Author's Note: I debated whether to post this story or not, because it's not my best work. The only reason it's any good is due to my beta, IrishViking20's, hard work and encouragement. My past three stories have been extraordinarily long by my standards. This one is less than 100 pages. I hope you like it. Maybe that'll give me the boost of confidence I need to attempt another Christmas fic.

Right of first refusal is a contractual right to enter into a business transaction with a person or company before anyone else can. If the people with this right decline to enter into a transaction, the seller is free to entertain other offers.

I've always liked numbers. My favorite character on Sesame Street was the Count, whose full name I later learned was Count von Count, which reminded me of Jean Valjean, my favorite French historical character in Les Mis. It's probably no coincidence that Jean Valjean was also known by a number—Prisoner 24601.

"Moring, Tasha." I smile at our receptionist and toss a file onto the white-lacquered side table. "Do you have the latest numbers?"

Although we've become friends outside of work (though I can't bring myself to call her Taystee), I sense that my question irritates her as she ineffectively tries to hide an eye roll. "They're on your desk like they are every last Friday of the month."

I breeze past her without acknowledging her sarcastic tone and step into my office, which is filled with empty boxes. I stick my hands on my hips, survey the small space and sigh. In one week, this will be my former office and I'll either get the corner office that overlooks the circular driveway or the one on the far side of the building with a view of the park. Either is better than the nondescript space I've occupied for the past five years.

I sit in my swivel chair and pick up the monthly report, scanning the first page for overall statistics, and then flip the page to see what matters most.

Yes, I mumble to myself. For the third month in a row, Shadwick-Bloom is the number one seller in the region. The usual firms round out the top five, and I really don't care about rankings beyond that. I turn the page again to see the top selling individual agents. I'm number four behind a flashy agent from The Gemini Group, and an old-school sales crusher who represents Evergreen Realty, and one of my repugnant co-workers.

"Glad you finally made it in," comes a voice from the doorway.

I glance at my watch and notice it's only 9:07 a.m. I don't need to respond to Natalie Figueroa, my nemesis who has consistently beat my numbers as long as I've worked here, but I don't want her to think I'm late for work. "I dropped off the keys and a muffin basket to the new owners of the Spire property before coming in." I return my attention to the report. "You know, the $1.2 million condo I sold."

Although I don't look up, I sense she's smirking. "I'm off to meet clients looking to purchase a home on the shores of Lake Washington. I think we'll start on Mercer Island."

I clench my jaw, but I won't let her get the best of me. "Good luck, Fig."

Mercer Island is a goldmine for any realtor, especially if a home goes up for sale on the water. I shove the report aside and power on my computer. I need to see what inventory cropped up in the last 24 hours.

"Hello, Piper."

This time when I look up, I smile at my elderly boss. "Good morning, Mr. Bloom. How are you?"

"Well enough, I suppose." He glances at his cane. "Though getting around with this thing is a pain in the ass."

I let out a light laugh. "It's a nice cane for what it's worth."

"I had a woodworker whittle it especially for me." He lifts it and runs his fingers over the base. "And my wife painted the handle to give it a little pizzaz."

Frederick Bloom was my grandmother's neighbor and friend for 30 plus years until she passed away two years ago. He took me under his wing when I showed some interest in real estate and taught me everything I know. He also introduced me to his grandson, who I'm currently dating. It saddens me that he's retiring, but I'm glad he's decided to spend the rest of his life going on luxury cruises with his wife.

"Have you looked at the monthly report?" he asks.

"Yes, sir." I nod. "We're number one again."

"I noticed." He flashes a side-grin. "You're moving up in the ranks, too."

"As long as the firm tops the list, I'm good." That's not really true—I want to be the top seller in the region, but I do care about our firm being recognized for the hard work we've put in over the years.

He leans heavily on his cane. "What do you know about Rainier Realty?"

"Not much." I shrug. "They've never been featured on any list I've seen. I assume they're a small, mom and pop firm."

"We started out that way 48 years ago." Mr. Bloom straightens his tie. He still dresses as if he's going into the field to sell a multi-million dollar home. "They were number 10 in overall income last month," he says. "They're still at the bottom of the list in terms of volume, but I'd keep an eye on them."

"I will. Thank you, sir."

He nods his goodbye then walks away, calling his signature phrase, make today count! over his shoulder.

I certainly will.

Over the next three months, I sell 24 homes, which is only three shy of Figueroa's, and my net sales were only $65,000 less than hers. I'm creeping up on her, and I can tell she's nervous.

"How dare you!" Speak of the devil.

I breeze past her and make my way to my new office with a view of the park. "Good morning to you, too, Fig."

"You knew I wanted to represent the new townhouses in Maple Leaf and you poached them," she huffs.

I glance at her. "How would I know that?"

"We talked about new properties at last week's staff meeting," she begins. "I explicitly stated that I was interested in representing that project."

"As I recall, no one was assigned to it." I sit in my new, high-backed desk chair. "When the all-call came yesterday, I jumped on it."

She shakes her head and gives me a stern look. "You might have the representation, but I'll have the buyers. Just wait and see."

"I'll definitely wait and see," I toss out there with a grin.

She storms out and I can't help but laugh at how personal she takes this business. Sure, I want to beat her, but she's not my real competition—that would be everyone else out there, buying and selling homes.

I take a sip of my now lukewarm coffee and check out the new monthly report. Not much has changed over the past three months except one notable thing—Rainier Realty has jumped three spots and now sits at number seven in sales revenue. Perhaps Mr. Bloom was right—we need to keep an eye on them.

As soon as my laptop springs to life, I search for Rainier Realty and a humble website that looks like it was made in-house pops up. There's nothing flashy about their logo or the design of the site, but I can see how the firm might be appealing to folks who don't want the pomp and circumstance of larger firms. I scroll down to see where they're located and am somewhat surprised that they're in Columbia City—not too far from my office in Madrona. There appear to be only five agents, including Bruce and Tabitha Corrin, the owners. I click on an interactive map of homes they've sold, noticing that the majority are in South Seattle. It's no wonder I haven't bumped into any of their agents since I focus more on the Eastside and downtown Seattle.

They've only sold four houses north of I-90 in the last six months, but what's interesting is that all of them went for over $1.5 million. In fact, the Hunt's Point mansion with nine bedrooms sold for $6.2 million and they nabbed it. Just as I'm about to dig into the bios of their agents, Tasha knocks on my door.

"The Sharmas are here to sign their paperwork."

"Thanks." I reach for the thick folder in my desk drawer. I need to take one last look at the numbers before meeting them.

"We still going to happy hour tonight?" Tasha gives me a pointed look. "You still owe me that pina colada."

"I haven't forgotten." I smile as I watch her nod, then walk away.

The day moves along as expected, but I've gotten three new clients all searching for something completely different. I wish they all wanted a multi-million dollar home, but sales volume is almost as important as sales revenue.

"How am I the last one here?" I take a seat next to Maritza Ramos, our newest agent.

Tasha raises her shoulders. "You always the last one to the party!"

Fig rolls her eyes as she sips her white wine. I would never order the cheap wine at Madrona Arms, but I've never seen her drink anything but wine or Champagne.

Tasha waves at the bartender. "Hey, Ricky, we got one more."

Though it's not my favorite bar in the neighborhood, we've gotten to know the staff quite well over the years. I think Tasha and Ricky have a friends with benefits relationship, so when it's her turn to pick where we go for our monthly happy hour, she inevitably chooses Madrona Arms.

Ricky saunters over with a wink in her direction, then glances at me. "What can I get you?"

"I'll have a club soda with lime."

"Club soda with lime?" Tasha gives me a look as if I've lost my mind. "You pregnant or something?"

"What?" I shoo that notion away with a quick hand gesture. "God, no."

"The boss' grandson not putting out?" Fig asks.

Ignoring her comment, I turn to Tasha. "I'm having dinner with Larry after this. I think he's going to ask if I want to live together."

She juts her chin back. "You ready for that?"

"I don't know," I sigh. "I mean he's nice, he's funny and is pretty good looking, but…"

"Pretty good looking?" Maritza lifts her brows. "Are you even attracted to this guy?"

"She's attracted to what he represents," Fig chimes in.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Maritza joined our team two months ago and is seemingly unaware of my personal life. I wish that was the case with everyone at the firm.

"Do you really need it spelled out for you?" Fig asks after a sip of wine. "Piper is dating Freddy Bloom's grandson. That's the reason she gets all the high-end listings."

I scoff at her remark. "That's entirely false."

She shrugs. "Just calling it like I see it."

"Piper got a few high end listings long before Larry was in the picture," another agent chimes in. "It's not like it's disproportionate."

"Thank you, Jeremy." I say, still glaring at Fig. "Why do you even come to these things? No one wants you here."

"I do." Neil Shadwick is the smarmy sales associate who only works for the firm because his father founded it with Mr. Bloom. He's been passed over for promotion after promotion and has had a thing for Fig since the day she began working here.

Ricky returns with my club soda and another round for everyone else.

"I don't want another Sex on the Beach," Tasha says, pushing the glass towards him. "I'm gettin' a Pina Colada." She makes a waving motion like she's doing a hula dance. "And my boss is payin'!"

Back in June at the firm's annual summer party, I bet Tasha that she didn't know the origins of the famous frozen drink. She proved me wrong, and I promised I'd buy her a Pina Colada the next time we were out. The last happy hour was at a wine bar, so I couldn't make good on that promise, but now that we're at a full-service bar, I owe my friend a drink.

I hand Ricky my credit card, then turn the attention away from my relationship with Larry. "Did you all look at the regional numbers this morning?"

They all nod.

"Yours truly is still the best agent among us," Fig announces and turns to Jeremy. "Sorry you dropped out of the top five."

He dislikes her almost as much as I do. "There's going to be a day when you're not on top, Fig. Watch it."

"Rainier Realty is moving up in the sales revenue chart." I squeeze the lime over my drink. "Anybody work with their agents?"

"Best looking sales force in King County," Jeremy replies.

Neil, an unattractive man with what he probably thinks is a hipster mustache, leans forward. "What do looks have to do with sales?"

We all give him a look.

"You have to be kidding," Maritza says. "Looks are half of the equation. I'm not stupid—they didn't hire me just for my brain."

I chuckle. I don't know her well, but from the few interactions we've had, I tend to agree with her statement.

"I checked out their website and they only have five agents," I report. "Most of their sales are in South Seattle, but the few homes they've either bought or sold in Seattle or Bellevue went for over a million and a half."

"Their newest agent is a bombshell," Jeremy states around a pint of beer. "I've run into her a couple of times. She's the one who closed the deal on the Hunt's Point property."

"Another bombshell in the field?" Fig pushes her empty wine glass to the side and picks up the full one. "There can't be more than one of us."

I give her a disgusted look. To me, she's smarmy and self-righteous. I don't know how her clients trust her with her fake smile and tight dresses.

Neil stretches an arm over the back of Fig's chair. "I'm not worried about their meager little firm topping us in revenue or volume."

"We need to keep an eye on them," I respond.

Jeremy nods. "Agreed."

Half an hour later, I drive to the Metropolitan Grill to meet Larry. The only reason anyone goes to the Met is for a special occasion—it's too expensive for a regular Friday night dinner. Larry and I have never been, which is what makes me think he wants to ask an important question.

"Sorry, I'm running late." I hug him. "I couldn't find parking."

"I just valeted."

Larry is all the things I should want in a man, but I just haven't been excited about being with him. Our first six weeks as a couple were great, but reflecting back on that time, I wonder if it was just the newness of it all. I'd been on no more than a handful of dates over the course of last year, so to have a guy interested in me felt good—made me feel special. Now that we've been a couple for almost a year, I realize he's not the person with whom I want to spend my life.

"How was your day?"

I sit across from him at our corner table. "Good, yours?"

"Fine." He lifts his shoulders. "Nothing much to report. I took the dog for a walk, wrote a piece for Seattle Magazine, and then came here."

"Is that the article about the new basketball arena?"

He nods. "I even had a phone call with Jeff Bezos himself."

"Look at you." I smile. "Mr. Big Shot."

The server interrupts us by sharing the specials of the day. I order a gin martini and Larry gets a local IPA on tap. We're at the most well-regarded steakhouse in Seattle and he orders a beer? That just feels so out of place.

"How was happy hour?"

I place the starched napkin on my lap. "It would've been great if Fig wasn't there."

We make small talk through the salad course and the entrée, and then he asks if I want dessert. We dine out at least once a week, and I've never ordered dessert. It makes me think he wants to prolong the evening.

"I'll have the strawberry cheesecake." He hands the menu to the server.

"Nothing for me, thanks." I pat my belly. "That steak was filling. I don't know how you have room for dessert."

"My grandpa said their cheesecake is to die for," he replies. "You can have a bite if you want."

I've never liked cheesecake; I thought he knew that.

"You and I have been together for almost a year," Larry begins and my stomach churns. "I was hoping to make things more permanent."

I hide what is surely an anxious expression with my glass of water.

"We spend one or two nights a week at each other's house anyway, so I was thinking it was time to move in together."

I don't know how he got that out so calmly and confidently when it feels like butterflies are wrestling in my belly. "Larry, I…"

"I know how much you love your place." He holds up a hand. "So if it makes sense for me to move in with you, I'm ok with that."

I crease my eyebrows. "You live with your parents."

"Yeah, but if we don't move into your house, we could find a place together," he replies. "I'm not talking about buying something at this point, but maybe renting in a neighborhood where we'd want to settle down…eventually, I mean."

He really is a thoughtful guy. Maybe I'm jumping the gun by not giving him a chance to see if this could work in the long run. Maybe living together would make me love him more; after all, we'd get to go to sleep and wake up together every single day.

"I can't," comes out instead. "It's just…"

"What?" comes out in a shocked breath. "I thought this would be something you'd want."

"We've never discussed living together." I grip the napkin on my lap. "That's a huge step, Larry. I'm just not sure I'm ready for that kind of commitment."

The server returns with the cheesecake. "Here you go. Enjoy."

He picks up his fork. "You think you're unsure or you know it?"

I don't want to hurt him, but I can't imagine living with him. I look away and take a deep breath. "I know it."

He sets the fork back down. "Do you even want to be together?"

"Of course, I do!" I'm not cruel enough to break up with him, too. "Work has been crazy, and I haven't been able to think about much else since your grandfather retired. He left me with big shoes to fill, and I don't want to disappoint him."

"You don't want to disappoint him?" He raises his bushy brows. "He loves you, Piper. He loves us as a couple. Not moving in together will disappoint him!"

It's my turn to raise my eyebrows. "You told him you were going to ask me?"

"Yes!" he shouts. "He's our biggest fan!"

While it's true that I don't want to let Freddy Bloom down, I have to separate my personal life from my professional one.

I shake my head and get to my feet. "I'm sorry. I really am."

"You're leaving?"

"I need some air." It feels like I could suffocate in here. I rush past the hostess and head outside into the cool evening air and take a few deep, calming breaths.

I've never stranded anyone at a restaurant much less my boyfriend who wants to start a life together. I glance up at the dark sky, then close my eyes. I began getting an inkling about Larry asking me to move in about a week ago, but when faced with the question, I didn't think that's how I'd react. I should've rehearsed or talked it out with a friend. Instead, I became overly anxious and claustrophobic. This isn't how I wanted the evening to end.

"Got a light?"

I open my eyes to see a woman in a black business suit pull a cigar out of its case.

"No." I take in her tall stature and admire her Louboutins. "I don't smoke."

"I've moved from cigarettes to cigars," she replies with a quick flick of her dark hair over one shoulder. "So, that's something."

"Both are bad for you," I respond.

She looks up and chuckles after finding a lighter in her Prada bag. "Are you a doctor or something?"

"No," I reply, tugging my blazer against my body as the breeze picks up. She looks familiar, but I can't place her. "But I know that cigarettes and cigars are equally bad for your health; they both contain nicotine."

She grins. "Thanks for your concern."

I glance at my feet. My heels are expensive enough, but they don't come close to what hers must've cost.

"If you're not out here to smoke, and I assume you're not the valet, what are you doing standing in front of the restaurant?" She lights the cigar. "Wait, let me guess…You just broke up with your boyfriend?"

I side-eye her, wondering how she got so close to knowing why I'm alone outside of the Met. "Not exactly."

"But close, I presume?" She smiles. "Damn. Sorry about that, kid."

I should just walk to my car and forget this whole night ever happened, yet I find myself drawn to this dark haired, cigar-smoking woman who exudes confidence.

"I didn't break up with him," I reply as if I need to explain myself to this total stranger. "He asked me to move in with him…Well, technically, he asked to move in with me."

She lets out a long puff of sweet-smelling smoke. I've always loved the way cigars smell—like maple syrup and charred cherrywood—it reminds me of my grandfather.

"He doesn't have a place of his own?"

I shake my head. "Lives with his parents."

"Ah. Even worse." She breathes out another ring of smoke. "You waiting for an Uber or something?"

I hook a thumb over my shoulder. "No, my car is just around the corner." Why am I still standing here?

She glances back at the restaurant. "Feel like drinking your sorrows away? Carlos makes the best dirty martinis."

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "I had one earlier."

She stubs out the cigar on the brick ledge. "I didn't catch your name."

"Piper."

Her eyes narrow, and I wonder if she recognizes my name. She feels familiar, but I can't quite place her.

Just then, Larry comes barreling out of the restaurant and stands in front of me. "You're still here."

I have to switch gears; it's like going from first to fifth in an instant.

"Maybe you're right—maybe we're not ready for that level of commitment." He wraps his arms around me. "I want to be with you even if that means living apart for now."

I wrap mine loosely around his back and watch the dark haired woman raise a hand in a perfunctory wave. She smiles, then disappears back into the restaurant through the glass door.

Larry pulls back. "Let me drive you home. We can get your car in the morning."

"I have an open house at nine," I respond. "I need to get there a couple hours early to set up."

"Oh," he sighs.

"Thank you for dinner." I kiss the corner of his mouth. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Ok, well…" He waves with a sad expression. "Good night, I guess."

I make haste to my car and let my head fall on the headrest. Why was it easier to walk away from the man who loves me than a beautiful, impeccably dressed stranger?

Maybe I need a crazy night on the town where I can throw caution to the wind. Maybe I've been spending too much time with my co-workers and need to branch out. I haven't seen Polly in months. I glance at my watch and figure it's too late to head to her house now with the baby asleep. If I go back to the Met, the dark haired woman might still be there—it's only been ten minutes since she walked back inside. Maybe a drunken night with a random woman is just what I need—it's been more than ten years since that's happened.

I get out of my car and pull in a deep breath of damp air through my nose. I never do anything spontaneous; I'm going to do it. I'm going to go back into that restaurant and order another martini.

Just as I turn onto 2nd Avenue, I see her walking out of the Met with three women. One of them links her arm through the crook of the mysterious woman's elbow, and she tosses her head back with laughter.

So much for a night on the town with a perfect stranger.