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They ended the call there — good thing, because the first of the brokers were just starting to show up. Delia recognized them, of course; while there were plenty of real estate agents in the greater Las Vegas area, the pool wasn’t so big that she hadn’t gotten to know most of them over the past seven years.

And Marcy Talbott always came early because she wanted to get her pick of the treats Delia made sure to lay out for all her open houses, whether they were intended for brokers, like this one, or for the general buying public.

“Ooh, snickerdoodles,” the other agent said, making a beeline for the platter Delia had set out on the kitchen island. “My favorite.”

She scooped up two cookies and put them on a napkin. Immediately behind her was Thomas Littleton, a slim, elegant man somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, the kind of guy Delia was pretty sure had never eaten a cookie in his life.

“Mid-century, tasteful remodel,” he said as he looked around with some approval. “When were the renovations done?”

“A little over three years ago,” she replied. “But the people who did the flip were careful to choose elements that were timeless.”

Well, timeless for Las Vegas, anyway. She had a feeling the neon sign in the family room and the cobalt blue cabinets might not have flown in a more conservative part of the country.

Thomas only nodded, though, then commenced moving from room to room, making notes on the yellow pad he carried with him. A lot of brokers just took a record of everything with their phones or their iPads, but clearly, Thomas Littleton wasn’t about to let modern technology take the place of good old-fashioned pen and paper.

Marcy somehow managed to devour both cookies in record time, then wiped her fingers on her napkin and pulled a phone out of her oversized purse and typed something into the Notes app. “Built in 1963, right?”

“Yes,” Delia said. “But all the plumbing and the electrical were updated at the time of the remodel. The roof is only three years old as well.”

The other broker looked pleased by that information and entered it into her phone, then headed off to wander and take more notes.

By that point, more real estate agents had arrived. Delia gave the same spiel to all of them, encouraging them to pick up one of the flyers she’d left out on the island near the refreshments and to please come to her with any questions the flyer didn’t cover.

She doubted there would be many; everyone here was a professional, and they’d done this same song and dance many times before. Mostly, it was about following the ritual so everyone would know exactly what they were dealing with.

And grabbing some free cookies, since Marcy wasn’t the only one to indulge. In fact, Delia wasn’t sure whether the platter of treats would last through the open house.

Probably a good thing. Otherwise, any leftovers would have to come home with her, and she knew she’d feel guilty if she let a single cookie go to waste.

People filtered in and out, taking notes, getting photos, although Delia thought the original listing, with its fifty-plus images, should have been enough to satisfy even the pickiest buyer. But if it helped move the property faster, then she certainly wasn’t going to argue.

A little after five, an agent she vaguely recognized came in, a man named Aaron Sanchez. He was fairly new on the Las Vegas real estate scene, but he’d attended one of her broker open houses in February and had toured clients through a couple of her properties, although nothing had come of those visits. After catching her eye, he came over to the spot where she stood by the kitchen island.

“Good turnout,” he said as one of the realtors who’d been inspecting the second floor came down the stairs and gave her a brief wave before heading out the door.

“Yes,” Delia replied. She’d gotten the impression in the past that Aaron’s friendliness had a bit more to it than simple professional courtesy, so she tried to be neutral around him without being utterly off-putting. It wasn’t that he was unattractive — he was in his mid-thirties, so five or six years older than she was, with thick dark hair, warm brown eyes, and the kind of build that suggested he spent some time at the gym when he wasn’t showing houses — but long ago she’d told herself that she wouldn’t get involved with someone else in the real estate business. Her work consumed enough of her life on its own that she didn’t want to be with a man who had the same crazy schedule.

And all right, Caleb Lockwood had gotten his real estate license, and they’d definitely worked on a project together, but that was different. There was nothing going on between them.

Well, except the unspoken agreement that they’d fight whatever demons that decided to rear their ugly heads in her hometown.

But Aaron didn’t seem too put off by her casual tone. “I can see why you have so many brokers interested. Great neighborhood, good-sized house, newly updated — it’s a dream for a lot of buyers.”

Delia had thought so, too. “Yes, it’s the whole package. I doubt it will last long. Do you have any clients in mind for the property?”

“A few,” he said. “In fact, I have one who was jonesing to come over and look at it right away, but I told her that since the broker’s open house was happening today, I might as well drop by and make sure it looks as good in person.”

“And does it?”

The glance he gave her didn’t seem to have much to do with the house. Nothing lewd or lascivious, but Delia got the feeling he was much more interested in her than in the quartz countertops or the luxury vinyl plank floors.

“Definitely,” he replied, then paused. “What can you tell me about the owner?”

She wanted to narrow her eyes at that question but then told herself she needed to relax. Some brokers wanted to know exactly who they were dealing with, while others didn’t.

“He bought the house last November,” she said, and Aaron’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“That wasn’t very long ago. Why would he want to sell the property so soon after buying it?”