Page 31 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
I ducked my head. “What about you? I want to know why you don’t have an office next to Victoria’s. Aren’t you second in line for the throne?”
Beck scoffed. “My story isn’t nearly as interesting. I can’t work for my father.”
There was nothing simple about not getting along with a parent. I wondered what kind of history they had—what initial force had driven them apart, what barbs had made them keep that distance.
“Why not?”
Beck shrugged, but the topic seemed heavy for him. “I think I’d be a bit of a disappointment.”
I wanted to ask him to elaborate, but his short answers told me he was about to shut down. I steered the conversation in a different way. “Do you visit your sister, Victoria, often?”
“As of late, yes.” He seemed to brighten marginally at the subject change. “She’s having problems with the system they use. It’s outdated and inefficient. She’s requested a change, but some of the older crowd is resistant.”
“Doesn’t she own the company, though?” I asked, imagining anyone telling the fierce Victoria Atteridge no.
“Yes and no. She is getting ready to replace my dad as CEO and is doing most of the job’s heavy lifting to get ready to take it. But she still answers to other members of the board. She can’t go making a bunch of changes to the company without pissing off a lot of valuable team members. So, she asked me to help show her what the system could do if change was implemented. And honestly, there is a lot of opportunity. Things could be more accurate, quicker.”
“Easier,” I offered, finishing a name and removing the next row of masking tape.
“Exactly.”
I looked over at him, surprised to have agreed with him again, even about something so basic. Then he smiled, so I smiled, and I realized I’d just had a pleasant conversation with Beck, one that even dove a bit deep. The realization made me pause, and I wondered if Beck was contemplating the same enigma because he pushed off the shelves, muttering something about needing to get busy on those reconfigurations.
I started on the next name with a zip of urgency.
Hours later, I stood, ankles and hips popping from the relief of stretching out after being crouched at such a weird angle to get those names at the bottom. Taking a step back, I took in the completed project and knew I was right to trust myself, to trust my skill. The calligraphy had near-perfect symmetry, with each letter consistent in size and shape.
It looked like my lettering belonged on that mirror.
It looked like it deserved to be showcased at Victoria’s wedding.
Beck appeared beside me, taking a long while to size up the mirror. I watched his reflection as his eyes slowly rolled from line to line, studying my work. And for some weird reason, I felt nervous about his opinion. Beck’s. The man who thought calligraphy and cursive were the same thing. I shouldn’t have cared what he thought.
But for whatever reason, I beamed when he responded with, “This is good, Emily.”
“Like professional, I’m not a fraud, good?”
“Like you should ditch The Arlow Group and start working with your sister full-time good.”
My smile faded.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, eyes on mine in the reflection before turning to me.
“I can’t do your sister’s wedding.” I picked at a streak of white marker on my hand as an excuse not to meet his gaze. “She has to find someone else.”
“Why?” he asked, voice quiet. “You did such a great job.”
“I should have never pretended to be Hailey, and I shouldn’t have put you in a position to lie to your sister. I was going to call it all off, tell your sister everything. But then you made me mad, cornering me at the office. I wanted to show you I’m not some con artist.”
“Okay,” he said. “Well, you showed me. I know you are a true calligrapher . . . even if you cheat by picking up your marker.”
I ignored his attempt to lighten the mood. “Even so, I can’t do this. I wanted to pretend that taking on Hailey’s business had no risks. But there are. This is your sister’s big moment. If I screw this up—” I blew out a puff of air.
Beck paused for a moment. “I promise, I’m not trying to shit on what you do.” He put out his hands, a universal sign of, I mean you no harm. “But it’s calligraphy, right? It’s not like the wedding is going to be called off because the menu isn’t written in elegant cursive, right?”
I decided to take the high road and not remind him of the differences between cursive and calligraphy. “I understand the service I offer is not a cornerstone for the big day, but I also know your sister has probably thought about her wedding for a long time. I don’t want to be the one to disappoint her expectations.”
“So don’t.” He gave me a daring look, and I realized how close we stood. My body tingled at the idea of him being less than an arm’s reach away. I could touch that freckle on his throat, trace the tattoo on his arm, and run my fingers through his curls.
