Chapter 21
“Hey, Audrey. I’ve been trying to call you,” I said, leaving a message for my sister.
“I’m sorry for the snarky text I sent you the other day.
It’s not an excuse but I was drunk. Okay, maybe it’s a little excuse, but probably one that solidifies your thoughts about me.
” I sighed. “That sounded snarky too. I mean, your thoughts about me are mostly right is what I’m trying to say.
I am unfocused, or have been. I’m working on it.
Also, I’m not drunk now even though I sound like I am.
Anyway, call me, I need to clarify what happened Friday. Bye.” I disconnected the call.
“That was a mess,” Sloane said.
It was Wednesday evening. I’d spent the last few days applying for a business license and ordering business cards and creating a new business email.
“I know! I’m more nervous to talk to my sister than I’ve been informing editors that I’ve started my own agency.
” The truth was that I missed her. This had been the longest I’d ever gone without talking to her and I wanted us to be okay again.
I hated that I had lied to her. And I could really use her help. She would be so good at this.
“You’ve been killing it the last couple days. Who knew running into Rob in the parking lot would light a bigger fire under your ass.”
“It was more the quitting thing that motivated me, but sure, seeing Rob just reconfirmed my commitment.”
“Have you told your parents yet?”
“I talked to them yesterday. I don’t think they quite understand exactly what I’m doing because they kept saying that they were so happy Mr. Bishop gave me this opportunity. Once I have my website up and running, I’ll give them the link. That will help.”
“When did Oliver say he’d help you with the website?”
“Friday night.”
I pulled up my phone to review our exchanged texts over the last several days to double-check that I was right.
Me: Hey, Website Designer, when should we do this? Considering how much I’m paying you for this service, I have a very long list of demands.
Oliver: Demanding clients are my favorite. Friday night?
Me: You don’t have a hot date?
Oliver: If you’re calling it a date, then yes, I do.
Me: I’m calling it a business transaction.
Oliver: Then I have a hot business transaction.
“Oh my gaaaawwwd,” Sloane groaned, pulling me out of my phone. “Good luck keeping horny Margot at bay.”
“What?” I asked, confused.
“The look on your face right now while you’re reading texts from Oliver. Good. Luck. Keeping. Horny. Margot. At. Bay.”
I pointed to my face. “This isn’t horny Margot. This is mildly amused Margot. Horny Margot has been suppressed, replaced by getting-shit-done Margot.”
“If you say so.”
“Me and my self-control will be perfectly fine.”
I have self-control , I told myself as I walked the path to Oliver’s front door Friday evening. More than a moderate amount. I didn’t slap Rob in the parking lot, after all. That had to count for something.
But when Oliver answered the door with wet hair, my mind immediately pictured him in the shower even though he was fully clothed, and that didn’t help at all. Tonight was about my agency, my future. I could not lose sight of that.
“Hi,” he said, holding the door open for me. Then his hand went to his face, wiping at his chin and cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”
“What?” I asked.
“You’re staring at me with an alarmed expression.”
“Sorry, no. I’m just overwhelmed. It’s been a long few days.”
“Sorry your life hasn’t instantly solved all its problems.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Come in.”
I stepped forward and we came together in an awkward half hug, half cheek kiss. I’d never kissed a friend’s cheek in my life; I wasn’t sure why that was my instinct. As if I’d suddenly become European. “I finally get to see inside.”
“Oh, right. The farthest you got last time was the driveway.”
“It was a good driveway.” A very good driveway.
He smiled.
I took in his living room, where I now stood.
It smelled like him but also like sandalwood or leather or something.
It smelled good, like I wanted to sink onto the oversized brown couch and wrap myself up in the throw that was draped over the arm of it.
“I thought maybe you lived with your parents last time I was here. Nobody I knew lived in an actual house at the time.”
“Just me,” he said.
The house didn’t look like a bachelor pad.
The walls were a warm olive green and the television stand and bookcase were a rich chocolate with decorative knickknacks on various shelves.
A big gold-trimmed mirror hung on the wall just inside the door.
I found myself wondering if this was the house he’d lived in with his ex-fiancée.
If she had decorated. “I like your style,” I said.
A passive-aggressive way to ask the question my brain had just come up with.
“Thank you,” was his only response.
“I thought you didn’t have physical books.” I walked to his bookshelf on the opposite wall.
“Those are mainly for show,” he said with a smirk.
I scanned the titles. They were mostly nonfiction was what they were. I turned and my eyes collided with a book on the coffee table. The book he had borrowed from me. A bookmark stuck out from the pages about halfway through. “You’re actually reading it?” I asked.
He cleared his throat. “After the excerpt, how could I not?”
“I should’ve taken out my tabs for you.”
“Pretty sure I have decrypted your color coding,” he said, picking it up and fanning through the pages, all the colors flipping past his fingers.
Of course he had. With a job like his, how could he not? I hoped he also took the time to stop thinking and actually enjoy the words. “Which color is your favorite?” I asked with a wink.
“You’re trouble, Margot,” he said, then nodded toward the hall. “My office is back here. Also, my favorite are the red ones.”
I laughed. “Good choice.”
We passed through a farmhouse-style kitchen, the colors from the living room flowing through the backsplash and cupboards.
“You could have a social media presence with a place like this. Especially if you did the work yourself.” I would know; my sister’s house and style garnered her hundreds of thousands of followers.
“I’m not big on social media.” He paused before we reached the hall at the end of the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, please,” I said. “And I know. I tried to stalk you. Twice now, and nothing.”
He chuckled as he backtracked to the fridge.
I followed him, needing to know if the inside of his fridge was as clean as the rest of his house. I peered inside. Bottles of beer and hard lemonade and water were lined up perfectly. All the food items were stored in uniform containers.
“What would you like?” he asked.
“I’d like to mess up your life a little,” I teased, moving a beer to the lemonade row and a water on its side. “This is why you were shocked by the state of my bed and clothes chair, isn’t it?”
“I was not shocked.”
“Shocked,” I repeated.
“I had next to no reaction,” he said.
“That’s what you think, but your face is very expressive.”
He gave me an amused look. “What am I thinking now?”
“You’re wondering why you agreed to help me,” I said.
He laughed. “You’re terrible at this game.”
I helped myself to a beer and then raised it in a thank-you. He took one as well and we resumed our walk toward the office. “Do you really not have any social media outside of dating apps?”
“I have a LinkedIn.”
“Doesn’t count,” I said as we stepped into his office.
Unlike the greens and dark woods of the rest of the house, this room was bright white.
A long table with silver accents lined an entire wall.
Beneath it was a walking pad on one side and a fancy chair on the other.
There was an uncomfortable-looking leather couch along another wall.
A single potted plant sat in the corner, too small for the space.
“The internet is very permanent,” he said, then looked around his office like he was seeing it for the first time. “I know. It’s cold and impersonal, but working from home, I had to make my office feel like a different place or I was less productive.”
“That makes sense.” I’d never thought about it before, but there probably was some psychology behind that. I pointed to the walking pad. “Do I have to walk while we design the website or do you?”
“One of us does, that’s how I power the computer.”
He said it with such a straight face that for a split second I thought he was serious. But the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes clued me in to the fact that he was kidding. “I mean, you are an engineer, it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“You have no idea what I do for a living, do you?”
“All I know is there are ones and zeros involved.”
“I take it back, you know exactly what I do for a living.”
I bowed like he was being serious.
“I’ll grab an extra chair from the kitchen,” he said.
When he got back, he flipped the walking pad onto its side, slid it beside the desk, and replaced it with the chair he’d brought back. He pulled out his fancy chair and gestured for me to sit.
“This is amazing,” I said, settling into the soft leather.
“A good chair and a good computer are the top two factors of my success.”
I spun once then stopped it with my feet. “Maybe you should sit here, then, so you can make me the best website in the world.”
He sat on the chair from the kitchen, picked up my beer from the desk where I’d set it, and twisted off the cap.
“I’m good here.” He handed me the bottle, then pulled his chair closer to mine.
So close his scent invaded my space, made me want to lean into him, breathe him in, try out some red tab scenes from the book he was reading.
I picked up a container of cinnamon Altoids that sat next to a wooden box of pens. “The mystery is solved,” I said.
“I didn’t realize it was a mystery,” he returned.
“It was,” I assured him.
He smiled. “I already got started on the generic layout. Do you have your business license and tax ID number yet?”
“No,” I said. “Probably in the next day or two.”
“Okay, I’ll change all the info over to you when you have that.” He moved the mouse, the black computer screen lighting up with his action. The words Love Lit were at the top of the page, a placeholder in boring black font.
“Oh, I decided to go with Hart Lit,” I said.
“Really? Sloane talked you out of the name you wanted?”
“It just makes more sense.” Not only was it my last name but it could refer to stories with heart.
His eyes traveled down my body and to the small backpack I’d brought with me. “You have ideas?”
I took a sip of beer. “So many ideas.”
“You can’t just use anyone’s pictures on the internet,” he said, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. The action made the muscles in both his arms pop. “You have to pay for pictures.”
I knew that. Of course I knew that. I worked in publishing, after all.
And the amount of times people stole clients’ books and posted them on illegal downloading sites was sickening.
“If we change them up a lot? Obscure faces?” I asked.
We’d been working for two hours and were so close to finishing.
We were down to the header. But even as I made the suggestion, I knew I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking someone’s image without their permission.
“You’re right, that won’t work,” I conceded.
My mind spun, trying to figure out another solution. It landed on “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Just one pic and you’ll be backlit so nobody will know it’s you.” My idea for the header was an open door with a man standing in it, his arm high on the doorframe in a lean. The room bright behind him. The name of the agency would be spelled out in shadows on the floor in front of him.
It would stand out. It wouldn’t be a stuffy, boring website. The right clients would appreciate it… I hoped. Besides, attracting readers to my website to check out clients’ books was an important part of agenting as well.
“I know you didn’t just ask me to model for you,” Oliver said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Stop looking at me like that.”
I had been scanning his body, trying to imagine what was hiding under his thick, dark T-shirt. “Have you seen yourself? You were made to model. Show me what I’m working with.” I tugged on the sleeve of his shirt. “Just a little peek.”
He met my eyes with a calm stare, but I could see the teasing twinkle behind it. “Is this how you talk to your friends?”
“All of them,” I said.
He couldn’t help but laugh.
“Oliver, I promise it will be tasteful and anonymous. Here, let me show you what I’m talking about.
” I clicked on what I thought would open a new window on the computer only to have a screen from the bottom bar open.
A paused image of Johnny and Baby from the cabin scene in Dirty Dancing came up.
“Are you watching this movie?” I asked, surprised.
“Someone told me it was good,” he said, meeting my eyes, his expression suddenly impossible to read.
“It is,” I said. “A classic.” My heart thudded heavily in my chest as I remembered what I’d told him about this movie.
That if someone hadn’t watched it, that was a dealbreaker.
It had been a joke, but still, he really was trying to get to know me better.
Putting in the work. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had done that for me.
“What are your dealbreakers?” I said, realizing I’d never asked him that question.
“Someone asking me to model shirtless for their website.”
I laughed. “Seriously, nobody will know it’s you.”
“ You will. And you’ll tell Sloane. And she’ll tell everyone.”
“I swear on my life I won’t tell her.”
“Margot, come on.”
“Yes, come on.” I took his hand in mine, always looking for an excuse to touch him—I’d been wanting to all night—and met his eyes.
“Not even with those eyes,” he said, squeezing my hand. “But your idea is good. What about a bright room with a messy bed in the distance. It would be less in-your-face. Perhaps a step classier.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. Maybe he was right. A dark hall, a lit bed in the distance? “What’s your bedroom look like?”
“I was thinking we’d use yours.”
“I want a man’s bedroom. Is your bedroom as cool as the rest of your house?”
His fingers tightened around mine as if he was talking himself through all the possible outcomes of having his bedroom posted online. He came to some conclusion, because he stood. “You tell me.”