Complete Me
Page 59
It takes all my willpower, but I manage not to call Damien from the road. We are definitely talking about the whole Lisa bullshit, but we’re going to do it in person once I’ve cooled down a bit—and have figured out what I want to say and exactly how I want to say it. Damien is far too adept at distracting me, and I have no intention of being distracted.
Giselle calls while I’m in the car, and we make plans to meet at the office to go over a color palate she’s picked out. As soon as I hit the freeway, though, I can tell that traffic will be a bitch. I have no idea what time Giselle left Malibu, but it’s possible that she’s got a thirty minute head start, so I call my own office and tell the receptionist—whose name I have forgotten—to let Giselle into the space if she gets there first.
As it turns out, traffic isn’t just a bitch, it’s a raging, angry bitch from hell, and it takes me well over an hour to get from the Upper Crust in Malibu to my office in Sherman Oaks. I’ve finished both the coffee and the fritter by the time I arrive, and so I park Coop and walk down to Starbucks to get a refill on caffeine. Monica is at the same table, and she looks up and waves when I come in.
“How’d the audition go?” I ask.
She frowns and makes a thumbs-down motion. I make the appropriate sympathetic noises and get in line for coffee. I get a fresh latte for me and then, because I’m in a bit of a mood, I add an extra black coffee, and have the barista put a container of cream and some sweetener in a bag. Then I deliver the coffee to the security guy who tailed me from Malibu and now sits in his car in the office’s covered parking area. “You must be bored out of your mind,” I say. “But I really do appreciate it.”
He thanks me, tells me his name is Tony, and assures me that it’s not boring at all. I don’t believe him, but I appreciate the lie.
I’m not surprised to find Giselle in my office when I get there, but I am surprised by the wide swaths of color she has painted on my walls. She must see the surprise on my face, because her eyes go wide, and she immediately starts apologizing. “It’s so much easier to pick a color if you have an actual patch on the wall. Those cardboard paint chips will only get you so far.”
“No, it’s okay, really. I like the blue,” I add, pointing to a patch of sky blue she’s painted by the window.
“One of my favorites as well,” she says. She glances at her watch. “I know you have work, so let me finish putting some of these colors up, and then I’ll come back tomorrow with a few canvases for you to choose from, and you can tell me which colors sing to you.”
I agree readily, though I don’t know how much singing the colors will do. As far as I’m concerned, the blue is just fine. But Giselle seems determined to make this a process, and since it’s important to her—and I’m going to get a freshly painted office out of the deal—I am happy to go with the flow.
My cell phone rings right as I’m firing up my laptop. It’s Jamie, who is calling to gloat about the fact that she going to spend the day luxuriating on the beach while I slave over a hot keyboard.
“Not that I wouldn’t rather be shooting a commercial,” she adds. “But I’m all about the glass being half full.”
I laugh. “Glad to hear it. And, James,” I say, “just because the beach is private doesn’t mean it’s private, you know?”
“No naked body surfing?”
“Not even topless,” I say, smiling.
“Tell your man that I’ll fix dinner tonight. We can call it rent. What do you want?”
“I’m good with anything,” I say. “And if you need to go to the store, just get Edward to drive you.” I frown, realizing how easily the instructions have come from my lips. Edward doesn’t work for me, after all. And yet here I am sliding into the mistress-of-the-house role.
I have to admit I like it—even if I am still irritated with Damien.
“My friend Jamie,” I say to Giselle after I hang up, even though she hasn’t asked. “She’s vegging at the Malibu house today.”
“Sounds nice.”
I glance around my office feeling a bit smug and very happy. “Maybe,” I say. “But this is good, too.”
“I’m excited for you,” Giselle says. “And impressed by how quickly you’re working to get your name out there.”
I frown, confused.
“The article in today’s Business Journal,” she says, as if that will make it all crystal clear for me. “About the app you’re designing for Blaine. I think it’s great that you’re turning all that nasty press about the portrait around and using it to promote your new business.”
“I didn’t contact the Journal,” I say.
“Oh.” She frowns. “I guess Evelyn or Blaine must have. Either way, it’s great publicity.”
Great, maybe. But also odd. And as soon as Giselle leaves, I pick up my phone to call Evelyn and ask if she sent out a press release. I don’t mind if she did, but I would have liked advance notice. If for no other reason than I’d like a copy of the article for my scrapbook.
Before I get a chance to dial, however, the receptionist tells me that I have a delivery. I open my office door to find a messenger with a huge box of chocolates. I take it, bemused, and read the card. Forgiveness and chocolate go together.
A wry smile twists my lips. Apparently Damien spoke with Preston Rhodes.
I consider calling him, but decide to wait. It will serve him right to squirm.
Promptly ten minutes later, there is another delivery. A gift basket filled with fancy liqueurs surrounding a huge bottle of Macallan whiskey. The man knows me well. I check the card and laugh out loud. Forgiveness goes even better with alcohol.
Funny, maybe. But I’m still clinging to my irritation.
Still, I can’t deny that the edge on my anger has dulled a bit.
When the next delivery is announced, I’m already waiting by the door. I tug it open and gasp to see Damien himself standing there. He’s holding a shopping bag and carrying a single red rose. There is both amusement and apology in his eyes, and I have to fight the familiar tug that urges me to take the packages from him and wrap myself in his arms.
I realize we’ve been standing like that for too long when he clears his throat. “Can I come in?”
If I’d heard even the slightest hint of laughter in his voice, I would have slammed the door in his face. But his voice was flat and respectful and despite the whimsical nature of his gifts, it is clear that he knows my frustration with him is genuine.
“For a bit,” I say. “I have work to do.”
I step aside, and he eases in, his arm brushing mine as he does so. I feel that frisson of awareness that I associate with Damien and draw in a tiny little breath. If he hears me, he doesn’t show it. He just strides into my office, puts down the bag, then hands me the rose. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I shake my head and face him, legs parted, my hands on my hips, totally exasperated. “You are a brilliant man, Damien Stark. Which is why I don’t understand why you can’t get it through your head that this kind of thing pisses me off. It’s one thing—one very annoying thing—to ask Lisa to seek me out and help me. It’s another thing to lie to me about checking her credentials.”
Giselle calls while I’m in the car, and we make plans to meet at the office to go over a color palate she’s picked out. As soon as I hit the freeway, though, I can tell that traffic will be a bitch. I have no idea what time Giselle left Malibu, but it’s possible that she’s got a thirty minute head start, so I call my own office and tell the receptionist—whose name I have forgotten—to let Giselle into the space if she gets there first.
As it turns out, traffic isn’t just a bitch, it’s a raging, angry bitch from hell, and it takes me well over an hour to get from the Upper Crust in Malibu to my office in Sherman Oaks. I’ve finished both the coffee and the fritter by the time I arrive, and so I park Coop and walk down to Starbucks to get a refill on caffeine. Monica is at the same table, and she looks up and waves when I come in.
“How’d the audition go?” I ask.
She frowns and makes a thumbs-down motion. I make the appropriate sympathetic noises and get in line for coffee. I get a fresh latte for me and then, because I’m in a bit of a mood, I add an extra black coffee, and have the barista put a container of cream and some sweetener in a bag. Then I deliver the coffee to the security guy who tailed me from Malibu and now sits in his car in the office’s covered parking area. “You must be bored out of your mind,” I say. “But I really do appreciate it.”
He thanks me, tells me his name is Tony, and assures me that it’s not boring at all. I don’t believe him, but I appreciate the lie.
I’m not surprised to find Giselle in my office when I get there, but I am surprised by the wide swaths of color she has painted on my walls. She must see the surprise on my face, because her eyes go wide, and she immediately starts apologizing. “It’s so much easier to pick a color if you have an actual patch on the wall. Those cardboard paint chips will only get you so far.”
“No, it’s okay, really. I like the blue,” I add, pointing to a patch of sky blue she’s painted by the window.
“One of my favorites as well,” she says. She glances at her watch. “I know you have work, so let me finish putting some of these colors up, and then I’ll come back tomorrow with a few canvases for you to choose from, and you can tell me which colors sing to you.”
I agree readily, though I don’t know how much singing the colors will do. As far as I’m concerned, the blue is just fine. But Giselle seems determined to make this a process, and since it’s important to her—and I’m going to get a freshly painted office out of the deal—I am happy to go with the flow.
My cell phone rings right as I’m firing up my laptop. It’s Jamie, who is calling to gloat about the fact that she going to spend the day luxuriating on the beach while I slave over a hot keyboard.
“Not that I wouldn’t rather be shooting a commercial,” she adds. “But I’m all about the glass being half full.”
I laugh. “Glad to hear it. And, James,” I say, “just because the beach is private doesn’t mean it’s private, you know?”
“No naked body surfing?”
“Not even topless,” I say, smiling.
“Tell your man that I’ll fix dinner tonight. We can call it rent. What do you want?”
“I’m good with anything,” I say. “And if you need to go to the store, just get Edward to drive you.” I frown, realizing how easily the instructions have come from my lips. Edward doesn’t work for me, after all. And yet here I am sliding into the mistress-of-the-house role.
I have to admit I like it—even if I am still irritated with Damien.
“My friend Jamie,” I say to Giselle after I hang up, even though she hasn’t asked. “She’s vegging at the Malibu house today.”
“Sounds nice.”
I glance around my office feeling a bit smug and very happy. “Maybe,” I say. “But this is good, too.”
“I’m excited for you,” Giselle says. “And impressed by how quickly you’re working to get your name out there.”
I frown, confused.
“The article in today’s Business Journal,” she says, as if that will make it all crystal clear for me. “About the app you’re designing for Blaine. I think it’s great that you’re turning all that nasty press about the portrait around and using it to promote your new business.”
“I didn’t contact the Journal,” I say.
“Oh.” She frowns. “I guess Evelyn or Blaine must have. Either way, it’s great publicity.”
Great, maybe. But also odd. And as soon as Giselle leaves, I pick up my phone to call Evelyn and ask if she sent out a press release. I don’t mind if she did, but I would have liked advance notice. If for no other reason than I’d like a copy of the article for my scrapbook.
Before I get a chance to dial, however, the receptionist tells me that I have a delivery. I open my office door to find a messenger with a huge box of chocolates. I take it, bemused, and read the card. Forgiveness and chocolate go together.
A wry smile twists my lips. Apparently Damien spoke with Preston Rhodes.
I consider calling him, but decide to wait. It will serve him right to squirm.
Promptly ten minutes later, there is another delivery. A gift basket filled with fancy liqueurs surrounding a huge bottle of Macallan whiskey. The man knows me well. I check the card and laugh out loud. Forgiveness goes even better with alcohol.
Funny, maybe. But I’m still clinging to my irritation.
Still, I can’t deny that the edge on my anger has dulled a bit.
When the next delivery is announced, I’m already waiting by the door. I tug it open and gasp to see Damien himself standing there. He’s holding a shopping bag and carrying a single red rose. There is both amusement and apology in his eyes, and I have to fight the familiar tug that urges me to take the packages from him and wrap myself in his arms.
I realize we’ve been standing like that for too long when he clears his throat. “Can I come in?”
If I’d heard even the slightest hint of laughter in his voice, I would have slammed the door in his face. But his voice was flat and respectful and despite the whimsical nature of his gifts, it is clear that he knows my frustration with him is genuine.
“For a bit,” I say. “I have work to do.”
I step aside, and he eases in, his arm brushing mine as he does so. I feel that frisson of awareness that I associate with Damien and draw in a tiny little breath. If he hears me, he doesn’t show it. He just strides into my office, puts down the bag, then hands me the rose. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I shake my head and face him, legs parted, my hands on my hips, totally exasperated. “You are a brilliant man, Damien Stark. Which is why I don’t understand why you can’t get it through your head that this kind of thing pisses me off. It’s one thing—one very annoying thing—to ask Lisa to seek me out and help me. It’s another thing to lie to me about checking her credentials.”
