3. Natasha
3
NATASHA
T here was only one person who ever knocked on the door to my workshop. Though calling it “knocking” might be an understatement.
Stacy hammered on the door to the basement storage room, flat-palmed, with both hands, singing my name in that high-pitched almost-squeal of hers. If the dogs in the neighborhood weren’t already howling, they would be soon. “Tasha! Natashaaaaaa!”
“Come in!” I hollered over the sound of her hammering. I was on the other side of the workshop, jigsaw in hand, and didn’t feel like walking over to open the door. Stacy waltzed into the space in a flowery shawl. She always wore an eclectic mix of thrift store finds, bright colors, and geometric patterns. But she pulled it off, partially because she had an amazing eye for striking, unusual combinations, and partially because she was gorgeous enough to make a paper bag look good.
“Hello, best friend!” Stacy called over to me.
I stopped the jigsaw and laid it down, making sure the blade was facing away from me. “Oh god, what did you break this time?”
“Nothing!” Stacy cried, mock offended. “Why do you always assume I broke something?”
“Because the last time you started a sentence like that, your kitchen table was in pieces, and you needed me to fix it.”
Stacy put her hands on her hips. “I told you I was trying something new for a show.”
“I don’t see how the table legs were necessary for your costumes.”
“I swear I haven’t broken anything. What are you working on?” Stacy asked as she drew near.
“The coffee table I told you about. Remember? The commissioned piece for that TV exec.”
“Ooh, the one with the pretty glass inlay?”
“Yep.”
“Ah, yes,” Stacy said. “Now the holes make sense. I thought you’d let the jigsaw get away from you.”
I snorted. “I’m still waiting for the glass.” Backorders were the bane of my existence. I shoved my safety glasses up to the top of my head, displacing my bangs.
Stacy whipped her phone out. “Hold it right there.” She snapped a picture of me. Or actually, a series of pictures.
I wrinkled my nose and held my hand up, blocking her shot. “No, c’mon. What are you doing?”
“Costume inspo. For my next show.”
I frowned. “I thought your next show was that depressing War and Peace knockoff.”
“That’s my next next one,” she corrected me. “Next up is the ‘futuristic-tech-meets-steampunk’ one.”
“Uh-huh.” Though her day job was at a temp agency, Stacy had big dreams of being a Broadway costume designer, and she was paying her dues and building her résumé by designing for every crappy way-the-hell-off-Broadway production she could find.
She looked down at her phone, then flipped it around to show me. “You always look sexy in your safety glasses. Let me make you a Tinder profile already. I bet I could drum up a handsome woodworker. Someone who’s handy, in more ways than one. You know. The type who can use his ‘power tool’ to work you over just right.”
I doubled over laughing. “That was so terrible.”
Stacy waved her hands across her invisible canvas. “I’m trying to paint a picture here of the sexy carpenter I foresee for you.”
“Well, you can keep him,” I said. “I have no time to entertain whatever guy you drum up.” Not when I was about to be job hunting again. “Plus, I don’t know if I’d get on with someone so similar.” Been there, done that. And it’d ended very badly. I’d lost an amazing job, my boyfriend, and my living situation all in one go. “You know, opposites attract and all that.”
Stacy sighed. “You’re probably right. I’ll keep the sexy carpenter for me and find you someone else. Maybe a man who really loves coffee so he won’t mind hanging out at the café while you work.”
“He won’t see me at The Blend. Not after today,” I muttered. “I got fired.”
“No, wait! What? I loved that place. I got so much free coffee.”
“Let’s just say there’s a man in this city I’d very much like to take a power tool to,” I muttered. “And not in a fun sort of way.” I wondered how Mr. Table Tyrant would fare against my jigsaw. I’d like to poke a couple holes into some vital things.
“Oh god,” Stacy said, plopping down on the stool at my small desk. “Customer from hell?”
“You would not believe this guy,” I said. “I mean, I hear those customer horror stories all the time, I just never thought I’d experience one in person.”
“What did he do?”
“I could hear him on the phone being a major jerk to his dad, first of all. It all went downhill from there.” As I recounted the series of events, Stacy’s jaw dropped further and further.
“That’s awful!”
“ He was awful. Like I’ve truly never met a more horrible person in my life.” I should have realized someone that good looking couldn’t possibly have a decent personality. That’s not how the world worked. And I hated the fact that I couldn’t help noticing how attractive he was.
“Well, I’m sorry again. That’s rough, Tash. Did he at least apologize when he realized you’d been fired?”
“Unsurprisingly, no,” I said. “I did get the last word in though.” I grinned at the memory of the look on his face. “So there’s that.”
“Do you think there’s any negotiating with Craig?”
“Maybe if I begged—but that would just give him license to be even more of an ass to me. No. Not worth it.”
“I’ll keep an eye out at the temp agency and let you know if I hear about any good openings.”
“Thanks, Stace,” I said, groaning as she pulled me into a hug. I hung there, arms by my sides, as she squished me with all her might.
“It’ll all work out,” she promised.
“You and your endless optimism.” It was the best and worst thing about her. It made her incredibly fun to be around, but it also made her massively vulnerable to assholes. In her work and her personal life, she’d been scammed and taken advantage of time and time again…which was another very good reason not to let Stacy find me a guy. She had a terrible track record.
“Hey, how about we go out somewhere to get your mind off Mr. Grump and your unemployment woes?”
I started to shake my head.
“Don’t say no. There’s that block party happening around the corner. We could go. Have some barbecue and drinks. Dance a little. Flirt with strangers.”
“I can’t,” I said. “Really. I’m not wallowing, I promise. I just want to get this project ready as soon as possible.” I needed that payment on delivery ASAP.
“Okay, that’s fair. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Hmm,” I said, picking up a sanding brick and taking it to the rough edges of the coffee table. “You could read out my emails to me so I can see if I’ve gotten any more commissions. My laptop is over there.”
“Ooo, I can totally be your personal assistant. Natasha Dryer’s office. How can we transform your space?”
I shook my head. “Is that how you’d answer the phone?”
Stacy clicked her tongue. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” I laughed. “It’s cute.”
“Well, Ms. Dryer, let’s see how business is doing.” Stacy set my laptop on the desk and opened it, scrolling through my inbox. “Oh, this one wants you to buy property in India. Jagmeet promises a luxury living experience,” Stacy teased.
“Tell him I’ll think about it,” I replied. “What else is in there?”
“Spam. Spam. Buy one get one free pizza. Oh!”
“What?”
“There’s a sale at Fabletics.”
I rolled my eyes. Stacy had an obsession with activewear.
“Also, why do you keep giving your email to all these companies? Most of this is junk.”
“I know, I have to start unsubscribing from things.”
“I bet that’s a job. You could start a subscription business just to unsubscribe people from things.”
I blew some wood shavings off the table. “An untapped market. You should get on that.”
“I’ll put it on my resume right under personal assistant. Hey, so there’s someone in here asking about a commission.”
I looked up to see Stacy frowning at the email. “What did they say?”
“That they’ve reached out before wanting to commission something. It says, ‘I’m in the market for an interesting, one-of-a-kind piece?—’”
An immediate spark of irritation surged through me. “‘Wondering how you’d like to design blah, blah, blah…’” I finished for Stacy. “Is that the gist of the email?”
“Exactly that.”
“God, again? I swear I get an email from this person at least once a month.”
“And that’s…bad?” she asked.
“It is when they waste my time. They’re always super vague when I reach out for details, so I end up coming up with most of the idea on my own. Then I draw up a sketch, and they reject it claiming it’s not what they’re looking for when they didn’t even tell me what that was in the first place.”
“And they keep coming back?” Stacy asked.
“Like clockwork. This is the third or fourth time.” I’d reached the end of my patience with them. “It’s weird, right?”
“It’s definitely a little fishy,” Stacy agreed.
Screw this guy then. “Can you fire back an email and just say I’m too busy right now and not taking any commissions?” It was a lie. Now more than ever, I needed all the commissions I could get. But not from this guy.
“Okay,” Stacy said, her long fingernails clicking away on the keys. “Done and done.”
“Is there anything in there from 1stDibs.com?” That’s where I made most of my legitimate furniture sales online—either refurbished or original designs—unless someone heard about me via word of mouth.
“Give me a sec. No, I don’t see anything…Actually, wait! Here’s one.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, looks promising. He included a picture of one of your old pieces—a desk he says his grandmother bought at an estate sale? Aww, this is so cute. He wrote that his grandmother absolutely adores the desk. She uses it to write letters to all her friends.”
I hurried across the room and scanned the email.
“He wants to commission more pieces for her,” I said, nudging Stacy so hard in the arm she almost tumbled off the chair. “Pieces! As in plural. Now this sounds like a project I’m up for.”
“That’s great, Tash. See, I said things were going to turn around for you.”
“Nice to see a guy who appreciates his family for a change,” I said, thinking about Mr. Coffeezilla again.
“Maybe this is your perfect guy,” Stacy joked. “He obviously has money if he wants to pay your prices for a bunch of pieces. Clearly, he has good taste and appreciates furniture. Close to his family. And, hey, if we’re fantasizing here, might as well make him gorgeous too.”
I hummed. Why was I picturing the hot-but-evil asshole that got me fired?
Stacy started typing.
“What are you saying?”
“Why yes, Mr. Moneybags, I will accept your commission since you’re so interested in my assets. Winky face.”
“Oh my god, do not type that.”
“I’m joking…I’m…Oh shit.”
My eyes almost bugged out of my head as her message popped up on the screen below the inquiry. “Did you just hit send?”
“Take it back!” Stacy said, shoving the laptop into my arms. “Delete it!”
“You can’t just delete it. It’s already sent. Oh my god!”
“Did I just lose you the commission? Natasha, I am so sorry!”
My heart beat in my throat. “No, no, no …” I had to be able to fix this. There had to be something… “He’s responding!”
“What?”
“He’s online. Or someone is. They’re typing up a reply.” I watched the three little dots flick in and out of focus, practically holding my breath. I thought I might be sick.
“Let me see!” Stacy said, wrenching the laptop back. “Oh, he posted! Um, it’s…very formal,” she said as I paced, holding my head in my hands. “But not bad!” she continued.
I hurried to her side, peering over her shoulder. He’d written, Thank you for your prompt response. I will try to look past your lack of professionalism as my grandmother is such a fan of your work.
“Okay, clearly he wasn’t amused,” Stacy said. “But it could be worse.”
I was mortified, my heart still pounding uncomfortably. But she was right. He didn’t cancel the commission. In fact, he’d suggested I come to his grandmother’s house in Long Island so we could discuss what pieces would work best with what his grandmother already owned.
“Should I set a date and time?” Stacy asked.
I yanked the laptop away from her. “You are officially fired from all personal assistant duties.”