XAVIER FOX

“So this is a trendier part of town,” I say Monday morning, showing a two-bedroom apartment to a certified Southern Belle named Savannah McClintock. “Plenty to keep you busy. Lots to do. Great social scene. Very active.”

“Oh, good,” she twangs, batting her thick lashes and twirling a strand of dark hair around her finger. Her gaze swallows me whole, and everything about the way her hips sway when she walks to the way she laughs at everything I say tells me she finds me appealing. “I love to go out. Do you go out? Where do you like to go?”

She speaks with soft vowels and extra syllables, the way Magnolia used to when she was new to the city, before her accent began to fade.

I lead Savannah from the living room to the master suite, pushing open double doors and pointing to the large windows on the far wall.

“This apartment has one master suite and a spare bedroom, which you could use as an office or a guest room or flex room.” I carefully ignore her question. It’s not the first time a client has tried to veer the conversation into a completely different direction, but I’m nothing if not professional.

“This is a really nice bedroom,” she drawls, snapping her gum.

When she smiles, there’s red lipstick on her teeth. If I knew her better, I’d tell her, but I don’t want to make her self-conscious. Magnolia once gave an entire presentation with a piece of pepper stuck to her front left tooth. I didn’t tell her because she was already elbows-deep in her exposition and everything was going well. My intention was to avoid throwing her off her game. She tore into me afterward, and from then on, we did “teeth checks” after every meal.

Savannah pouts. “I’m not sure if my king bed would fit in here.”

I’m not sure what a petite Georgian filly like her is doing with a king bed, but I don’t ask.

“Most of the apartments in this building are similarly sized. I can show you something else.”

“Well, I really like this area. I mean, if you say it’s a hot place to live . . .” She smiles, wrapping a strand of hair around her finger extra-tight. “I trust you, Xavier. You seem like a guy who knows the city really well, and I’m new here, so . . .”

“There’s another apartment two floors up.” I lead us out of the bedroom and down the hall, flipping the light on in the bathroom. “It’s slightly bigger than this one, but most of that square footage has been allocated to the main living areas. The view doesn’t compare to this one, and in my opinion, this apartment gets you more for your money.”

She giggles, batting her hand. “Money’s not an object. Daddy gave me a budget, but if I find something more to my liking, he won’t say no.”

Ah, she’s a Daddy’s girl.

Magnolia never was one of those. In fact, she didn’t trust a lot of men, and I wholeheartedly blame that on her father. The stories she’d tell, at least when she’d open up to me, weren’t the greatest.

I shake my head, scolding myself.

Stop comparing Savannah to Magnolia.

“If you like this one, we can certainly put in an offer,” I say. “This building is filling up quickly. All the units have been recently renovated. Many have been sold sight unseen.” I watch her examine the bathroom, her sky-high heels clicking on the intricate marble tile.

“I don’t know, Xavier,” she sighs, pronouncing my name Zayv-yer. Two syllables, not four.

“I like it and all,” she says, her face twisting as if she’s about to make some kind of life-altering decision when we both know damn well she’ll swap it out like she does shoes and purses the second she grows bored with it. “I think we should see some more places. This one just doesn’t feel like home.”

“Home is what you make it.” I flip the light on. “But of course, Savannah. I’ll show you as many places as you need.”

It’s my job.

“You’re the best.” She traipses after me, her hands clutching the tiny Gucci bag in her hands. “You’re sweeter than puddin’ pie!”

“My job, Savannah, is to ensure you find a place you love.”

The keys dangle in my hands as I show her out and lock the door behind us.

“Oh, my,” she says, clutching her gurgling stomach. “Guess I’m hungry. Want to get lunch? Are there any good places around here? It’d be a good chance for me to see the neighborhood.”

This girl is relentless. And smarter than she acts. Behind her Southern charm and grace and gentle giggles lies a girl on a mission.

“Yeah.” I rake my hand through my hair. If I take her to the Italian place on the corner with flowers and candles on every table, she’ll think it’s a date. If I take her to the deli up the road, she’ll think I’m cheap, which translates into unsuccessful, which can erode her confidence in my ability to find her the perfect place. “What are you hungry for?”

“Whatever you want is fine, Xavier.” She speaks like an experienced girlfriend.

I groan on the inside. She’s one of those eager to please, Silly Putty girls who bend and mold to shape my needs. Magnolia was never like that. She was always . . . Magnolia. And she made no apologies for it.

I need to get the fuck over Magnolia.

It’s over.

It’s done.

She’s not giving me a second chance or even the courtesy of letting me know what the hell I did to lose her in the first place.

“You like Italian?” I ask.

“Love it.” She jumps, rising on her toes as a smile fills her face. “Let’s go.”