Page 27 of The Man I Hate

Anna

Giselle Rinke worked for one of LA’s most prestigious realtors. Beyond her naturally pouty lips and oversized breasts, she was tall, blonde, and irresistibly sultry. She may have been a real estate agent by trade, but she could easily pass for a movie star.

While she and I walked through my parents’ home, I told the tale of the parking lot fling with a silver-haired hunk who earned a living rubbing elbows with Hollywood’s upper crust. Although I hadn’t mentioned Braxton specifically, I’d thrown out a few names of people he’d met and described his line of work in detail.

Having seen all there was to see, we walked back to the starting point, the living room. She lowered herself into the loveseat and crossed her legs.

“His name isn’t Braxton Rourke, is it?” she asked.

I was halfway to the couch. I stopped in my tracks. “This just got awkward.” I looked at her. “You know him?”

“Everyone knows Braxton.” She flattened her skirt against her thighs before looking up. “He’s a local legend, of sorts.”

Hoping to seem disinterested in discussing the matter further, I took a seat and scanned the living room. “I guess you can use that as a selling point for this home.”

She laughed. “You want me to tell potential buyers that the homeowner had sex with Braxton Rourke?”

“No.” I tilted my head toward the front door. “You can tell them that he lives next door. If he’s a local legend, that could be enough to get them to make an offer.”

“He lives next door?” she asked, obviously surprised by my announcement.

“He does.”

Her eyes shot wide. She fidgeted in her seat. “Seriously?”

She was far too excited. My stomach flip-flopped at the thought of her and Braxton doing the dirty.

“You two haven’t—” I wagged my finger toward the inside of her tanned thighs. “You didn’t—”

“Oh. No. I’m just—” She cleared her throat. “A few years ago, I saw him on TV escorting Selena Gomez at the music awards. I couldn’t help but notice that he had a very confident presence. I’ve been intrigued by him ever since. That’s all.”

Despite what she said, her face was flush with excitement. I wasn’t convinced she was completely disinterested in Braxton.

“Intrigued,” I said under my breath. “Yeah. He’s intriguing, that’s for sure.”

“It’s quite a little bonus that he’s your neighbor,” she said. “Did he come over and introduce himself? Is that how you met?”

“No. I was backing out of the driveway and a guy tried to steal my car. Braxton was driving by when it happened. He grabbed the guy and called the cops. While the police were processing the paperwork, we went to breakfast. I’ve already told you the rest of the story.”

“Someone tried to steal your car?” Her face contorted. “Here?”

Having Braxton Rourke for a neighbor may have been good selling feature. The potential of having a car stolen out of the driveway wasn’t.

“Yeah,” I said dismissively. “It was some guy just passing through. I was backing out of the driveway with my window down. I must have looked like easy prey.”

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “That wasn’t a theft. It was a carjacking.”

“Is one worse than the other?” I asked. “I guess I didn’t realize there was a difference.”

“He tried to take the car while you were in it, right?”

“That was his plan.”

“It’s a good thing you weren’t hurt.” She plucked a few pieces of fuzz from her skirt and then looked up. “At what point did Braxton show up?”

I envisioned her slinking her way to Braxton’s house after I went back to Oklahoma. Following each showing of the home, she’d take her ample cleavage and full lips with her and sashay next door. Given her level of expressed interest, it was bound to happen.

Considering Braxton’s promiscuity, he’d grant her sexual wish, but only once.