The Real Estate Rendezvous

I've sold forty million dollars in real estate this year.

Buckhead mansions, Midtown penthouses, the kind of properties that require NDAs just to view. I'm Renee Parker, top agent at Atlanta Premier Realty, and I'm damn good at my job.

What I'm not good at is being seen as anything but the help.

"Renee? Your two o'clock is here."

I straighten my blazer, check my lipstick. The client is Malcolm Gray—recently relocated tech executive, budget of five million, very specific about what he wants.

When I walk into the conference room, he stands.

"Ms. Parker." His hand envelops mine. "I've heard you're the best."

"I am the best." No point in false modesty. "Let me show you why."

The first property is a disaster.

Too traditional, he says. The second is worse—poor flow. The third, fourth, fifth—all rejected with specific, thoughtful critiques.

"You're picky," I say after viewing eight.

"I know what I want." His eyes hold mine. "I'm always willing to wait for it."

Something in his tone makes my stomach flip.

We view properties for three weeks.

Fifteen houses, zero offers. But Malcolm doesn't seem frustrated. If anything, he seems to enjoy the process.

"Lunch?" he offers after our latest rejection.

"I don't usually eat with clients—"

"You don't usually have clients this difficult." He smiles. "Consider it an apology."

Lunch becomes a regular thing.

Between viewings, over contracts, in neighborhoods we're scouting. I learn he's forty-eight, divorced, made his money in software, moved to Atlanta for a "fresh start."

"Why Atlanta?"

"Why not?" He sets down his fork. "Gorgeous city. Vibrant culture. Beautiful women."

"Mr. Gray—"

"Malcolm." His hand covers mine. "And I think we both know I'm not just talking about the city."

I should shut this down.

Professional boundaries exist for a reason. He's a client. I'm his agent. Any relationship would be a disaster.

But when I look at this man—successful, intentional, looking at me like I'm more than a commission—I don't want to shut anything down.

"We should focus on finding you a house."

"We should." He doesn't move his hand. "But I'm starting to think the house I want isn't listed."

The sixteenth property is perfect.

A modern masterpiece in Tuxedo Park—five bedrooms, infinity pool, views that go forever.

"This one," Malcolm says immediately.

"You haven't even seen the kitchen—"

"I don't need to." He turns to face me. "I'll make an offer today. On one condition."

"What condition?"

"Have dinner with me. Not as my agent. As Renee."

"That's unethical."

"The deal is done either way." He steps closer. "I'm not linking the two. I'm just asking."

"Why me?"

"Because in three weeks, you're the most interesting person I've met. Because you're brilliant and beautiful and you don't take my shit." He touches my face. "Because I want to know you outside of open houses."

I say yes.

Dinner is at Bacchanalia.

He picks me up in a Mercedes—opens my door, compliments my dress, treats me like I'm precious. I spend the whole meal waiting for the other shoe.

"You're nervous," he notices.

"I'm confused. Men like you don't usually..."

"Don't usually what?"

"Notice women like me."

He sets down his wine. "What do you think women like you look like?"

I gesture at myself. The full figure no diet has touched. The curves that don't fit sample sizes.

"I see curves," he says. "I see confidence. I see a woman who runs a room and doesn't apologize for taking up space." He leans forward. "I see exactly what I want."

He takes me home.

Not to his hotel—to the house I just sold him. Empty rooms, no furniture, just moonlight through floor-to-ceiling windows.

"I close in two weeks," he says. "Wanted to share the first night with you."

"There's no furniture—"

"There's a fireplace." He produces blankets from his car. "And you."

He lays me down on cashmere.

Undresses me by firelight, his hands reverent on every curve.

"God, you're gorgeous."

"Malcolm—"

"Shh." He kisses my belly, my hips. "Let me show you what I see."

His mouth on me is worship.

He takes his time—learning me, adjusting, reading every gasp. When I come, he drinks it down and goes back for more.

"Too much—"

"Not enough." He adds fingers, curling them. "Want to feel you break apart."

I break apart three times before he finally comes up for air.

"Your turn," I manage.

He lies back on the blankets, and I take control—something I sense he doesn't allow often. His body is strong, well-maintained, and his cock is everything I'd hoped.

"Renee—"

"Shh." I echo his words. "Let me show you what I can do."

I sink onto him, and we both groan.

Riding him by firelight, in the empty house I sold him, I feel powerful. Seen. Desired.

"So beautiful," he pants. "Should've bought the first house just to get to this faster."

"Don't ruin the moment."

"I'm enhancing the moment." He grips my hips. "Come for me, Renee. One more time."

I come with the city lights sparkling behind us.

We christen every room over the next two weeks.

Each visit officially about "final walkthrough details"—actually about making sure every surface knows our names.

"This is highly unprofessional," I say after we've defiled the master bathroom.

"Good thing I'm not your client anymore." He kisses my shoulder. "The deal closes tomorrow."

"And then?"

"Then you're just a woman I'm hopelessly in love with, and I can court you properly."

He courts me properly.

Flowers. Trips. Dinners that end in his new bedroom surrounded by furniture we picked together.

Six months later, I move in.

My colleagues whisper about the agent who married her client.

I let them whisper.

Some deals pay in more than commission.

Some houses become homes the moment the right person walks in.

And some women are exactly what successful men want—if they're smart enough to see it.

Malcolm was smart.

I was worth the wait.