“No, I already booked it,” I said, giving him a cheeky smile, “but he’ll need a few days to get to it.”
“Good job.” He held up his hands and looked at them. “Is this where I use ironic finger guns? I feel like it’s my turn to do them, but I get stage fright over finger guns.”
I fired a finger gun and clicked my tongue for extra bro factor. “I got your fingers covered, buddy.”
He gave a low whistle. “Expert level.”
“That and free dinners are the only perk of being Dylan’s sister. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
I waved at him then stepped from the curb, Chloe right beside me. She waited until we were out of earshot. “You’re heartless.”
I shot her a confused look over the roof of the car as I dug out my keys. “What are you talking about?”
“Poor guy was obviously trying to find ways to spend time with you, but you shot down all his excuses.”
“What? No.” But a prickle of pleasure skittered through my stomach as I wondered if she was right.
She rolled her eyes. “Call it my reporter’s instincts, or, I don’t know, living on this earth as a female for twenty-five years, but he was absolutely trying to get on your schedule again.”
I waved my hand like I was shooing her words away, when really, I wanted to gather them up and save them, tuck them into a jar like I used to with my favorite rocks.
I climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door harder than I needed to.
Get over this right now, I told myself as I started the car.
But I didn’t dare name what the “this” was.
Chapter Twelve
Miss Mary handed my phone back to me, grinning. “These photos make this place look so fancy, I want to ask for the agent’s number so I can lease it myself. Except it’s already my place. At least for a little longer.” The photographer had come the day before in the late afternoon and stayed until the kitchen was spic and span, getting shots for the listing.
“Sarah does good work,” I said. “I’m going to go list it right now, but I wanted you to see your place through her eyes. Sometimes I wonder if you see it the way the rest of us do.”
She smiled around the café, which was empty except for a couple of tables near the front windows. “I know what I did here. And I know you’re trying to lure me into staying, but my mind is made up. I already wrote an outline for my novel!”
“No way. That’s amazing, Miss Mary. How does it end?”
“You’re not one of those sneak-a-peek at the end types, are you?” she asked, her eyes narrowed. “Have I nurtured a viper in my very bosom?”
“I am. But I still read the whole book even though I know.”
“I can’t with you. Go do your work while I contemplate this new information about you. Think you know someone...” she muttered as she headed back toward her table.
I went up to my apartment and finished the listing. I knew the specs by heart, but it took me an hour of revising to nail down the property description. It needed to communicate the soul of the place, to weed out the wrong tenants and draw exactly the right one in. I thought about Miles for a minute. In some ways, the dimensions were perfect for what he needed. But the idea of him literally underfoot every day didn’t feel right.
Five hundred words and a nugget of my soul later, I had a description I could live with. That I even loved. Property descriptions needed to paint a picture for potential tenants, and this was my masterpiece.
This building is a piece of Bywater’s soul. Built in 1906 by architect Remy Duplessis, for over a century it has served as a home to some of Bywater’s most ambitious entrepreneurs. For the past four decades, it has been home to Miss Mary’s Place, beloved by locals. But it’s ready for its next phase, serving as a bridge between its history and its future. It needs a visionary with a respect for the past.
From there it went more into the building’s architectural features, ending with the practical details about space and suggestions for use.
There was always some hungry young chef looking to make their mark on New Orleans cuisine. I hoped my words were enough to tempt one of them into