Famous Last Words (New York Thunder #1)

Chapter 2Fran

CHAPTER 2

FRAN

B eing called to your boss’s office as an adult is the equivalent of being sent to the principal’s office as a kid.

As I stand outside Tony Carlton’s office, panic courses through me. I stare at the door, at his name etched into the glass in bold platinum letters, my heart thundering. A fortifying breath does little to placate the anxiety churning in my belly because I know why I’m here. It’d be stupid to pretend like I don’t. But that doesn’t make me feel any more prepared for what I know I’m about to face. So, with a deep breath, I lift a trembling hand and knock, because there really is no avoiding the inevitable.

“Come in,” Tony’s booming voice calls from behind the door.

I plaster on a smile I know doesn’t reach my eyes as I open the door and step inside. But the moment I do, I’m rendered frozen at the sight of him sitting there, smirking at me in that way that tells me almost everything I need to know. I might as well turn around and walk back out .

“Fran, take a seat.” Tony motions to the vacant chair, the one next to him .

I hurry in, smoothing down the front of my skirt before taking a seat, ignoring the asshole beside me despite the obviousness of his gaze as it bores into me. He’s trying for a reaction, but I refuse to give him one. Not today, dick bag . Instead, I lift my chin in a show of confidence I sure as shit don’t feel on the inside, smiling at Tony when he finally graces me with eye contact.

Tony Carlton is an attractive man. A quintessential silver fox: tall, broad shouldered, tan skin, and veneers so white they’re almost blinding. Actually, maybe it’s just the power that makes him sexy. Sexy or intimidating, possibly both—I’m not entirely sure.

“You wanted to see me?” I play dumb and so sickeningly sweet that I momentarily hate myself. But acting like a clueless twit with a man like Tony Carlton is really the only way to succeed in this business. It’s either that or offer to give him a blow job under his desk. Or so I’ve heard.

Beside me, Tadd snickers under his breath, concealing his laughter with a cough, and again, I do everything in my waning power to ignore him.

“Let’s talk about Allora,” Tony begins with a disappointed sigh.

I nod once, swallowing hard around the ball of nerves that’s wedged itself into the back of my throat.

“What happened?” Tony removes his designer glasses and rubs his eyes like I’m one of his teenage daughters who’s given him a headache.

I clear my throat, searching for words he’s not immediately going to call bullshit over. “Um, I… had a lot of interest initially. An up-and-coming tech guy really loved the apartment. But when I asked if he was ready to put an offer in, he said he was still deciding between here and San Francisco. He ultimately chose a three-acre ranch in Saratoga because… he wants to buy a race horse.” I can’t help but shrink at my own words because I know exactly how ridiculous they sound.

Sitting up a little straighter, I’m reluctant to continue, but I do because Tony’s intense gaze is unwavering and I have a tendency to ramble when I’m nervous. “There was a social media influencer who liked the building, but she said the altitude made her hair… frizzy .” I can’t even conceal my own wince as I say it out loud. “She said she’d be interested in something on a lower floor if it ever came up.”

I nervously wring my hands together. “Um, I do have an email that came through late last night from a potential buyer… I was just about to phone him to gauge interest and maybe set something up.”

Tony’s shrewd gaze narrows, and I take that as my cue to shut the hell up.

“You were given an exclusive ninety-day contract. It’s been seventy-eight days,” he says, looking down at the papers in his hand. “We’ve done two broker opens, multiple caravans, spent far more than we should have on marketing.”

I catch Tadd’s shit-eating grin from my periphery at the same time as Tony says, “Tadd is going to take over the listing.”

My resolve slips and my mouth falls open on a gasp. With Tadd practically gloating beside me, and Tony barely able to look at me, I can’t remember a time I’ve ever felt so insignificant. I take a breath, ready to object, but Tony continues before I can get a single syllable out.

“Tadd has kindly offered for you to shadow him.” He juts his chin in Tadd’s direction, but I refuse to acknowledge him. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll see that smug smirk on his face, and I won’t be able to stop myself from reaching across and grabbing the fancy gold pen off Tony’s desk and using it to stab Tadd in his eye.

“I know there’s history between the two of you,” Tony says, shifting awkwardly in his chair.

History? I almost laugh out loud. Tadd Jennings straight up took advantage of me. He used his power and status as the best sales agent in the company to manipulate me. Sure, I was the idiot who fell for his bullshit, and yeah, I put up with it for far too long, but I was a naive twenty-two-year-old, fresh out of college and new to the city, seduced by an almost thirty-year-old man. I didn’t know any better.

“Tony, please don’t take my listing. I worked so hard for it.” Great. Now I’ve resorted to begging. I’ve officially lost every last ounce of self-respect, and in front of Tadd no less. I’m never going to live this one down. But, dammit, I can’t lose this. “Please, just give me one last chance. I have such a great relationship with the seller. Marie trusts me.” I don’t add that I’m almost certain Marie would take one look at Tadd and slam the door in his face. “I know I can do this. I’ll make some calls as soon as I get back to my desk. I’ll set up private showings. I- I- I’ll door knock if I have to. I can do this, Tony. I’m so close. Please .”

With a heavy exhale, Tony relaxes back in his leather chair, staring at me for a slightly too long moment, chin resting on steepled fingers. His expression is void of any and all emotion, and it’s intimidating to say the least. I’m sure he can hear my heart hammering in my chest, see the sweat beading my forehead. But I’m desperate, and frankly, I don’t care if he can smell my fear. I need this.

“Fine,” Tony practically grunts. “One more chance.”

I hear Tadd scoff beside me, but I don’t chance even a sideways glance in his direction, instead watching Tony with bated breath, awaiting his terms.

“If I don’t have a deal sheet on my desk by the end of the week, then Tadd gets the listing,” he says, ultimately dismissing me as he turns his attention to my ex, offering Tadd the sort of smile I’ve never been on the receiving end of because I don’t have a penis in my panties.

Choosing not to risk waiting around a second longer in case he changes his mind, I jump up like my ass is on fire and make a beeline out of the office to the tune of Tony’s low rumbling voice saying something indecipherable, accompanied by Tadd’s grating laugh.

It takes everything I have not to break into a full-blown sprint as I make my way down the stairs that connect the executive level to the bustling sales floor. I weave my way through the maze of cubicles, past the glass offices occupied by the high-profile agents, the ones with their own teams, like stupid Tadd, finally making it to my desk.

Hunching over my laptop, I massage my temples, racking my brain with what the hell I’m going to do now despite knowing there really isn’t a lot I can do. I have one lead. One. And, let’s face it, an is-this-still-available email from an unknown contact isn’t exactly a lead .

Carlton Myers is one of the top five real estate agencies in all of Manhattan. If I lose Allora, I can kiss this job and real estate goodbye; no other agency will risk touching me.

I’ve always been ambitious—sometimes to a fault—but despite my drive and determination, growing up I never knew what I wanted to do with my life. All I wanted was to get the hell out of Dodge and find my passion.

It was never my dream to be a real estate agent, but it was never my dream to go home after college and work in my parents’ drugstore, either. Despite graduating magna cum laude, I had no prospects, no idea what I was going to do. Then I found out how much money real estate agents can make, especially in New York City, and I figured why the hell not?

In the three years since I started, I studied for my real estate license and worked my way up the ranks from leasing desk to Tadd’s assistant to junior sales agent. But it seems I’ve reached some sort of an impasse because the problem is, I can’t sell, which is kind of a prerequisite in this industry. I’ve come close a few times. But I just can’t seem to close. I don’t have that kill-or-be-killed instinct agents like Tadd have.

But now, it’s literally make or break.

Clicking open my inbox, I scroll to the email I received last night from a Mr. Andy Hoffman asking if the Allora apartment is still available. Instead of replying to the email, I grab my phone and dial the cell number that’s listed in the signature at the bottom.

I pick at my fingernails, my heart climbing higher into my throat with every ring as I wait for him to answer. Just as I’m anticipating having to leave a message and overthinking what I’m going to say without sounding like an idiot, a male voice comes through, barking an abrupt, “This is Hoff.”

I sit up a little straighter, my gaze furtively looking about my cubicle for what, I have no idea.

“Oh, um. Hi. Is this Mr. Andy Hoffman?”

“Yeah.” He sounds pissed. Great. Love that for me.

I clear my throat, putting on my most professional voice. “Hi, Mr. Hoffman. This is Fran Keller?—”

“Frank who ?” His voice is drowned out by the sound of a siren wailing in the background of wherever he is.

I quickly jump up from my chair, ducking out through the emergency exit and into the concrete stairwell so I can at least raise my voice without the risk of nosey colleagues listening in.

“ Fran Keller.” I emphasize my name. “I’m a sales agent with Carlton Myers. You sent an email regarding a property I have listed in Chelsea.”

“Oh, yeah. West Twenty-Ninth?”

“Yes.” I smile, relieved when he doesn’t immediately hang up on me.

“Not really Chelsea, is it?” Andy says, his tone flat.

I swallow hard. A local. Fabulous.

“I mean, it’s on the border, yes. But the price reflects that,” I continue before he can tell me he’s no longer interested. “What the price doesn’t reflect is that it’s a brand-new state-of-the-art building, right on the High Line. Around-the-clock security. Twenty-fifth floor, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree views of the city and the Hudson. Not to mention a designated parking spot in the underground garage which, in Manhattan, can go for a million on its own.” My heart is racing, and I know I need to lock this down before I talk too much and effectively lose him. “I’ve had a last-minute cancellation this afternoon, and I can meet you at the property for a private showing at a time that suits you.” Be assertive, direct, and don’t take no for an answer. Yeah, right. Easier said than done.

Mr. Hoffman hesitates before saying, “I need to check…”

I fully expect him to tell me he’ll call me back only to never call me back because people suck.

“Hold on.”

I gasp. Hold on? He isn’t hanging up on me.

Muffling comes through the line, and I can hear the murmured sound of a voice, maybe two. And a few seconds later, Mr. Hoffman returns to the call. “Can you do three o’clock?”

I swallow the lump of emotion that threatens to ruin my already depleted composure, but honestly, I could cry right now.

With a deep breath, I try to sound casual in my reply, “Three o’clock works. I’ll send you the details.”

With a curt yet professional goodbye, I end the call before he can change his mind. Staring down at the screen on my phone, my mind is working a mile a minute, my excitement making way for self-doubt and anxiety as they rear their disheveled heads.

I tamp down the doubt with a deep breaths “You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.” The sheer notion that I do, in fact, got this is laughable, but this is my last chance.

Standing by the wall of glass that looks out over Manhattan, I release a sigh, taking in the dizzying vista of sky-scraping buildings, trying not to check my watch for the millionth time in the last five minutes.

For the record, Andy Hoffman is forty-two minutes late. I know Midtown traffic can be a fickle bitch at the best of times, so I’m really trying not to get in my head too much, despite my subconscious trying to convince me that he’s a no-show. Thankfully, I know better. This is nothing more than a power play. The oldest trick in the book. Andy Hoffman is trying to show me who’s in charge. But he doesn’t know how desperate I am. I can wait.

Suddenly, the silence is inundated by the shrill buzz of the intercom, and I release the breath I’ve been holding as I practically bolt for the security panel, pressing the button.

“Miss Keller, I have Mr. Hoffman and his client in the lobby.”

“Thank you. Please send him up.” Honestly, I almost tell the man I love him.

Wait. Did he just say Mr. Hoffman and his client ?

My stomach dips. Is Andy Hoffman a buyer’s agent?

Oh, God, please, no. That is literally the last thing I need right now. I am in no way prepared to be dealing with a fast-talking buyer’s agent who thinks he knows more than I do.

I unlock my phone and start scrolling to Andy’s email from last night, re-reading his signature.

Andy Hoffman

Managing Director, HMC Management Inc.

The name of the company doesn’t ring any bells. But just as I’m opening Google, I’m interrupted by a knock on the door.

Shit .

Fumbling, I lock my phone, gripping it like it’s my lifeline as I slip my feet back into my turquoise pumps and tread carefully across the shiny floor to the foyer, all while attempting my most no bullshit game face.

When I pull open the door, I’m met with a handsome man who looks to be in his late thirties, dressed down for a buyer’s agent in a pair of chinos and an untucked button down. Slightly bloodshot eyes meet mine and a kind, if not slanted, smile greets me.

“Mr. Hoffman?” I hold a hand out, willing it not to tremble and give away just how nervous I am.

“Ms. Keller,” he says with a curt nod, shaking my proffered hand before inviting himself inside. As he passes, I’m almost certain I catch a whiff of whiskey in his wake, and I’m forced to tamper down the annoyance that bubbles inside of me when I realize that’s likely the reason he’s late. Don’t get me wrong, I love a sneaky mid-week wine like the rest, but not at the risk of being late to an appointment.

A man—the illusive client , I presume—hangs back in the hallway and I study him while I stand awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if he’s coming in or not.

He’s tall, at least six-foot-something, broad shouldered, dressed casually in sneakers, faded jeans and a sweatshirt, head down, focused intently on the phone in his tattooed hands, dark hair sticking out underneath a Red Sox ball cap that shields most of his face.

“Hi, I’m Fran Kel—” I’m stopped mid-sentence the moment he lifts his chin, and I swear, it’s as if everything around me comes to a violently crashing stop.

It seems he’s just as stilted, stumbling over his own feet as recognition flares in his dark gaze. A deep crease burrows between his eyebrows as he looks me up and down in a combination of shock and thinly veiled disdain.

My shoulders sag on a resigned sigh, eyes narrowing, and I know I have a duty to remain professional, and this is hardly the time or the place, but unfortunately the words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”