing in my lap, one of bosses is there to snatch it away again. I’m stewing as I snatch the stack of copies from the machine and tuck them under my arm, then head to the coffeemaker. Get him a coffee while I’m at it? Like I’m his freaking secretary? But he’s also the boss, so I’m stuck. I eye the two coffee pots on the burner. One’s nothing but dregs, and the other’s a fresh pot. I grab a paper cup, tip the dregs into the cup, and then march back out the door to hand Jack the copies about the house I know I could sell today, if I was given the chance.

  He gives me another wink as he turns to go. “Thanks for the tip, Ivy. Good work.”

  I watch him leave, my fists clenched. I’m stewing with helpless frustration. Thwarted yet again. Thanks for the tip. Like it was a freaking tip? That was my hours of hard work. That was my opportunity that he snatched away. And if I keep thinking about it, I’m going to puke with anger. So I take a deep breath, smooth a hand down the front of my suit, and calmly walk back to my desk in the back of the office, tucked near the bathrooms. A client is strolling out of the men’s room and I keep a poised smile on my face. I’m composed until I sit down and put my hands on my keyboard. Calm. Rational.

  The moment the client disappears? I bury my face in my hands.

  “Uh oh,” Farah says from her desk across the way. “What happened? You were on cloud nine ten minutes ago! Did something happen to LaDonna?”

  I take a deep breath and lift my head to look over at my friend. “Jack happened.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Dumb Jack, Jack Jack, or Winky Jack?”

  “Winky Jack,” I say miserably. “He stole that open house from me and
said he’d handle it. What could I do?”

  “Tell him no?” Farah raises one dark brow at me. “Tell him to do his own work instead of stealing yours?”

  “He’s the boss,” I tell Farah with a sigh. “I like being employed.”

  “I don’t see how,” she says drily, pulling out a stack of folders on her desk and flipping through them. “They don’t leave you enough clients to make a living.”

  “Oh, they do,” I say glumly and cross my arms, staring at my laptop. The screen still has a dozen comp listings pulled up from this morning’s work, all gone to waste. “They leave me all the clients with bad credit and no money. You need to buy a house with nothing down and a spending limit of fifty grand? Go talk to Ivy.”

  She snorts.

  That’s all she can do, because we both know I’m not wrong. Farah’s been with Three Jacks for ten years—no clue why she stays. Me, I’ve been here for one, and a lot of the time I feel lucky to have that one. They hired me, fresh off the streets after I got my realtor license, and I didn’t have a lick of experience to my name. I was working at an ice cream shop prior to Three Jacks . . . something that the bosses like to remind me about all the time.

  Three Jacks is a boys’ club. I knew it was when I got hired. It’s run by Jack Farrington (Dumb Jack), who’s older than the hills and a silver spoon in his mouth; Jack Jackson, who’s a snake oil salesman if there ever was one; and Jack Richards (Winky Jack) who thinks women aren’t born with two brain cells to rub together and he’ll have to rescue us from ourselves. They’re nice enough, as far as bosses go, I suppose. After all, they did give me a job. I make half of a percent on any house I sell. That means on a regular three percent agency commission, they get the other two point five percent and I get what’s left after expenses. If I sell a house that’s a hundred grand? I get five hundred dollars and the company walks away with the other twenty-five hundred.

  Jack (Dumb Jack) told me that I could ‘promote’ my commission amount once I’ve earned two million in sales for the company. Given that the only clients I get handed to me are dirt poor or can’t land a mortgage? It’s been an exercise in frustration, but I’m determined not to give up.

  Ivy Smithfield is going to get a better life for herself and her sister even if she has to climb uphill both ways, I vow. I may not have the experience or the pedigree, but I’ve got determination.

  With that mental pep talk, I feel a little better. I’m going to do this. So I’m still 700k away from getting that pay increase? It’s doable. I just need to hustle and hustle hard. I’ve got this. I do.

  “I’ll just have to find some new leads,” I announce to Farah. “It’s a minor setback, but it’s not a deal-breaker.”

  “Whatever,” Farah says, giving me side-eye. “You know it’s okay to be pissed, right?”

  “I’m not pissed,” I reply, pulling up local housing forums to scan them for potential clients, just like I do every day. My mama always said ‘fake it until you make it’ and I’m getting to be a real pro at faking it. Sometimes I even almost believe myself. “Minor setback. I’ll just have to work on some other leads.”

  “Mmhmm.” She curls her lip. “Least they put you on the flyer. Dumb Jack told me I was too ‘Mexican’ looking.”

  I glance over at her. “I thought you were Persian?”

  “I am.”

  I wince. Well, he’s called Dumb Jack for a reason. “Ouch. Besides, you know they only put me on the flyer because they had to have a girl on there.”

  “Oh, I know. Said they didn’t want to appear sexist.” She puts her fingers in the air and makes a set of quotes. “Appear. I mean, they are sexist, they just don’t want to look it.”

  I smile wanly at her. They may be sexist, but they’re also the bosses and I can’t do much about it. To make things worse, Winky Jack also handles the Human Resources for the company, so it’s not like I can go complain about his buddies. Or himself.

  I just need to work harder. Once I’ve climbed a few rungs in the ladder, I’ll make good money and I’ll have so many clients I won’t be stuck here in the office, twiddling my thumbs. And if at that point, I’m still not making good money? I’ll at least have enough experience under my belt to go somewhere else . . . or hang my own shingle and get the full three percent commission. It’s a nice dream.

  It also won’t become a reality unless I hustle.

  I look over at the picture on the corner of my desk. It’s recent, a picture of my little sister Wynonna in her cap and gown at graduation. My arms are around her and our faces are pressed close together. She’s so happy, so excited to take on the world. So eager to get out there.

  It’s for her that I’m doing all this.

  So I pull up the forums, put my hands on the keyboard, and go back to work trying to drum up clients online.

  ***

  It’s getting late in the day when I get a call from my sister on my brand new iPhone. I had to get it because my flip phone and printed maps were making some of the clients look at me funny. Problem is, I can’t figure out how the whole ‘smart’ phone works, and so I swipe the wrong buttons and end up missing the call. Farah just snorts and rolls her eyes, like I’m the world’s biggest goober.

  Maybe I am, but I could never afford a smartphone until now. Actually, I still can’t, but I’m forking out extra money so I look legit to my clients. Plus, okay, the mapping application is pretty awesome.

  A text comes in a moment later, shaking my phone.

  Wynonna: U there, Reba?

  Ivy: I am. And remember, I’m Ivy now!!

  Wynonna: O god, whatever.

  Wynonna: I don’t have time for this crap.

  Well, she’d better make time. Ivy’s my real name now; I had it changed legally. Reba sounded like a redneck cliche, and when my teacher at my realtor classes suggested that I go by a less ‘polarizingly southern’ name, I jumped at the chance. I’ve been Ivy to everyone else for the last two years, but to my sister, I guess I’ll always be Reba Lee Smithfield.

  Wynonna: I have a flat. Gonna B late getting home.

  Ivy: Are you ok?

  Wynonna: Rim’s bent I think. We got the money for that?

  I wince. We don’t. We don’t even have the money for the insurance for Wynonna’s little 1992 Civic, but I’m trying to make it work. I type slowly, since my fingers feel too big and clumsy for the tiny smartphone screen.

  Ivy: I’ll figure it out. Are you pulled over somewhere safe?

  Wynonna: I’m fine. A friend is coming to pick me up, but the car’s on the side of the highway. You want me to wait for a tow truck?

  Ivy: No, those cost too much. I’ll leave work and see if I can change the spare for you. Maybe it’s not as bad as we think.

  Wynonna: Ok! Just text me when u get there. I’m sorry :(

  Ivy: Don’t be sorry! The tires were old. We knew they would go soon. I’ll handle it.

  Wynonna: K! Don’t work 2 late! Friend is taking me 2 a used bookstore so I can see if any of my college texts are there. Maybe I can get them cheap.

  Ivy: Smart thinking!! XO

  Wynonna: XO to u 2

  I put the phone down and resist the urge to bury my head in my hands. Car repairs—the last thing I can think about right now. Wynonna needs her car to go to college, and I need to finish scraping together some money for her tuition. If it’s just a flat tire, we can eat ramen for a week or two and scrape by. If it’s more than that . . . well, I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. I’m just glad my little sister wasn’t hurt.

  Of course, this means I really need to get some leads. Shoot. I might take a clipboard to the mall and pretend to do a survey, all so I can pass out some cards. It’s desperate, but heck, I am desperate at this point, and the Jacks keep stealing all my good leads. After that, I might stop by the library and the gym and pin a few cards to corkboards. Something w
ill pay off eventually, if I just put enough work into it.

  Well, no time like the present to get started.

  I gather my things, stuffing my folders and then my laptop into my shoulder-bag. No rest for the wicked, and I’m going to put in a long night tonight trying to drum up leads. I might even try Facebook ads and Craigslist, if that’s what it takes. All I need to do is sell one house in the next thirty days and I can pay for Wynonna’s tuition. If I get someone in escrow, I can ask for an advance until payday. I have options. I just need to get someone in the door. I’m sure I can seal the deal if that happens.

  I rush out the back of the office and into the lobby—only to see Winky Jack heading back in. He’s got a coffee in hand and his sunglasses on. I smile at him as I pass by.

  He stops and points at me. “Ivy!”

  I halt, but inwardly I’m torn between snarling at him and just wishing I could race out the door. Instead, I keep a warm smile on my face and try to pretend that someone just stuck gum to the back of his expensive suit. “Hi Jack, how did the open house go?”

  “Fantastic. Got one or two couples that are very interested.” One of his cheeks twitches, and I realize he’s probably winking at me from behind his sunglasses. Oy. “It was a great lead. Thanks for sending it in my direction.”

  But I didn’t, I want to snap. You stole it. “Of course.”

  He sips his coffee, ignoring the fact that I was trying to leave. “You said you had some comps, right? Mind emailing me those?”

  “Sure.” I gesture at the door. It’s getting harder to smile by the second, but somehow I manage. “Listen, I have to go—”

  At that moment, a man pushes open the glass double doors and walks into the lobby. He’s wearing a dirty trucker cap, an equally dirty t-shirt, jeans, and workboots. He’s got an enormous, bushy beard covering most of his face and glances around with a hint of a scowl on his face.

  The receptionist gives him a blank look, and then her lips twitch with a smirk. She glances over at me and Jack as if to say can you believe this guy, then over at the client. “Can I help you, sir?”