Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 131888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
He closed his eyes, shook his head at his own dumbass-ness and then pulled in a breath to slow his speeding heartbeat.
Maybe it was in the other pocket. He opened his eyes and checked. It wasn’t there, either. It also wasn’t in the back pockets.
What the actual fuck?
He threw the pair of jeans back on the couch and pulled out his wallet to dig through it. Not there, either.
He pinned his lips together and stared at the tossed-aside jeans. He’d have to wait to talk to her until next week. Maybe he could go early and pull her aside.
Wait…
Something cream-colored peeked from between the couch cushions. He jammed his hand into the crevice and grabbed it.
His mouth twisted into an almost-smile.
With his thumb brushing back and forth over the back of the card, his mouth twisted again, but this time in a frown. It wasn’t his damn business whose company she kept. Her personal life didn’t have anything to do with him.
He didn’t want to be friends with her. He didn’t want anything from her at all.
So, why the fuck did it matter?
That didn’t stop him from flipping the card over to read it.
Aaliyah M. James
Owner/Broker
Exclusive Realty, Inc.
The card also included her office and cell phone numbers as well as the company’s website address.
Now it made sense. The way she dressed professionally, even at a casual grief support group. The way she presented herself. The way she was outspoken and outgoing. The type of vehicle she drove, a likely choice to impress clients.
He skimmed her title again.
Owner.
A successful real estate agent could make a shitload of money. But an owner of a real estate brokerage firm… He had to assume she got a cut of every sale her agents made.
He was now damn sure she out-earned his ass. By a lot. Most local cops lived paycheck-to-paycheck. He’d be doing that too if he hadn’t sold his marital home and moved into The Plant.
He no longer had a mortgage. With the equity in his home, he paid off the remaining balance on his Harley. His labor and the materials he purchased to turn the second floor into an apartment had been in lieu of rent. He was better off financially now than he had been previously. However, he was sure his bank account looked anemic compared to hers.
When he thought about Aaliyah’s attitude, he easily believed that she had no problem running a successful business, as well as supervising a bunch of agents.
Heading over to the kitchen counter where his laptop sat, he opened it and typed in the website address. Within seconds, a very professional website filled his screen.
In the top left was Aaliyah’s professional head shot. Whoever took the photo knew how to highlight her rich, dark skin tone and make her glow. He couldn’t deny she was fucking gorgeous, and her wide smile looked genuine, open and not forced.
He made himself stop staring at her photo to skim over the rest of the page. He clicked through the site to discover she’d had opened the agency over ten years ago and when she started, she was the sole agent. Two years later, she became a licensed broker and over the years expanded her business until she supervised over a dozen agents and associate brokers.
None of what he read surprised him.
If someone was going to kick ass and take names, Aaliyah M. James seemed to fit the bill.
He flipped her business card over and over within his fingers as he checked out a few more pages on her website.
The sales listings were top-dollar homes owned by upper-middle class and above. Mansions, expansive estates, guarded, gated communities and high-end condos filled the multiple pages of homes available for sale.
The woman wasn’t playing and most likely used the word Exclusive in her business’s name to target her preferred clientele.
Bottom line, high-dollar homes equaled high-dollar commissions.
But still… North’s warning made him wonder if she lived a secret life other than the one portrayed in public.
He slapped the business card on the counter next to his laptop, plugged her information into his contacts and sent her a text.
Need to talk. When are you available?
She didn’t need to know what he wanted to talk about. He’d let her assume.
He stared at his phone for the almost five minutes it took for it to ding with an incoming message. Who is this?
Apparently, in his rush to send the text before he changed his mind, he omitted an important detail.
Nox.
His pulse thumped in his temples as he waited. Was she in shock? Is that why it was taking her so long to respond?
Finally, a message popped up on his screen. Who?
Before he could answer, she texted: The man who avoids talking like the plague?
She followed that immediately with: The man who made me chase him down—TWICE—now wants to meet up?