Miles pulled into his parking space, the nose of the black Mercedes nearly touching the signpost that read: Reserved for Miles Hannaford, Broker. He loved that sign almost as much as the one that hung above the door of his building. Hannaford Realty in gold-colored script—Lucinda Calligraphy, he chose it himself—below that, “Where Dreams Become A Realty.” He often had to point out his little play on words, most people were so unobservant.
Brianna was already there, leaning impatiently against the passenger door of her custom color—‘It’s called cashmere,’ she told anyone who’d listen—Limited Edition Jeep Grand Cherokee. Her hair and nails were salon perfect, her outfit—cream-colored, wide leg linen pants and breast hugging, robin’s egg blue blouse—like something off a Saks 5th Avenue mannequin.
“Hey gorgeous, waiting long?” His eyes were on her breasts.
“Eyes up here, asshole. Yes, I’ve been waiting long, long enough to notice that you spelled ‘Reality’ wrong. Look, you forgot the ‘i.’ Nice job,” she scoffed.
“No, it’s supposed to—never mind. Here,” he tossed her the keys which she caught awkwardly, “let yourself in. I got some stuff in the trunk I gotta bring in.”
He didn’t really need to bring in the signs in the trunk, he was stalling. The thing was, Brianna was hot, no question about it. Hell, she was even hotter now than she was in high school. But Ricky was a good guy. And he was built like a house. Not that Miles lacked in any physical capacity. Shit, he was a God damn specimen. Twelve percent body fat. He ran a seven-minute mile, benched two-forty, and was half an inch shy of six feet. Not to mention his full head of thick, wavy, sandy-blond hair. Yes, Miles Hannaford was a fucking specimen, all right. There was a long line of satisfied ladies to attest to that. Including Brianna, who’d come back for more. Which was the problem.