Chapter Seven #4
“Miss Flora Fairchild here to see you, sir.”
Finn’s eyes widened.
“Give me a minute, Gina!” he said in a panic that he didn’t quite understand.
He threw the napkins in the trash, wiped the grease off his fingers and face, brushed his teeth, and washed his hands.
“Send her in,” he said, winded.
“And her friend,” Gina added quickly.
“What—”
Finn didn’t have a chance to find out what was going on before the door was kicked open. Literally kicked. The first thing he saw was a red heel.
Flora was dressed nice. A pair of black flares, black satin shirt, red neck scarf, red heels, and her hair was straightened.
She rarely straightened her hair. She looked…
beautiful with straight hair—very professional, a Chanel promotion sort of refined—but he preferred the curls. The curls were pure Flora lore.
He squinted at her now, wondering where she was going dressed like that.
“I have the photos from Carmel, there’s a large pelican living on the ledge of the second story of this building,” she said, sounding disinterested, “and sorry for bursting in on you.”
“In that order?” he asked.
She handed him the package.
Her friend, Allison—the tall, blonde girl he’d seen off and on for most of his life—followed behind her, embarrassed and obviously a little worried about barging in.
Finn wondered if Flora had made the effort to come to the San Francisco office just to introduce her friend to him.
If that was the case, his plan was really going to need extra help.
His suspicions were confirmed moments later.
“By the way,” she added, staring at the soccer game.
“This is my friend, Allison Scott. I don’t think you’ve met her in a long time.
So, I’m reintroducing her now. She’s a fifth-grade teacher at Marin Headlands Elementary.
It’s just down the street from the house.
It’s where we both went. Not you, though. ”
He and Roman had gone to the local private school, Branson Academy. Finn didn’t know much about Marin Headlands Elementary, only that it was where Flora had gone, and that she had caused no shortage of trouble.
A while ago, he and his mother had run into a woman named Mrs. Blumenfeld at a sushi restaurant downtown.
His mother knew Mrs. Blumenfeld from some organization they were in.
It turned out she had been Flora’s fourth grade teacher.
She told the story of when Flora caught a frog at recess and let it loose in the classroom during a particularly boring math lesson.
The reminder of this anecdote made him feel genuine goodwill toward Allison.
He couldn’t imagine working with children for more than thirty minutes without having a nervous breakdown.
He wasn’t sure he even wanted kids himself.
Especially if any of them had the will and spirit of frog-catching, owl-freeing Flora.
Allison nervously introduced herself. Finn was polite without being too friendly. Flora stood back and watched, playing the not-so-sly wing woman, adding facts about how amazing Allison was.
Did you know she’s the youngest teacher this district has ever seen?
She got the award for teacher of the month twice already!
Finn opened the photos while Allison explained how problematic some of her kids were. Finn was trying to listen, but he was mostly watching Flora out of the corner of his eye to see how truly disinterested she was.
He put her at peak apathy.
She was staring at the game, or out the window, or fiddling with her heel strap, or twirling her finger around her hair. She clearly wasn’t bothered. And where there was no jealousy, there was no interest.
Finn looked at the first photo and then held it up at Flora.
“What an amazing view of the house.”
Flora squinted and then lurched forward. “Oh dear. I gave you the wrong one.”
He was holding a photo of Pont Neuf.
Flora snatched the photo and the package back and handed him the other set. She scanned through the ones from Paris, the last of them, and sighed a little to herself.
“I love this one,” Allison said, looking over his shoulder. “Such a beautiful place.”
Finn was now scanning through the actual Carmel photos.
“You have captured it so well,” he remarked, actually stunned. “You’ve got an incredible eye.”
There was a small envelope in the package with twenty bucks inside and a note scribbled in her handwriting that said—
For my share of the pizza and drinks
“Well, we better get out of here,” Flora said, ignoring his praise entirely. “I’ve got a job interview. Shoji closes soon. And Allison and I are going to try to find Wilder Fairfax before he leaves town for Mexico City.” Her eyes went wide. “The cupcakes! I nearly forgot.”
“Oh, the cupcakes!” Allison agreed, nodding her head. “We gotta go!”
Were they talking in code? Finn had no idea what most of that meant or who Wilder Fairfax was. He just nodded, wondering why in the world Flora would have gone through the trouble to give him twenty bucks. He was a billionaire.
They were gone, chattering to each other a mile a minute before he could gather another complete thought.
The door slammed and he was left with deafening silence.
The office, which had been fine before, suddenly felt so empty.
It was nearly unbearable.
About three minutes later, he commanded Gina to find out who this “Wilder Fairfax” character was, where he was going to be, and what his schedule would allow. There was one simple way to keep Flora away from Roman, and it was currently through this very small lead.
About ten minutes later, Gina had an answer.
Wilder Fairfax
Age: Twenty-nine.
Occupation: Lead singer of the up-and-coming rock and roll band, Saint Ghost.
Finn—who had no idea what was popular and what wasn’t—had never heard of either Wilder Fairfax or Saint Ghost. Gina reported that he and his band were about to become the biggest thing music had seen since One Direction and they were spending the night in San Francisco before heading to Mexico City, just as Flora had said.
“Well, tell him I need him to play again tonight,” Finn said lazily, feet on his desk. He had Wilder’s Wikipedia page up on his TV screen that doubled as a monitor. “Why is he so much better looking than me?”
“No idea what you’re talking about. If you dressed like that, had a guitar, and grew your hair out, you’d be twins,” Gina muttered. “Well, his hair’s a bit lighter than yours.”
“Can you find him?”
“I can try. But this guy won’t play for peanuts and an encore. This band is getting popular.”
“How much do you think?”
“Honestly?” Gina asked. “Out the door? You’re looking at fifty grand. Maybe more.”
Finn sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Tell me what price he names and we’ll negotiate it down. They’re getting popular, they aren’t Pearl Jam just yet.”
“Don’t tell Wilder that.”
Gina managed to get in contact with their manager—some weird guy named Edgar—and relayed Finn’s question of whether Wilder was opposed to playing again tonight (for a considerable fee).
Apparently, Wilder asked a few pressing questions, like who was asking and why.
When he found out it was Finn Woodhouse, he agreed.
Finn had a way of making people do whatever he wanted just by being Finn Woodhouse, even egotistical rockstars.
With a few more calls and word spread to certain people, Saint Ghost was set to play that night in San Francisco at a tiny place called Bimbo’s 356. Terrible name, Finn thought. However, it was actually named after some poor guy who got the nickname “Bimbo.” Finn would have sued.
The tickets went up for sale and Wilder announced on social media that they’d be playing an extra show in San Francisco at the bidding of a very well-known “tech guru.”
It was a done deal.
Finn got a few of the VIP tickets and made sure that Wilder would be there after to meet both Allison and Flora.
In return, Finn promised to post a photo with him on his own social media, which had a meager thirty-one million followers.
Roman had thirty-four million. This number had flip-flopped over the years—sometimes Finn in the lead, sometimes Roman—but Finn had grown to post less over the years.
Roman posted every week if not more, making him the social media fan favorite.
Wilder called him later that day.
“I like your company,” he said flatly. “I like your ethics. Can’t tell if they’re real, but they seem good.”
“They’re real,” Finn replied, wondering why this famous rockstar was calling him.
“You promise?”
“I promise. I’m the head of the company. I don’t mess around.”
“Listen, I’m asking this because I like your tech a lot. I want to use it on tour. RGM, our label, just let us know that in about two years we’re going to be doing bigger stuff. We’re gonna sell out Madison Square Garden in seconds.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Wilder was quiet for a beat. “How can you be so sure your next product launch will do well?”
“Fair point.”
“Listen, if you don’t believe me, I’ll connect you the head guy, Russell. But I want to work a deal with you. In two years, us repping your gear will be bigger than every person who reps it now combined.”
Finn nodded to himself. This was already paying off.
Later, Finn flipped through his contacts list, searching for Flora’s name, which he found easily since she’d put about thirty-seven flower emojis next to it.
No one in his phone had emojis next to their name save Roman—the middle finger three times—and his mother—clinking glasses—which she had put there herself.
He called, stopping her from her fruitless hunt for Wilder, and informed her that he’d found Wilder’s “secret” show tonight.
“And you’ve got VIP tickets.”
“What!” Flora exploded. “This is amazing, Finn!”
“Also, do I have emojis in your phone?”
“Yes, the registered trademark symbol.”
Finn planned to go alone to the concert and meet Flora and Allison there until his phone rang.
Holly Carlisle.
She was wondering if he would show her San Francisco tonight. He said sure, not specifying what would be entailed.