“We’ve got a condo viewing,” he said over breakfast. “Seller’s a German expat. Promising deal.”
“Okay,” I murmured.
He didn’t notice.
At 10:45, he honked to rush me—another habit I hated. We drove in silence until we reached a sleek, glassy high-rise. Evan smoothed his shirt.
“I’ll talk to him in German. Just smile. I’ll translate.”
I nodded.
He still believed I didn’t understand a word.
A tall man in his fifties opened the door. “Willkommen. Ich bin Thomas Weber.”
Evan beamed proudly and replied in German: “Evan Brooks. This is my wife. She doesn’t understand German, but she’s harmless.”
Harmless.
I lowered my eyes, pretending confusion. Thomas’s expression shifted, just slightly.
The apartment was stunning—sunlight pouring through tall windows, warm wood floors, a balcony overlooking trees.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.
Evan translated: “My wife likes it. She’s easily impressed.”
Heat crawled up my neck.
Thomas showed us around. Evan translated sloppily, exaggerating parts to make himself sound like a seasoned negotiator. We returned to the living room for coffee.
Then the real conversation began.
Thomas switched to German, no longer filtering.