I got to the office at like 9:40, mostly because I couldn’t sleep and figured staring at the wall in Buckhead was less productive than staring at the wall in Smyrna. Brewed coffee that tasted like burnt regret (note to self: buy better beans next ti), opened the blinds so it didn’t look like I was running a shady massage parlor, and sat there practicing my "confident consultant" face in the reflection of my laptop screen.
Rebecca showed up right at 10. Tall, red hair in a bun that scread "I have my shit together but I’m secretly losing it," freckles everywhere, black slacks and cream blouse that probably cost more than my old rent. She shook my hand like she was interviewing for a job I didn’t apply for.
"David, right? Elena said you’re the guy who actually knows what he’s talking about."
I laughed under my breath. "Elena oversells. I just hate seeing people get screwed by insurance companies more than I hate taxes."
She cracked a small smile—first win of the day.
We sat. I poured her black coffee (she didn’t ask for cream, so I didn’t offer; felt like a power move even though it was just laziness). She pulled out her tablet, opened a spreadsheet titled "Insurance Hell 2026" which made snort.
"Nice title," I said.
"My husband hates when I na files like that. Says it’s unprofessional." She rolled her eyes. "Paul’s idea of professional is color-coding his golf socks."
I almost choked on my coffee. "Golf socks? That’s a category?"
"Six colors. One for each day he pretends to work from ho."
We both laughed—quiet, but real. Tension dropped a notch.
I slid the folder over. "This is just a rough draft. Pulled so quotes based on what Elena told —three complexes, 24-ish units. You’re getting hosed on mold riders and umbrella limits. Current carrier’s basically betting you won’t have another bad claim."
She flipped pages slowly, brow furrowing in that cute-concentrated way won do when they’re actually reading instead of nodding politely.
"You got these numbers yesterday?"
"Stayed up too late refreshing insurer portals like a loser," I admitted. "Worth it if it saves you twenty grand a year."
Her eyes flicked up. "Twenty?"
"Rough estimate. Could be more if we layer it right. Or less if Paul’s cheap-ass broker fights back."
She laughed—sharper this ti. "Paul would fight a parking ticket. He once argued with a vending machine over seventy-five cents."
I grinned. "I respect the commitnt."
We went back and forth for forty minutes—deductibles, exclusions, claim horror stories. She vented about a tenant who sued over a "slippery stair" that was literally just wet from rain. I listened, asked dumb questions on purpose ("Wait, they sued over wet stairs? Did they slip or just get mad at gravity?"), let her roll her eyes and explain. It’s easier to build trust when you let soone feel smarter than you for a minute.
At one point she leaned forward, blouse gaping just enough to show freckled cleavage and a glimpse of black lace. I looked—because I’m not a monk—then back to her eyes like nothing happened.
She noticed. Didn’t call out. Just kept talking about umbrella policies.
When we wrapped she closed the folder. "This is good. Really good. I’m taking it ho. Paul’s going to hate every page, which is honestly a bonus."
I stood. "Let know what he says. Or don’t. We can do round two without him if he’s too busy matching socks."
She laughed again—genuine. "Thursday next week? My place in Vinings. 11 a.m. I’ll have the declarations page ready. And maybe wine. Paul’s on a golf trip that weekend."
"Wine works. I’m terrible at golf anyway."
She paused at the door, hand on the knob. "Elena was right. You’re... not what I expected."
"Most people say that after they see my car," I deadpanned.
She smirked. "She said you drive a BMW now. Upgrade?"
"Won it in a poker ga," I lied smoothly. "Kidding. Just decided to stop living like a broke college kid."
She gave that look—the one that lingers a second too long, like she’s trying to decide if you’re full of shit or interesting.
"See you Thursday, David."
Door closed.
I sat back down, exhaled like I’d run a mile.
Texted Elena imdiately.
: She’s coming Thursday. Her house. Wine ntioned. Paul golfing.
Elena: Told you she’d bite. She just texted : "Your guy’s sharp. And kinda cute in a dangerous way."
Elena: Dangerous, huh? 😏
: She’s fishing. I’m not biting yet.
Elena: Good. Let her stew. I’m dropping by her place tomorrow "to borrow a cookbook." Gonna casually ntion how single you are and how you "take care of things."
I laughed out loud in the empty office.
: You’re evil.
Elena: You made this way.
Elena: Also I’m horny and stuck at ho with Mark watching golf highlights. Send help.
: Tonight. My place. Wear the red one. No bra.
Elena: Already packing a bag. Tell you’ll make scream loud enough that the neighbors complain.
: I’ll try. No promises. Last ti the lamp almost fell over.
She sent back three laughing emojis and a fla.
I leaned back, stared at the ceiling.
Business was moving.
Pussy was moving.
And sohow, against all odds, I was starting to enjoy the slow ga.
Who knew being a howrecker could feel this... chill?
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