Floor Time by Liz Crowe Page A

highly-strung professionals under her supervision. The older agents who'd been with Jack from the beginning didn't really seem fazed and smiled indulgently as if observing a precocious and slightly naughty four year old. Sara watched the rest of the women straighten up, fidget with hair, lips, unconsciously drawn by whatever the hell it was he emanated.
     
    The other men in the room watched him, as if studying the technique of a master. Sara fought the urge to lean forward and remained lounged back, coffee cup in one hand and phone in the other. The pheromone level in the room ramped up so high she had to take long deep breaths to keep New Sara at bay.
     
    She glanced over at Craig. He remained cocked back in his chair, ankle crossed over opposite knee, looking straight at her. Her face flushed and she glared at him briefly. He would have no idea who Jack was, of course. Or why the aura of the room had electrified since he walked in. But he'd learn soon enough. Sara smiled at him, gratified by his blush when she popped a cherry into her mouth and winked.
     
    Jack pitched and walked the perimeter of the room with his slick brochures, describing the latest and greatest mixed-use residential/commercial/retail development that he'd nearly completed on a long-neglected downtown Ann Arbor corner. He'd pause occasionally to touch one or another colleague on the shoulder or bring up some amusing antidote or memory. The female who had his attention would inevitably blush, or smack his hand in mock anger. 
     
    By the end of his spiel, the room belonged to him, although Sara remained stock-still and had not risen to receive his hand on her shoulder. She looked across the table at Val, one of her closest friends. Jack's wiles had no effect on her whatsoever, as her tastes ran more toward fellow females, but she certainly admired him as a salesman and Sara was convinced that she knew what was going on between them. Val raised an eyebrow at her. Sara sensed the entire room -- including the new guy -- observing her, aware of the pornographic movie running through her head that was her Open House from three Sundays before.
     
    With a final flourish and promises of opening party invites to come, Jack headed towards the door, declaring himself on a mission to visit all five Stewart office meetings that morning. He turned at the last minute and locked eyes with her, winked slowly, and his smile morphed into something more than the shit-eating grin of the consummate salesman.
     
    She glared at him. Pam cleared her throat, trying to air the room of the fogginess his little performance had induced and moved on with the meeting, none of which Sara remembered. She struggled to manage her roiling emotions which lurched between elation at his attention, thrill at the fact that her colleagues knew he had singled her out, and sheer, unadulterated arousal, aware of a dampness under her skirt and a hitch in her breath. Jesus Christ but he was walking testosterone . And, he knew it, which pissed her off and turned her on in equal measure.
     
    Keeping her emotional distance was becoming tougher with every day that passed. Matching his aloofness took everything she had. She wanted him, needed his voice, touch, lips -- and she'd even be willing to cede some of her tightly held control, if he asked again.
     
    She rushed out of the meeting a few minutes early, feigning an emergency phone call, ignoring everyone, including the dark gaze of the new guy. Her closing at noon went well; no last minutes surprises or random craziness from either buyer or seller. 
     
    She grabbed a salad and iced tea afterward on the way back to her office. The suffocating heat and humidity seemed more in keeping with a sultry Southern summer than the usually mild and easygoing Michigan climate. Settling at her desk, she returned a call from her most high-maintenance seller:
     
    "Yes, Martha, I agree, but I can't stand at the door of every showing and demand that the buyer's