Chapter Three

Brielle

One-thirty, I note as I tap my fingers idly on the kitchen counter. Another half-hour of this. Man, I hope more people show up.

To say I am disappointed is an understatement; I had hoped that the Prescott home would be overrun with prospective buyers during this span of unfettered access to the property.

There has been one so far.

Maybe the property's cursed, I think to myself, then giggle. I do not believe in such things. Nasty divorce proceedings, where the judge is making the couple sell and divide the proceeds? Now that, I do believe, because that is what is happening here.

Unfortunately, neither one of them listened to me when I advised them that the half-million-dollar listing price they insisted upon was much too high.

Now, four months later, this house has become my personal millstone. I have delivered in excess of fifteen fair and equitable offers for the property to my clients, but since they cannot agree to anything at all between them, we have reached a stalemate. Two more months of this and I will attain a new 'first' in my long career - reaching the end of the contractual period to act as the seller's agent and walking away.

Or in this case, running.

Wonder if I can get the judge to order them to pull their heads out and cooperate - and lower the price, I lament to myself as the last minutes of a fruitless open house drag out into infinity.

I am bored but obligated to stay put until the advertised end time, so I pull out my cell phone and begin listening to voicemails that accumulated throughout the morning. As I review them, I make notes in the peculiar shorthand I have developed over the years. Besides me, only my long-suffering assistant Rita can decipher it.

My hand pauses its movements with the pen when I listen to the eleventh voicemail.

A man's voice, deep and deliciously seductive. My skin forms goosepimples across my body as his sound washes over me, tightening my core with a sudden, almost painful stab of primal longing.

God, his voice is sex personified…

I am so entranced by it that I fail to capture one single piece of data from the voicemail.

I frown, shake my head, and pull the phone away from my ear long enough to press 'replay', determined to focus this time.

Allen Jones.

Residential and commercial property.

Next week.

By the time I reach the end of his voicemail again my knees are weak, and my pulse is pounding in my ears.

What the hell is the matter with you? That is a potential client. No-fly zone. Grow up!

Even though I am standing in a kitchen by myself, I take a moment to smooth my hair and breathe deeply, trying desperately to stifle both my embarrassment and a long-dormant need that Allen Jones' voice has caused to surface. After several minutes, I finally feel composed enough to attempt to return his call.

Just as I begin to dial, I hear, "Hello there! Are we too late to see the house?" from the front foyer. I tuck my phone back into my bag and move swiftly to greet the couple that have just arrived.

"Not at all," I say warmly, extending my hand to each of them in turn. "My name's Brielle. Let me show you around."

I lead, but only in the loosest sense of the word. I abhor hovering, pushy salespeople, and it carries over into my work. My preferred method of interaction is to quietly tell prospective buyers about certain amenities, then step out of the way and let their surroundings speak for themselves.

Obviously excited, the young woman turns to me with a smile and asks a question, which I readily answer. She nods her thanks, and they continue their self-guided tour while I retreat to the kitchen as I told them I would.

Just before two o'clock they approach me in the kitchen and ask about the deadline for submitting an offer. I hand them a fact sheet about the property and point out my office address and number before shaking their hands again and watching them leave.

Maybe this house was just waiting for them to arrive, I think to myself as I walk through the property and make sure all the lights are turned off before returning to the kitchen to collect my bag.

I step outside the front door, locking it securely behind me, then head to my car for the drive to the first of two closings I have this afternoon.

***

It is a little after five o'clock before I have a chance to return any phone calls. Although part of me wants to skip ahead to Allen Jones, it is only fair that I return them in the order received.

Luckily for me, only six of the first ten voicemails I received require a callback from me; the other four were purely informational, such as Miss Carmichael confirming the title company's receipt of the corrected documents.

I swing by my favorite Chinese takeout place for my usual chicken fried rice before heading home. Once I have eaten, I settle in at my computer, take a deep breath, grab my notepad, and dial the number that leads to that hypnotizing voice.

Given that it is now dinnertime for most families, I am expecting to have to leave a voicemail of my own. So much so that when a murmured, "Hello?" comes across the line to me, I almost drop my phone.

Allen

I mute the television, glance at the incoming number, and smile.

It's her, I think gleefully, then roll my eyes at my juvenile reaction.

Be cool, dude. Be cool…

I press the button to answer and murmur, "Hello?"

Silence at first, followed by, "I'm sorry to disturb you. I am returning a phone call from a Mr. Allen Jones. Might he be available?"

"Speaking. Mrs. Cerver?" I ask deliberately, hoping she will correct me on the assumed marital status.

She does not disappoint.

"Yes, this is Miss Cerver, but please, call me Brielle."

"Certainly, Brielle," I reply, "but only if you'll call me Allen."

She laughs, a light, throaty sound that inflames my senses and makes the arousal I experienced earlier today seem like amateur hour.

Thank God I am alone in my apartment.

"Sure, Allen," she says, and my name rolling off her tongue is pure music.

"So," she continues, "I know you mentioned you're looking for both a home to purchase and commercial property. What areas of North Texas did you have in mind specifically?"

It takes everything I have not to respond like a randy teenager and say, "I'm much more interested in your areas."

This woman's going to drive me crazy with just her voice.

"I was targeting Pantego, actually, since it's between Dallas and Fort Worth. Of course, you know that market much better than I do. I'd prefer to have both my house and business based there, but I would settle for living in Pantego and buying the commercial property within a half-hour's drive."

"Makes sense. Why drive further than thirty minutes to work if you don't have to?" Brielle teases, then pauses for a moment, and I close my eyes and just listen to her breathe and type on her keyboard.

She asks a few more questions to narrow down the type of home I am looking for, and the soft gasp I hear when it becomes clear to her that I am single intrigues me.

It intrigues me a great deal.

"So, when can I come meet you and tour some properties?"

"You can come see me anytime," she answers immediately, then gasps again, and says, "Oh, my… that didn't come out right… I'm so sorry… what I meant was, you can come look at the properties anytime you'd like…"

Her sweet, sexy, smokey voice trails off in an embarrassment that I can feel through the phone, and I find it strangely endearing.

"It's all right, Brielle," I say, trying and failing to keep the laughter out of my tone. "I knew what you meant. How about this weekend?"

"Hold on a moment, let me pull up my planner," she manages, and I can hear the humor building in her voice, too.

"Yes," she confirms to me. "I'm a little shocked to see it, actually, but this Saturday and Sunday are both wide open at the moment. All the commercial spots and most of the homes I think you would be interested in are unoccupied, so we will be able to access them and look around, not a problem at all. Where would you like to meet?"

"Your office?"

"Sure. What is your email? I'll send you my contact information and directions."

We talk a few minutes longer, and with each word I find myself more and more drawn to this mystery woman with a voice like crushed velvet.

Finally, the conversation stalls into an awkward silence before she says, "So… Saturday. Around nine? And a couple of the commercial sites are a bit rough. I recommend jeans - or at least not anything that needs to be dry cleaned."

I realize I am completely hopeless when her words immediately summon a vision of a shapely backside clad in form-fitting denim.

We end the call shortly afterward, and my curiosity gets the best of me. I immediately navigate to her website to check out the face that belongs with that amazing voice.

And my heart triple-thumps when I see her.

The look is similar enough that Brielle could easily be mistaken for Mary's sister. If she had blond hair and blue eyes instead of dark brown and emerald eyes, they might even have passed for twins.

My Mary.

My hand falters on the mouse as bittersweet memories surge forward and threaten to wreck me completely.

It was two days after her third round of chemo was completed. When the doctors told us that the inoperable tumor robbing her of not just her sight but her life had gotten bigger, not smaller, and that the cancer had spread, Mary's patience finally ran out.

"Enough," she had said abruptly. "No more. I am done. Allen, take me home."

She was quiet for most of the forty-five-minute ride back to our house in the suburbs, her scarf-wrapped head tilted back gently against the padded headrest, her eyes closed, her hand out the window making fluttering motions in the late spring breeze as we drove.

We had just pulled into our driveway when she opened her baby blue eyes and looked my direction.

"Allen," she said, her voice almost at a whisper.

"Yes?"

"When I am gone, you need to move on, honey. Do not shut yourself off from the world. Find love again."

I started to protest but she stopped me with one frail finger to my lips.

"Baby," Mary said in earnest, "promise me. Please."

"I promise," I replied, my voice almost hoarse with the lie.

My Mary left me for good eighteen days later and took my heart right along with her. That was almost ten years ago.

And up until now, I have found it impossible to keep that promise. Up until hearing Brielle Cerver speak, I was perfectly content to merely drift along, focused on nothing but making it through another day.

I somehow manage to make my way to my bedroom, with no recollection whatsoever of leaving my couch. I strip off my clothes, lie down on my huge and painfully empty king-sized bed, and stare at the ceiling for what seems like hours.

When I do manage to finally fall asleep, I hear Mary's voice in my mind, telling me in her soft, warm tones that I need to remember my promise to her - that I would not spend the rest of my life alone.