“Understood.” Taylor is still honed in on me. “Delilah, I’ll need your number.”
I rattle off the ten digits, and he sends me a text to confirm.
“So what next?” Rue asks.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll take a look around. Make some notes. Then I’ll head back to the office and run comps. Should have a list price for you in the next day or so. After that, you’ll sign the contract, and we’ll have ourselves a live listing.” The tone of his voice escalates, and he claps two very manicured hands together, rubbing his palms.
He seems way too excited about this, but I suppose that’s a good thing. The man clearly lives and breathes real estate, and that’s exactly the kind of person who should be selling Rue’s McMansion.
“By all means.” Rue rises, waving her arm to invite him to take a look around. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. I’ve got a bonsai that needs trimming. Delilah, would you mind showing Taylor around?”
Rue scampers off, her hips swaying with each quick step. The woman clearly doesn’t know the definition of slow down, and she never has. Ever since striking it rich with some thigh-shaper invention in the eighties, all she’s done is work, work, work and go, go, go. She couldn’t stand still if she tried.
“I guess we’ll start in the foyer and make our way around . . .” I lead Taylor out of the living room, glancing through the dining room window on my way and spotting Zane shooting hoops in his driveway with a couple of other guys.
Guess he’s not the only one incapable of relaxing for a hot minute. Taylor stops beside me, following my gaze.
“Did you know Zane de la Cruz lives next door?” I ask Taylor as I point.
“I did.”
“Do you know him personally?” I ask because they’re the same age and Gainesville isn’t that huge of a city. If it’s anything like Rixton Falls, everyone knows everyone. “Are you friends?”
“I don’t know him personally, no.” Taylor waves me off and struts off like he’s too bothered to continue on with this conversation. “Everyone knows everyone here. I know of him. He knows of me. But personal friends? Hardly.”
His chuckle is stuffy and proper, like he’s entertained by the fact that I would assume they were friends.
Letting it go, I lead him down a hall that takes us to my aunt’s room and begin the tour, taking him through the guest suites and the formal dining room. I watch his reaction when I show him Aunt Rue’s gift-wrapping room, and then I take him to the built-in oversized cabinet where she keeps her collection of porcelain dolls and Baccarat crystal.
Stepping to the back patio, Taylor takes the steps and walks the length of the exterior, speaking lightly into his phone and making notes. I follow, keeping a few paces back, and when we reach the side of the house, I spot Zane and his friends once again.
He stops, resting his basketball beneath his arm, smiles, and waves.
He’s friendly, that asshole.
* * *
“Did Taylor leave already?” Aunt Rue is holding the bouquet of daffodils under one arm as she rifles through the cabinets below the kitchen sink. She produces a small vase, smiling sweetly. “He’s so thoughtful to have brought flowers. He’s a good boy, that Taylor. Comes from good stock.”
Chewing the corner of my mouth, I lean my elbows against the kitchen counter and take a deep breath.
“The flowers were from Zane.” I brace myself for her response.
Shoving the pretties in the vase, her hand flies to her O-shaped mouth. “Now why on God’s green earth would he bring you flowers, Delilah? I thought you were going over there to shut him up the other night, not sweep him off his feet.”
I try not to laugh at the image of me sweeping him off his feet, and I hold my hands up in protest. “I don’t know. I didn’t . . . we didn’t . . . there’s nothing going on.”
Balling a fist and lifting it to her mouth, she turns to glance out the kitchen window; the one with the view straight into Zane’s living room.
“I’m not upset with you, sugar. It’s him.” She says it with a hint of disgust. “I told him to stay away from you.”
I take a hesitant step her way, resting my hand on her back. “I know you mean well, but I’m all grown up now. It doesn’t exactly work like that anymore.”
She grabs a dishrag and lashes it against the granite before polishing invisible smudges and mumbling under her breath.
“He’s filthy, Delilah. No good. He’s beneath you.” She shakes her head. “He’s only going to break your heart.” She straightens her posture, wagging the rag in my face. “And I’ll kill him if he does.”
I laugh.
“He knows it too,” she adds before returning the rag to the sink. She glances around, looking for something else to clean or polish or wash, but this place is ridiculously spotless. “It’s not funny. I mean it, Delilah. Stay away from him.”
“Oh, come on.” I paw at the air. “Don’t you think you’re being a little over the top here?”
“You don’t know the half of what I know.” Her voice softens to a whisper. “That boy is nothing but trouble. He’s . . . he’s like that Beaver kid. Justin Beaver.”
I suppress a chuckle. “You mean Justin Bieber?”
“Yes.” She wags a pointer finger. “You give a kid a bunch of money and they act crazy, thinking they can do and say what they want and they’ll never have to face the consequences.”