For the first time since I’d left LA, I wasn’t fearful to be alone with a heterosexual male who clearly appeared to be showing the usual signs of pursuing me.
I’d just have to see how it went with him at dinner tonight. After he’d asked me the customary questions tested out on a first date and heard my story, I was certain his curiosity would be swiftly, but politely, satisfied. My past was so very untidy in so many ways, the recent past a literal slag heap of a mess that had nearly ended me.
When Caleb Blackstone heard that bit?—and I would answer truthfully so that nothing was left out.
I couldn’t imagine he, or any man, would want to be involved with me. No. Happiness with a man is not in the cards for you at the moment. Someday, but not right now.
EDUARDO showed up after me, which hardly ever happened. “Ay Dios mío, my head hurts, condesa.”
“Too much partying to get in and not enough weekend, huh?” I had taken up the majority of his “lifestyle” time. “Sorry you don’t feel well, but that pumpkin button-down you’re wearing this morning is very autumn-festive. Do you want me to go next door and get you a pumpkin latte to go with it?”
He groaned dramatically and waved me off. He would go lie down on the sofa in the back for a bit and then reappear later as a new man. Eduardo cracked me up continually.
“Brooke, good morning. Do you have a minute?” Jon asked from my doorway.
“For you, Jon? At least two or three, and good morning to you as well.” I usually didn’t see him first thing because Jon was not a morning person. He needed to be plied with coffee and a pastry before he came ’round to the land of the coherent any time before 10:00 a.m. I think he suffered from the same condition Eduardo did—a very busy social life after hours, which I suppose applied to most single people. The only person at work who wasn’t single was Carlisle. He was married to a heart surgeon at Massachusetts General named Colin. Colin and Carlisle were shortened to CC whenever they were discussed as a couple. Absolutely adorably in love with each other.
Jon eased himself into my pink velvet slipper chair, causing it to give out a small squeak of protest, which I politely ignored. “What’s up, Jon?”
“We have a new client with a 1920s Back Bay penthouse undergoing a complete renovation. It’s quite a job, Brooke, because of the scope and also the impressive budget. In excess of five million to be exact.” He smiled hugely. “It’s three floors, six thousand square feet with four bedrooms and four and a half baths. There are five fireplaces, a media room, home gym, two home offices—the owner’s an international businessman—five deeded parking spaces, and a landscaped roof deck with unobstructed views across the Charles River to the Boston skyline.”
“Wow. It sounds incredible. And you’re here to give me the good news that I get to do one of the rooms,” I said. “I hope . . .” I added, a bit more humbly.
“Not exactly, my dear.” He tilted his head meaningfully before dropping the bomb on me. “You are in charge of the whole project. He asked for a woman designer—and only a woman will do for him apparently. He made sure of it when he paid the retainer fee directly to you.” Jon pulled what looked like a check out of the folder he’d brought in with him. He laid both on my desk, the check facing up. “Five percent of the total budget is our retainer fee. Your client paid ten percent—a fifty-fifty split between you, the lead designer, and the shop. Congratulations, Brooke. Please come to me for anything you need help with, or Carlisle obviously. You have a magnificent budget, and the opportunity to make your design career right here.” He poked his finger onto the file folder. “Clients like him bring in more business if they are happy with the experience because they talk to their friends.”
I swallowed deeply and said nothing. The city of Boston, and everything and everyone in it, had certainly just been sucked into a swirling vortex of space and time. I think.
I stared down at the amount written on the check. Unbelievable fucking hell?
My name was written clearly on the line. That is your name, idiot.
Last Friday’s date at the top. He said he’d come here and had a consultation with Jon.
And along the bottom right, the signature of one Caleb J. W. Blackstone, written in the same bold handwriting I had on the card that accompanied my flowers, sitting not more than two feet from me at this very moment. The same Caleb who is taking me to dinner tonight. Surreal.
“Make Mr. Blackstone happy with his design experience, Brooke.”
“Yes, Jon. I will make sure of it,” I managed to croak out, despite the fact I was fighting for my sanity in the swirling vortex of time and space which had swallowed up the city of Boston about ten minutes ago.