Page 54 of Bluffed By the Offense

None of that negates his self-centered, micromanaging, annoying side.

Coleman waits until Marcus seems to have his fill of the kitchen. Then he leads the way into the next room. It’s a family room of sorts toward the back of the house.

Coleman says, “This view is …”

I’m looking out the windows at the stunning view of a well-maintained lawn and trees beyond the edge. But my mouth has a mind of its own. Without any thought, I blurt, “As long as there are mirrors in most of the rooms, Marcus will have his favorite view everywhere.”

Marcus chuckles and glances out the back windows toward his yard. “It’s a pretty nice view.”

And what do I say to that? Does he mean the yard or what he sees in the mirror? He’s not wrong. They’re both good views.

Coleman widens his eyes in my direction while Marcus is looking out back. I silently mouth, “I’m sorry.”

He places one hand palm down and repeatedly fans it toward the floor.

I nod. I’ll tamp it down.

We walk through the rest of the rooms and I show the utmost restraint, turning my attention to the casings around the windows, the claw-foot tub that looks brand new, but apparently is original to the house and in perfect working condition.

And then, when I thought my joy and love for this house couldn’t get any bigger, we tour the turret. The turret. It’s a reading nook off one of the upstairs bedrooms. I could weep. My dream house has a reading nook. Of course, it does.

I feel like Belle in the Beast’s castle. And, lookie there, this castle comes with its own beast.

The afternoon light spills in the windows across the bookcases that line the wall under the windows. One oversized chair with a throw blanket over it, a standing lamp and side table next to it fill the corner. I would live here. Someone could bring me my food and water. Oh. Who needs to eat when you have this nook and all these books?

I shake myself, glancing around the space longingly before turning away.

Marcus’s eyes are on me again, studying me.

“It’s a beautiful home,” I tell him. My compliment is the least I can do for Coleman after my behavior the other day. “Anyone would be lucky to live here.”

“Do we agree on something, Cass?” Marcus asks me.

“Don’t get used to it,” I tell him.

“I won’t. Don’t worry,” he answers me with that smirky smirk that pulls at his dimple and puts an extra sparkle in his marble grey eyes.

We finish the tour, going through the basement and the back yard. Coleman locks up behind us and he and Marcus step aside to chat. I stay out of their way, standing under a tree at the side of the yard, looking up at the scrollwork along the eaves.

When we’re back in Coleman’s car with the A/C blasting, he says, “Thanks for putting in a good word.”

“You’re welcome. Sorry for those few … whatever they were.”

“It’s entertaining, that’s for sure,” he says. “You’re usually so professional and focused on the customer.”

“I know Marcus. We met through Winona. He brings out the worst in me.”

“I think you return the favor,” Colemans says with a laugh. “He was so thoughtful when we toured the first time, asking about what the sellers needed, if the town had any particular attachment to any aspect of the home or property. Today, I don't think he even looked at the house. He was too busy trying to outspar you and gauge your reactions.”

“Really?”

“From what I could see, yeah.”

“Huh. Well, I hope he puts in an offer. I guess.”

“You do?”

“Not really. I want someone else to have this home. But for your sake, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, so I hope he seals the deal.”