Chapter 3 #2
To be clear, a seventy-year-old multi-millionaire heiress is hard to surprise. She’s seen it all, done it all, and from what I can tell, hasn’t liked much of anything in her pampered life.
Usually, I can figure out things about a person using cues they don’t even know they’re sending.
Their clothes, their car, or the rest of the spaces in their home says a lot.
But Lydia is a blank slate of black designer clothes, architectural but simple, and a chauffeured car that doesn’t speak to her likes at all.
Her whole house has been piecemealed, room by room, by different designers.
All together, I had nothing but my own instincts to go on.
Given her attitude and what Archie likes to call ‘permanent resting bitch face,’ I chose to ignore Arch’s suggestion that she needed some dick and instead decided she needed a little warmth and softness in her life to temper her sour disposition. And maybe an update of a generation or two.
I think the ultra-light and colorful design is just what Ms. Montgomery needs, if only she likes it.
“How could she not love this?” I ask myself as much as Arch, staring critically at my creation with pride. I so love it. The room just seems so alive and vibrant, compared to the dull, gold, overly ornate decor Lydia had before. “We did a terrific job.”
Archie dips his chin, his lips pursed. “Let’s be honest. You did a terrific job.
I just looked pretty and did what I was told.
You know you’re the only one I do that for, right?
” His ring-decorated hands on his hips, his tapping boot, and the look of fierceness on his face definitely tell that tale easily.
I laugh, though he’s basically right. Archie has a lot of personality, blunt and big and take no prisoners. Why he deigns to work for me, I’ll never know, but he certainly never defers to anyone else. Ever.
Truth be told, I’m terrified Lydia’s going to trash my design. And maybe I shouldn’t have taken a risk with something chic and modern, but my gut said Darth Vader’s sister needed some colorfulness in her life.
“Normally, I’d say this room is an easy slam-dunk. But that woman is evil incarnate. I mean, all she’s missing is a crapload of Dalmatian puppies and—”
Right then, the giant double doors to the entryway swing open, accompanied by the sound of high-pitched barking.
“Speak of the devil,” Arch mutters under his breath. “Bitch-ella has arrived.” I swat at him, but he’s too quick, moving a step away and shooting daggers at me from under his arched and slashed brows. “Don’t even think about it, Boss Lady.”
Dressed in a black pantsuit, her white hair done up into a fashionable French twist, Lydia Montgomery strolls into the room with a small pup balanced on her arm.
It’s a fuzzy white Pomeranian, not a Dalmatian, thankfully, or I probably would’ve lost it and started laughing at the moniker that Arch bestowed upon her.
The fluffball isn’t nearly as cute as the movie dogs, either, and it doesn’t know the meaning of be quiet, judging by the chorus of constant yips.
Beside me, Arch visibly rearranges his posture, standing up straight and placing his hands respectfully in front of his crotch, which looks a bit odd for someone in ripped jeans and a t-shirt, even if they are vintage 80s and designer.
Unconsciously, I almost do the same as Lydia stops in front of us with a frown that could curdle milk as she strokes the head of her yapping puppy.
Damn, you’d think she’s the Queen of England. I don’t know if I should bow, curtsey, or just roll my eyes.
“Welcome back—” Arch begins to say, and I’m thankful for his attempt at professionalism, but he’s silenced by Lydia’s frosty glare.
Turning her nose up, Lydia moves away to tour the room, inspecting our work, her militant gaze missing nothing. Her low kitten heels click against the ultra-polished marble floors and somehow manage to sound demanding and ominous.
When she’s done, she takes a seat on the gorgeous cream-colored couch I picked out and levels a scowl that could melt lead our way. Meanwhile, pup-inator is growling at us like we stole one of his doggie biscuits.
Arch and I exchange glances, and he mutters under his breath as he begins to slink away. “Okay, you grab all our stuff and I’ll go start the getaway vehicle.”
Ignoring Arch, I begin blurting out details.
“The wall color is Chantilly Lace, the couch is custom in a washed cotton that gives the feel of linen but with better longevity, the art is by . . .” I give her the highlights of the room, making sure she sees the details, though I’m sure her eagle-eyed gaze missed nothing.
I think that knowing the pedigree of some of these pieces will make a woman like Lydia Montgomery appreciate them more.
She doesn’t so much as look my way as I list out information, though her eyes follow my words around the room.
There’s a lot riding on this design. Lydia told me at the outset that this project was a test to see if she’d like to use me to design several more rooms inside her historic estate. And having her on my reference list would get me other clients automatically. As long as she likes it.
Lydia’s face morphs into an uncustomary smile in a move that seems almost difficult for her unused facial muscles to pull off, and her words shock me. “It’s absolutely gorgeous, elegantly simple but layered and warm. When would you like to start with the rest of the renovations?”
And that’s that, I guess. I wouldn’t have minded a bit more effusiveness about my work, but I’ll take the bare-boned praise happily. Woo-hoo for me!
Twenty minutes later, Arch and I have packed up our work SUV outside and are heading down the road, passing palatial estates and historic mansions. But I don’t see any of them as we celebrate our success.
“Can you believe that?” Archie asks, using an unused pillow as a headrest. “I really thought we were going to have to make a run for it before she tried to skin us to make a coat as punishment for fucking up her living room. It puts the lotion on . . .” he intones.
“So did I,” I say, shaking my head. “For the record, I don’t have any fur, though.” I smile, waiting a half-beat for Arch’s comeback, knowing I lobbed him a good opportunity.
He scoffs and deadpans, “I know. I book your waxing appointments.” He looks pointedly at my crotch.
“Never fear. I booked you for a full-body removal before the wedding. Don’t want Colin flossing with your snatch patch.
Should I make it a couple’s waxing appointment?
Don’t want you choking on his dick nest either. ”
Normally, I’d laugh at that, but my heart stutters at Archie’s mention of the wedding, but I try to let it roll off my back. I won’t let it dim my flashlight of happiness over a job well done.
Lydia Montgomery is definitely one of those people who are hard to please, and I made her smile with my pure talent.
Eat your heart out, Colin! Decorating thing, my ass!
Attempting to stay on topic, I ask, “Did you see her smile? That’s probably the first time she’s smiled in weeks. Maybe months.”
“No kidding. Her lips stay more puckered than my asshole,” Arch agrees, making kissing sounds with his pursed lips. “And did you feel that ‘bow down, peasant bitch’ aura? I didn’t know whether to curtsey or kiss her ring!”
I chuckle, slowing down to give an oncoming Bentley the right of way in the narrow street. “She does have a way about her for sure.”
“Speaking of rings, have you told your family about the wedding date yet?” Arch asks. “Your Papa has to be going mad with anticipation!”
Ugh.
I should’ve known this was coming. I just don’t know if I have the strength to talk about it yet.
I open my mouth to make up some lie when my cell ringtone, Taylor Swift’s Blank Space, goes off and I see a series of texts go across the screen.
Yay, girly! The wedding invitations are ready!
Can’t wait for you to see!
They’re so pretty! Perfect, if I say so myself.
Damn it. I’d totally forgotten about those damn invitations. They’re totally worthless now, and Abi won’t be happy when I reveal that she did all that work in vain.
Not that I could have planned for Colin calling off our engagement.
“Who is that?” Arch asks as I hold in an internal groan. “Your horny fiancé, looking for an after-work booty call? Bow-chicka-wow-wow.”
But there’s no need to answer him because he dives for my phone and reads the text messages himself. It’s part of his role as my assistant, part of his gig as best friend, but mostly just because he’s nosy.
“Whoop, whoop!” Archie cheers. “Let’s go see these masterpieces Abi thinks she’s created so I can fix them the way they should’ve been done all along.” He smirks, and I know he’s kidding. Kind of. Maybe. “Let’s go, Bridezilla. Take the 305. It’s faster.”
Sighing at what’s to come, I head down the highway back toward the city and resignedly mutter, “Yay. Let’s go.”
“Here they are!” Abi chirps, presenting the wedding invitations to me, beautifully embossed peach-colored parchment with white vines lining the sides, interlaced with pink-colored roses.
Archie, Abi, and I are standing in the back room of her shop, Sweet Pea Boutique, gathered around a work table stacked with beautiful wedding invitations—around three hundred, to be exact—while Abi’s associate, Janey, manages the front of the shop for incoming customers.
My breath catches in my throat as I peer down at the gorgeously designed invitations. They’re works of art, rich and creamy card stock, lettering that’s flowy without being frilly . . . they’re perfection. “Oh, my God, Abi, these are so beautiful!”
Abi beams with pride as a breath I didn’t realize she was holding leaves her in a whoosh sound. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so relieved you like them! I know you wanted white on white, but when I saw this color, I knew I had to incorporate it.”