On The House (Caldwell Brothers Book 7) Read online

  Instead, he nods slowly. “You brought an actual teenage girl in for this? Had her bring her own stuff, mess around in here for a few hours, that it?”

  The question throws me off. “Um, no. I did this myself.”

  A vague frown creases his forehead. “But you used photos from a real teen girl’s room, right? A niece or something? For reference?”

  I don’t know whether to be flattered or annoyed by this line of questioning. I take a deep breath, put on my biggest smile, and do my best to embrace the former option. “Nope, I did all of this on my own.”

  “Impressive.”

  I raise my eyebrows, surprised by the compliment. I wouldn’t exactly say I’m warming to him, but at least it seems like he’s not inclined to fly off the handle again today. A wave of relief flows over me only to be replaced by a wave of pleasure. Part of me wonders what it would be like to really receive the entire focus of this man in an intimate situation. Like in the bedroom. With a shocked inhale, I shake my head. I can’t believe I went there.

  “Thank you. Glad you like it. Anyway, that’s the whole house, so–”

  Before I can finish, my smartwatch buzzes. Usually, in situations like this – when in a meeting with someone wealthy and influential – I’d ignore it and return the call later.

  But this time…ah, screw it. It’s not like he can accuse me of being rude after his own outburst earlier.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” I say, holding up a finger as I check the caller ID on my wrist. I can feel Lincoln bristle slightly, which gives me some satisfaction. Good. You can wait a few extra seconds for me now, you condescending prick. Maybe that’ll teach you some manners. Teach you not to violate my boundaries as we move forward with this project.

  I don’t recognize the number displayed on the screen, and again, this would typically be a good reason for me not to take the call. This time, though, I don’t care. It can be a telemarketer, as long as it gives me a good reason to keep Lincoln waiting and deflate his ego a bit.

  I put the device in my ear. “This is Chloe Sanderson.”

  “Ms. Sanderson? This is Finn Richards.” The voice sounds young, friendly, and unfamiliar. “I’m one of the executive producers for Million Dollar Listings – Las Vegas.”

  My heart skips a beat. I’d gotten so discouraged dealing with Lincoln, I’d almost forgotten the whole point of this exercise. “Mr. Richards. It’s nice to hear from you.” I shoot a quick look at Lincoln, who doesn’t seem to recognize the name. He stands perfectly still, like a human statue at The Venetian, hands in his pockets, his chiseled features twisted into a cold mask of irritation.

  “Oh, please, call me Finn, everyone does,” Finn insists in his upbeat voice. “Anyway, we just looked over the photos you sent of the house you staged for Lincoln Caldwell, and…well, we think it’s fantastic. We’d love to feature your work on the next season of the show, definitely.”

  I try to maintain my composure at this news, even though my blood sings and forms a conga line in my veins. “That’s wonderful, Finn. I’m delighted to hear it.”

  “I know, right?” His inflection makes him sound like a sorority girl, and I suppress a giggle. “We’re so happy to have you on board. Our director of photography’s already gushing over the shots he can set up around your work. We’ll be in touch again soon with more details, but for now, congratulations!”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that, and I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” I tap my ear piece to hang up. Oh, if I had two good legs, I’d be dancing a jig right here in the middle of the girl’s room.

  “Everything’s okay, I hope?” Lincoln raises an eyebrow, his voice dripping with disdain. Clearly, no one takes phone calls when they’re with him, which makes this whole thing even sweeter. “No emergencies that required your immediate attention?”

  “Quite the opposite, actually,” I reply airily, as though it’s no big deal. “I just heard from one of the producers from Million Dollar Listing. They enjoyed the photos I sent of this place, and based on that, they’ve confirmed that they want me to stage homes on their next season.”

  I watch the red blushes of anger form high on Lincoln’s cheeks, rising there slowly like something from an old cartoon. I almost expect to see steam blast out of his ears. “You sent them pictures of this house staging before I even approved it? Are you kidding me?”

  I can see why he’d be upset. Ordinarily, that would be considered an extremely hasty and unprofessional move on my part. But I’d been one hundred percent sure that Lincoln would love this staging, so I’d sent it to Bravo preemptively, just to save time and expedite the overall process so we could have a better chance of beating any competition to the punch. Frankly, I’d initially expected him to thank me and applaud my initiative when he found out about it.

  Now, I don’t care. In fact, I’m glad he’s pissed.

  “There was nothing in our contract stipulating that I had to wait for your approval before doing that,” I observe quietly.

  “Because there shouldn’t have to be anything in the contract about that.” The man roars like a white tiger in an old performance of Siegfried and Roy. “It’s a simple professional courtesy. It’s how everyone in this industry behaves. A chimpanzee would know that, for Christ’s sake!”

  Something about this latest tirade doesn’t sit well with me. He’s overreacting. The only time people do that is when they’re triggered by some emotional scar from the past. I should know. Now, it’s up to me to find out what, so I can avoid it in the future, and we can work well together until our contract ends.

  I tamp down the urge to scratch my armpits just to be arbitrary and refute his juvenile words. “Well, thanks for that lesson. I’ll have to remember that for next time. But meanwhile, it seems like this chimpanzee is going to be featured on MDL, so…”

  “What did they say about the property itself?” Lincoln demands. “What did they say about me?”

  I shrug nonchalantly, loving every minute of this. This even makes the wasp-like sting of Lincoln’s words earlier worth it. “Nothing. They didn’t mention putting you or this house on the show. They were too busy talking about my unique work, and how excited they are to feature it on the show next year.”

  Lincoln’s practically apoplectic now. Part of me hopes he doesn’t have a heart condition, but the other part fantasizes about him passing out in front of me, his huge hands clutching his designer suited chest. “This was my chance to be on the show. We were supposed to be working together toward that goal. You did this on purpose!”

  “You can always call me an incompetent rube again, if that’ll make you feel better.” I smirk. “Or tell me again how I have no class. I think I enjoyed that one the most.”

  Just as it starts to look like his head might explode right in front of me, his Bluetooth chirps. He taps his ear without even looking at his wrist. “What?”

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  He listens for a moment, and his tone softens. He turns away from me. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to be impolite. It’s a pleasure to hear from you.” Another pause. “I’m so happy to hear that. Thank you.” Another pause, and when he speaks again, I can hear that it’s through clenched teeth. “Yes, she is. Quite talented. I look forward to working with you as well. Goodbye.” He hangs up, turning to look at me again.

  “Finn’s nice, isn’t he?” I ask with a smile. “Hard to stay mad after talking to him.”

  “It appears as though we’ll both be on the show after all,” he growls. “Starting with this house.”

  “Yeah, and that’s very cool,” I agree, nodding. I’m impressed at how calm I sound. My tone gives away nothing – not how much he annoys me or how much he turns me on at the same time. Apathy completely strips my voice of any fucks given. I give myself a little internal pat on the back. “Especially the fact that they let me know before you.”

  “Clearly, they were saving their most important call for last.” One eyebrow raises.

 
; I can’t resist a parting taunt. “Or maybe they just wanted to make sure I could still do it before asking you. I mean, any idiot can sell a house, but actually staging it requires one to be…what was the phrase? ‘Quite talented?’”

  With my desire to push him, Lincoln’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head, and his entire face turns beet red. “Lady, what the hell is wrong with you? What defect do you have that makes you so utterly wretched to work with?”

  The word hits me like a thrown brick. I feel my guts crumple inside me, a sheet of paper mangled by a careless fist. I’ve dealt with this shit my entire adult life, and a lot of times, I’ve stayed quiet and taken it no matter how ugly it made me feel.

  Not today.

  “Defect?” I can hear my voice trembling, but I don’t care. “Defect, you motherfucker? Yeah, fine, so you noticed. Good for you. I’ve got a defect. You want to see it up close? Here, go ahead. Take a closer look.”

  I gasp for breath and will my hands to stop shaking. Before I can stop myself, I reach down, detach my prosthetic leg like it’s a live nuclear missile, and throw it at his head, bracing myself against the desk so I won’t fall down. I lose my balance for a few seconds and accidentally send several of the textbooks flopping to the floor in a pile.

  The leg sails past Lincoln’s head, missing him by inches before smashing into the wall and leaving a dent in the drywall. It plummets to the carpeted floor with a muffled thud, bouncing once before coming to a stop as the drywall flakes settle on top of it like a light snow.

  Lincoln stares at the leg, then me, then the leg again. He looks confused, and his anger has been replaced by…what? I’m not sure I can put my finger on it, but it almost looks like remorse, or even shame. Well, fuck him. You can’t throw the first grenade and then complain that it’s raining bullets.

  “I didn’t, um…that is, I…I wasn’t referring to…”

  “Right.” My voice raises to maximum volume as I scowl at him. “Guys like you never refer to it. Not directly, right? No, you’re too chickenshit for that. So you find a bunch of other ways to insult and belittle the crippled girl until she gets the message and limps away on her own. But call you on it, and suddenly it’s, ‘Oh, no, I’d never make fun of someone with a disability. You must have misunderstood!’”

  I’m shaking now I’m so mad, and I hate that my finger trembles as I point at him. It pisses me off more.

  “You morons are all the same,” I continue my rant after a needed gulp of air. “You know what? You can take this house, turn it sideways, and jam it up your smug, entitled, offensive ass. I’ll find my own way onto the show, without you. This isn’t worth the trouble. And one other thing. The devil called. He wants his balls back.”

  Why is the oldie but goodie We Are The Champions playing on the turntable in my head? And why doesn’t it feel like blissful vindication like it should?

  “Please don’t do that. You’re on the show, I’m on the show…we’ve both gotten what we wanted. There’s no reason to pull all of that apart over some misunderstanding. And it was a misunderstanding, I assure you.” He holds up a hand to stop me from yelling at him again. “I had no idea you had a prosthetic leg, and no matter what I’ve said to you today, none of it was in reference to that. I know how hard that must be for you to believe. I really do. Please trust me on that.”

  “Why would I trust you about anything?” I hiss as I flick my wrist between us. “Look at you. You’ve never known what it’s like to have to live with something like this, while everyone around you snickers about it behind your back, thinking you’re incapable because you’re disabled.”

  Lincoln opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. It’s almost comical, the expression of a fish as it’s being dragged onto a boat. “I have, actually.” That throaty, gritty voice is barely above a whisper. “You see, I have cerebral palsy.” The words felt like the softest gunshot that had ever been fired for the damage they cause in my body.

  I look him over carefully, trying to find the telltale signs of the disorder – an awkward posture, a hand or arm crooked in an odd direction, even a lack of focus in the eyes or expression. But no, he looks perfectly healthy, and I feel my rage erupt again. It crackles through the air, then plummets to the ground like an emotional mess between our feet.

  I lean forward, as if proximity will give my next words more weight. “No, you don’t. And that’s a cruel, sick, tasteless joke, even for someone as horrible as you.”

  If my words offend him, he doesn’t give it away. “I can understand how you’d think that, but it’s not a joke. Until recently, I was in…well, much worse shape than this. I spent most of my life being cared for by my brother Nixon. I’m lucky enough to be part of an extremely wealthy family, and I was able to get the latest experimental drugs and nanotechnology treatments to counteract the worst of the effects. Now I only walk with a limp. And honestly, when I walked in, and you were limping, I assumed…”

  “That I was making fun of you,” I finish weakly. I swallow around the flare of panic that erupts inside me, but I can’t let myself backslide to that dark place he just put me in. “Yeah. Okay. That’s happened to me a lot. Wow, no wonder you were in such a bad mood. I totally get it.”

  “Exactly. And for what it’s worth, I do apologize for the things I said earlier. They were uncalled for.” He extends his hand for me to shake. “Can we start over? Please? I think we might have more in common than most? Certainly enough to start a mutually beneficial working relationship.”

  “Apology accepted,” I say as a giggle bubbles up. For some reason, a shred of happiness infiltrates at the thought of a mutually beneficial relationship with this particular man. It’s not often I run into someone my age who understands the struggle. How many times have I dreamt of being seen? He’d been looking straight through me, but now…his gaze settles beneath my skin. “But, uh, if you want to shake on it, you’ll have to come over here. If I let go of this desk, I’ll probably get about two or three good hops in before face planting.”

  Lincoln actually laughs at this, and the symphonic sound completely transforms his face. It’s magical. In fact, it even seems to surprise him. Based on his expression, I wonder how many times he’s heard himself laugh before. With a life like the one he’s just described, that’s hard to tell.

  He picks the leg up, brushes it off, and walks over, handing it to me. As I accept it, our fingertips accidentally brush against each other, and I feel a strange jolt deep inside, like a static shock from touching a doorknob. I’m not sure what to make of it, but I try not to overthink it as I chase away the ache.

  After the rollercoaster of emotions we’ve both just been through, it’s probably only natural to feel some emotional pull. Even though my brain dismisses it, my heart yearns to explore it.

  Chapter Six

  Lincoln

  “This is a mistake,” I say for at least the fifth time, shielding my eyes from the blazing Vegas sun.

  Jon rolls his eyes, puffing fragrant marijuana oil from a vaporizer. “Relax, Bro-Bro-Bro-Your-Boat. It’s a ribbon-cutting ceremony. What could go wrong? Besides, Dante Giovanetti is guaranteed to be here, and I need to photo-bomb him. Even though that shriveled up old douche represents low hanging fruit. You know those apples laying on the ground that aren’t even good enough to be smashed into cider?”

  Frustration rips through me like a promise of more irritation to come. “Yeah.”

  “He’s not even worth that much.”

  The question falls from my lips. “So why are we exposing ourselves to that human stain for only one point?”

  “Because it’s one point I need to get a higher rating than that JSI shithead, so it’s what we’re doing.” Jon takes another puff and tucks the vape into the pocket of his long trench coat. Ever since marijuana became legal in the US along with a twenty-five percent luxury tax to reduce the deficit, dipshits like Jon have been exploiting it. But I guess as long as his bad habit doesn’t endanger anyone but him, I have to let it
go.

  “There is literally no good reason to do this,” I insist. “If you need points that badly, I can have my brother Nixon get you any celebrity in Vegas with one phone call. How about it? There’s a ton of old singers with residencies because they can’t fill stadiums anymore. How about Beyoncé?”

  “First of all, I’ve already photo-bombed her,” he replies, holding up a single finger. “Which you would know, by the way, if you ever bothered to visit photobombardiers.com and look at my work…you know, like a real friend would.”

  “‘Your work?’” I snort derisively. “You’re not exactly painting the Sistine Chapel, Jon. And I’d rather lose brain cells huffing spray paint than browsing a bunch of ruined selfies online.”

  “Two,” he continues relentlessly, a second finger joining the first, “staging a photo-bomb like that would be cheating. The point is, the people posing aren’t supposed to know you’re in the background.”

  My eyes narrow into slits. “No one would have to know.”

  “Well, I would know.” He fake knifes himself in the heart and twists his face into a mask of hurt.

  I want to say something along the lines of just what an idiot he is, but my breaths are beginning to come in ragged gasps. The only available parking was located some distance away from the ceremony, and now we’re trudging up a hill. It’s hard on my leg, and Jon does his best to move slowly enough for me to keep up, but I can tell impatience over the one-point score nips at his heels. Plus, the intense heat soaks the back of my shirt collar with sweat, and I can hear a buzzing in my ears like a cloud of flies.

  He gestures toward the hill. “I’m sorry about the hike, by the way. If I’d known we had to park so far away, I wouldn’t have invited you.”

  I stutter to a stop just so I can glare at his back. “If I’d known where we were going or who you wanted to photo-bomb, I wouldn’t have accepted the invitation.”

  “Why does this Dante guy make you so jittery?” he asks, genuinely curious.

  A million thoughts jostle for position in my head. “Because, so far, I’m the only one of my brothers he hasn’t noticed or tried to mess with, and I was really hoping to keep it that way. He’s never seen me as any threat to his business or reputation, even though Nixon and the others have all given him a kick in the pants at one time or another. Probably because…” I trail off, the words refusing to leave my throat.