The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (69)

“Mind if I take a quick picture?” I ask. “Winnie would get a kick out of this.”

What I really mean is…Cassie would get a kick out of this because there is no way my sister wouldn’t share this with Thatch’s wife.

His eyes flare. “You motherfluffer.”

“What?” I feign confusion. “My sister would love to see you holding this baby, looking like a man who wants another baby.”

Checkmate, bro.

“Put the phone away,” he says and walks around to his desk, still holding Izzy in his arms. “And give me the rundown on what you’re thinking next quarter. If I like what you have to say, I’ll share some of my secrets too.”

I grin. Yeah. That’s exactly what I thought.





Maria

I stand inside the massive living room of a six-thousand-square-foot penthouse located smack-dab in the middle of Manhattan while my client bitches at someone on the phone.

Just another day at the office.

“Anna, I already told you I want an exclusive with Page Six. Why are you coming to me with this Cosmo stuff? It’s like you think I’m pathetic or something. Fix it. Now.” Eleanor Waverly scoffs and hangs up her phone, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder.

This is the fourth phone call she’s taken since I started this showing. The first three were about some kind of emergency menu change for a charity function next month. Apparently, salmon is an atrocity she wouldn’t wish upon her worst enemies.

Back to her penthouse scrutiny, she narrows her eyes as she takes in the expensive floors that sit below her red-bottomed heels. A sigh escapes her lungs as she adjusts the white Hermes Birkin bag hanging prominently on her arm. “Hardwood is so overdone these days.”

With a point of her nose toward the air above her, she moves into the kitchen.

Her heels click-clack across the floor with precision, and I try to maintain a neutral but happy expression on my face despite the reality that I’m dying a slow death in this woman’s company.

For the third time since we stepped into this penthouse, the kitchen receives the same scrutinizing attention from Eleanor. Silence stretches across the room for a good five minutes until she breaks it with more critiquing commentary. “I like it, but I wish the kitchen were all marble.”

I look around, confused, my eyes scanning across the marble counters, kitchen island, and floors. “Just out of curiosity, what else would you like to see in marble?”

“Everything, Maria,” she retorts with pursed lips. “Everything.” She points toward the ceiling, cabinets, even the fridge.

A marble freaking fridge. That’s a new one.

“Anyway, it’s nice, I guess,” she says with a small shrug of one pointy shoulder. “But I don’t think it can really showcase me as a person.” She twirls her fingers around. “I need an apartment that matches my level of sophistication, Maria.”

She lifts one eyebrow in my direction.

This is her not-so-silent warning toward me. Despite the fact that this penthouse literally checks off all the boxes from her list, she doesn’t feel it’s a viable option. Especially not one I should’ve wasted her time with.

Normally, I’d be determined to make her happy. To find exactly what she wants, no matter how impossible it might feel. But right now, as I stand here, watching Eleanor snub her nose at a highly coveted penthouse that will no doubt be sold by the end of the day, I can’t find the desire to care.

Maybe it’s lack of sleep.

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m finding it hard to focus on anything but wondering how Remy and Izzy are doing.

Or maybe it’s simply that I am tired of dealing with clients like Eleanor.

Frankly, I don’t know what it is, but I’m certain I want to be done with this showing. Done with this client. Done with this workday.

I want to go get Izzy and go back to my apartment, take off these godforsaken heels, order some takeout, and just…relax on the couch.

“Maria, I’m done here,” Eleanor says and pulls out her phone to text her driver, who’s probably double-parked somewhere nearby. “Call me if anything worthy of my time comes up on the market.”

Goodness, I really should be trying to make her happy. But again, I can’t find it in me to care today. I don’t think there’s a person alive who could make Eleanor Waverly happy. A billionaire on a private jet asking for her hand in marriage with a ten-million-dollar diamond ring and no prenup wouldn’t even urge a smile to her lips.

“Okay, Eleanor.” I offer a sugary-sweet smile and walk with her down the long hallway leading to the foyer that holds the entrance to the private elevator.

Yes, this penthouse has its own private elevator. Not to mention five bedrooms, six bathrooms, an actual sauna and hot tub room, and a rooftop terrace that photographers would drool over.

I’m about to let her leave, to throw in the towel and go back to the drawing board, when something hits me—something that feels a hell of a lot like a freight train of confidence.

“You know, Eleanor, I truly think this is the apartment for you. It’s got everything on your list of desires and then some, and it has incredible potential to grow exponentially in value. I wouldn’t dare assert a decision on you, but I do want to express how big of a mistake I think you’re making if you walk away.”