Sold
"She's an estate agent specializing in East London properties—helping Somali families find homes in the diaspora maze. He's the client looking for his first flat who keeps finding excuses to view more properties. House hunting becomes heart hunting."
"This one has a view."
He's looked at fifteen properties. Found something wrong with all of them.
"You said the last one had a view."
"Wrong kind of view." He walks to the window. "This one has potential."
"The flat or the view?"
"Neither." He turns. "I'm talking about you."
His name is Omar.
Engineer. First-time buyer. The pickiest client I've ever had.
"You've rejected every property I've shown you."
"They weren't right."
"What is right?"
"I'll know it when I see it." He holds my gaze. "I think I already have."
Viewings become longer.
More questions, more conversation, less about square footage and more about everything else.
"You're not actually looking for a flat," I realize.
"I found what I'm looking for three viewings ago." He steps closer. "But I can't figure out how to ask her out."
"Maybe just ask."
"Would you have dinner with me? Not as client and agent. As us."
Dinner leads to everything.
His temporary flat, his hands, his confession.
"Omar—"
"I've been wasting viewings just to see you."
"That's an expensive strategy."
"Worth every pound." He kisses my neck. "You're worth every pound."
We make love in his rented flat.
The one he keeps because buying would end our viewings.
"This place has potential—"
"We have potential." He moves with me. "Forget the flat. Just us."
He finally buys.
A place big enough for two. I know because I showed it to him.
"There's a condition," he says at completion.
"What condition?"
"The second bedroom stays empty unless you move in." He pulls out a ring. "Actually, forget the second bedroom. Just marry me."
I say yes.
Best commission I never earned.