Page 4 of Levi

“Is he dangerous?”

I look at the man on the sectional. Shallow, even breathing. Mid-twenties, maybe. Under the stubble the face is annoyingly symmetrical, cheekbones that would photograph well if they weren’t slack and shut down.

“He’s unconscious. He’s not dangerous. At the moment, anyway.”

“Is he alone?”

“I didn’t find anyone else in the house.”

“Is he okay?”

That is so Benji that I almost laugh. I’m standing in my trashed listing four hours before my career-defining showing, and Benji wants to know if the stranger is okay. This is why I love Benji and also why he makes me crazy. The two have never been separable.

“My priority right now is re-staging the hydrangeas,” I say. “Not nursing a drunk man back to health.”

“Dante.”

“He’s breathing. He’s fine. He’s going to be a lot less fine when I wake him up. He’s passed out drunk. Can you get flowers? Hydrangeas and eucalyptus, here by eight?”

“Florist in Seaside opens at eight. I can be there by eight-thirty.”

“Eight-fifteen.”

“Okay. I’m up, I’m moving. I’ll text you when I’m on the road and again when I pull in.”

“I’m waking him up now. He needs to go.”

“Dante, what if he’s—”

“I’ll be fine. Hurry and go get the flowers.”

I hang up and set my face into the expression I use when a seller is about to hear a number they don’t like. I walk toward him and lean close enough to reach him through whatever chemical fog he’s buried under.

“Hey. Wake up.”

He doesn’t move.

I reach over and lightly shake his shoulder. “Wake up. You need to get up.”

His eyes open and his arms come up fast, both forearms crossing over his face, shielding, blocking.

I quickly step back, putting three feet between us. My hands are at my sides, his arms are up, his chest heaving. For two seconds neither of us moves. Then he focuses. He sees how I’m dressed and his arms drop. He pushes himself to sitting, blinks, scans the room with bloodshot eyes, and then looks back at me. He takes me in, settles back down into the cushion, and pulls the throw tighter around himself.

“Damn, the wake-up calls are intense here,” he says. “I didn’t ask for one. I got in last night after midnight and went to sleep. I only brought one bag with me. It’s upstairs if you want to go unpack it. Or you can leave. Whatever. Don’t care.”

His voice stops me. It comes from deep in his chest. It’s roughed up from last night, but underneath the damage there’s a Southern drawl I can’t place. It isn’t the Panhandle, Texas, or even Atlanta. It’s older than that, more rural, a twang that rolls through the vowels like it grew up in the mountains.

It’s a voice that could sell things. Expensive whiskey. Luxury cars.

The drawl lands in a place inside me the smell of stale tequila should have made impossible, and I put that down to no sleep and move on.

“Who do you think I am?” I ask.

He opens one eye and looks me over again. “The concierge?”

No one in my entire life has looked at me and concluded that I am the help. And this man, wrapped in a very expensive cashmere throw Benji sourced, has decided I’m the bellhop.

“I’m not the concierge.”