Page 22 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
“What’s he like?” I asked.
“Hmm. Well . . . Let’s see. He’s sweet, loves shrimp po boys, and dreams of owning a jet ski. He’s really . . . sweet.”
Sweet. That didn’t seem like Hailey’s usual bad-boy type, but Hailey threw on a playlist of throwback boy band tunes before I could comment.
I finished packing the desk and decided to peek at the projects Hailey had waiting for me. The printouts lay on top of a pile of jean jackets, and under those was a large object wrapped with paper, which crinkled as I revealed a lantern with a weathered wood frame.
The first printout had a picture of a name scrawled across the back of a jean jacket, then it listed the names of Victoria’s bridesmaids. According to the email, the personalized jean jackets were to be gifts for Victoria’s gals.
It would be a flirty, fun project, which is why the somber message for the lantern took me by surprise: This lantern is lit in loving memory of Poppy.
What a beautiful tribute for a lost loved one. I didn’t know if I’d be able to keep Victoria as a client, but I could at least do this for her. Carefully, I rewrapped the lantern and closed the box, my fingers itching to complete the project.
Chapter 8
Ifound myself a blundering mess on the day of the meeting with Victoria. I’d spent the previous night putting the finishing touches on the bridesmaids' jackets. They’d looked good before, but I’d decided to add some rosettes. The jackets looked amazing now; the tiny flowers rounded out the names beautifully, but I hadn’t gotten to bed until after one in the morning.
I was running on coffee and adrenaline. I spilled the aforementioned coffee on my sweater, deleted an important document, and nearly forgot to attend a meeting. When I wasn’t a walking, talking disaster, I stared into space, rolled a pen, or studied the notes I was supposed to take, only to find I’d been doodling with calligraphy instead. I couldn’t stop fretting about the meeting.
It had been a little over two weeks since I’d found out the client I’d agreed to take over was none other than Victoria Atteridge, and the questions in my brain had only gotten louder by the day.
What if she knew I wasn’t Hailey?
What if she put a whole truckload of work on me that I couldn’t handle?
What if my skills didn’t match her expectations?
The saving grace of the day was Beck’s absence. I enjoyed a quiet, non-competitive swim and meetings without snarky remarks. I did find myself looking over to his usual spot. Frequent sights of his empty chair made me realize I looked in his direction way too often. And, if I was honest, the morning dragged without that secretive smirk of his or the one-eyebrow raise he used as a question mark.
With the afternoon blocked out on the calendar as personal PTO, I left and made the short drive to The Atteridge’s corporate office. I’d seen the building before, tall and shining as if to say we do important things here just by the translucence of the windows, but I’d never noticed the subtle Atteridge over the doorway.
A secretary checked me in. Judging by the languid once-over, she seemed skeptical that Victoria would have a meeting with the likes of me—which, okay. That stung. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the maxi skirt clad in daisies.
Now worried about my situation and my outfit, I rode up to the eleventh floor in an elevator with mirrors as immaculately clean as the exterior of the building. Did the window washers also clean the elevators? The quality of work and attention to detail astounded me.
The view of myself, however clear, was not the prettiest. I’d lost some coloring, my already pale face paling. My freckles practically popped out like a jump scare. A rogue strand of hair fell across my face, but I held a box of the newest projects—the pane of glass, jean jackets, and lantern—so I couldn’t smooth it into place. Instead, I tried blowing it back into submission.
I’d just blown the strand to the side when the elevator dinged. The eleventh floor seemed to follow the theme of the rest of the corporate office: shiny. Chrome and mirrors detailed every surface. A set of white couches sat on a fluffy rug, a cloud of comfort in all the steely, almost sterile, space. On the couch, one person waited with their back turned to me.
In front of the waiting area, a receptionist sat behind her glass desk. “How may I help you?” she purred.
If the lobby-level receptionist was the gatekeeper, this one was the hostess warm with a plate of cookies.
“Hi,” I answered, shifting the weight of the box in my hands. “I’m Hailey Lane, Victoria’s twelve-thirty.”
A chrome vase filled with white roses reflected my image, saying liar, liar, liar.
“Okay, Hailey. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
I went to nod my thanks to her, but the person on the couch behind her stood and turned. My mouth went dry.
Because standing there in one of his perfectly pressed shirts was Beckett—Beck, Senior-level Asshole, looking at me, mouth ajar, a brow cocked.
At least he looked as shocked to see me as I was to see him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, voice low but demanding. I got closer to him, trying to keep out of earshot of the receptionist.
“Waiting to meet with my sister.” He pointed to the large door beyond the sitting area.
