Chapter Seven Floating Out of My Chair
Chapter Seven
Floating Out of My Chair
“You went to his apartment?” Becky asks the following morning when she calls me at work. “And he cooked dinner for you?”
“Not just dinner. It was the best friggin’ steak I’ve ever tasted in my life. And I don’t know what he did to those mushrooms, but I thought I was going to pass out.”
She laughs. “You sure they weren’t magic mushrooms?”
“Very funny. They were the normal kind, but the way he slowly sautéed them in butter with just a touch of cream . . . and he had a salad with a dressing that he made from scratch. I don’t know what was in it, but .
. . oh, my God . . . it was fantastic.” My mouth waters at just the thought of it, and other things.
“Okay,” Becky says, “enough about the food. How did it go otherwise? Did you make out?”
I grin as I flip through some fabric samples, but I can’t bring myself to share those details with Becky, because she’s Jacob’s sister. “None of your business,” I reply teasingly.
“Come on. Don’t leave me hanging.” When I don’t respond, she lets out a sigh. “Fine. But at least tell me what you talked about.”
I move from my desk to the sideboard against the wall, where I keep my paint chips. “We talked a lot about how I started my business. He had questions, so we’re meeting for lunch tomorrow and he’s coming to see my office.”
“Oooh. Well played. He’ll be impressed.”
“I’m not trying to impress him,” I tell her.
“But I do want to help him out because he seems lost. He’s not enjoying law school, because he wants to be a chef, and he’s frustrated, which I totally understand.
I can’t imagine how I would have felt if my parents tried to talk me out of this career.
If my dad had forced me to go to plumbing school. ”
“Oh, good Lord,” she says. “No way. Just no.”
I chuckle. “Nothing against the plumbing profession. Dad loves his work, and he’s done well for himself, but I would have been miserable.”
I lay a fabric sample next to a paint chip and dismiss the color combination.
“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” Becky says, “do you want to come over for dinner tonight? Mark left for Montreal this morning, and I’m on my own. He’s not back until Thursday.”
“How about tomorrow night instead?” I reply. “I have that phone call with Liz Tremblay in the morning, and so I’d like to prepare.”
“Oh, I forgot about that. Let’s do dinner tomorrow, and good luck.”
“Thanks.” We hang up, and I return to my paint and fabric samples, but it’s no easy task to keep my focus when I can’t stop thinking about Nate.
Because yes. We did make out on his sofa. And sweet Mary, Mother of God, it was even better than the mushrooms.
Twenty-four hours later, I take the call from Liz Tremblay, CEO at Ten Millennium, the leading real estate agency in the city.
“What can I do for you?” I ask after congratulating her on the grand opening of the apartment complex near the children’s hospital that she and her husband had been working on.
She doesn’t mince words and leads with a compliment. “You did some design work for friends of mine recently, and I love what you did. You have great style, Sienna.”
My cheeks flush with heat, but I manage to keep my cool. “That’s kind of you to say. Thank you.”
“I’ve been obsessed with your website lately,” she continues.
“I can’t stop looking at your photo gallery.
You’ve got me totally inspired, which is why I’m calling—because I’d love for you to come by and discuss my decor.
I’ve decided to change the whole look of my house from top to bottom, and you’re the person I’d like to help me with that. ”
My belly explodes with butterflies because I know her house well, at least the exterior.
It’s a giant Victorian on a massive corner lot in the South End of the city.
Every holiday season, the street becomes clogged with traffic when people drive by to view their Christmas decorations, including Santa’s sleigh and reindeer in their front yard.
“I’d love to pop by and have a look,” I say. “I’m inspired already. When would be a good time for you?”
We discuss our schedules, and she’s keen to get started immediately, so we set up an appointment for the following afternoon.
“But before we hang up,” she adds, “I’d like to float something else by you as well, and you don’t have to decide anything today. We can talk about it in more detail tomorrow, but I’d like you to have some time to percolate.”
Anticipation ripples through me. “I’m all ears.”
Again, she gets right to the point. “My company could use a stager to get our properties ready for the market, but it’s tough to find good people.
There aren’t many of you out there, and we can’t always get someone when we need them.
Half the time they’re already booked up by Realtors from other agencies.
So I’d like to offer you a retainer to be the exclusive stager for Ten Millennium. ”
Ten Millennium is the agency that handles everything for her husband’s real estate development and construction firm. I’m in shock, unable to speak.
“I promise we’d keep you busy,” she adds, “and you could of course continue doing work for other clients who aren’t our competitors. By that I mean other Realtors selling houses and commercial properties.”
I blink a few times as I ponder this. “Realtors all over the city make up more than half my clientele,” I explain. “They’re my bread and butter.”
“I’m aware,” she replies, “which is why I’m offering you a retainer. You can name your price, whatever you think is reasonable, and we’ll negotiate from there. Take some time to think about that before we chat again tomorrow.”
My stomach is backflipping. A regular retainer would take away the stress of slow periods, when I still have to pay rent for the office space, not to mention salaries and bank fees.
“It’s an interesting proposition. I look forward to talking more about it.”
Her voice takes on a light and cheerful note. “Great! I can’t wait to meet you. I’m so excited to think about colors and fabrics and new furniture for this place. It’s been feeling so drab lately. It’s definitely in need of a facelift.”
“I’m your girl,” I tell her.
She thanks me, and we say goodbye. Slowly, I set the phone receiver back into its cradle on my desk and start to feel like I’m floating out of my chair.
Did that really just happen? Did Liz Tremblay ask me to redecorate her South End mansion and do all the staging for Ten Millennium? With a retainer?
Then it hits me—that this is a total game changer for me. I leap out of my chair, run around my desk, and burst out of my office, into the reception area. “You’re not going to believe what just happened,” I say to Gretchen behind the front desk.
Jennie comes out of the studio. “What’s going on?”
I look at them both in turn. “Liz Tremblay just called, and she wants us to decorate her house and, get this . . . to be the exclusive stagers for Ten Millennium. On retainer.”
They each gape at me with wide eyes.
“Seriously?” Gretchen says.
“Seriously,” I reply.
“That’s not just residential houses,” Jennie adds. “It’ll include all her husband’s commercial developments as well because she represents those too. We’re talking office towers and conference centers.”
“I know!” I reply with laughter.
They move in for a group hug, and we jump up and down in revelry. This goes on for a few fabulous seconds until the sound of the chime on the entrance door snaps us out of our merrymaking.
Quickly regaining a sense of professionalism, Jennie makes a U-turn toward the studio, and Gretchen returns to her chair behind the reception desk. With my back to the door, I tuck a lock of hair behind one ear, take a breath, and turn around.
It’s Nate. He’s twenty minutes early. I know this because I’ve been conscious of every second on the clock since 9:00 a.m., even while I was talking to Liz.
Wearing a black linen button-down shirt and faded blue jeans, his dark hair tousled from the wind, he’s strikingly handsome.
What is it about this man that arrests me on the spot?
It’s only been a few days since we met, but my blood is racing.
Every minute I’ve spent with him has been intoxicating—from our deep conversations to the delicious food he’s cooked for me and the way he kisses.
I feel such a strong attraction to him it makes my head swim.
Still feeling giddy, I can’t wait to tell him about the phone call with Liz Tremblay.
“Hi,” he says, looking apologetic as he glances around the reception area. “I’m a bit early. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
I smile broadly. “Your timing couldn’t be better. Welcome.” I approach him, rise up on my tiptoes, and kiss him on the cheek—which doesn’t feel strange or inappropriate after our make-out session on his sofa the night before.
I turn to Gretchen. “This is Nate.”
“You picked a good day to come for a tour,” she says. “We’re pretty happy around here.”
Nate looks at me. “Happy is good. What’s going on?”
I take him by the hand. “Come with me. We’ll start the tour in my office, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
I feel Gretchen watching us with interest as I lead Nate across reception and into my office, where I close the door behind us. I turn and face him. “Do you know who Liz Tremblay is?”
“Of course. Santa Claus has a landing strip on her front lawn.”
I smile. “That’s right, and today feels like Christmas because she just called and asked me to decorate her whole house and . . .” I pause and hold my hands up. “Get this . . . she’s offering me a retainer to be the exclusive stager for her real estate company.”
Nate lays his hand over his chest, as if I’ve shot him with an arrow. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“This is going to be huge for you.” His eyes meet mine with amazement.
“Yes.”
“Congratulations!”
His expression is joyful and genuine, and I begin to fall helplessly into the memory of kissing him on Sunday.
I relive the sensation of his mouth on mine for the first time, his hands on my hips as he drew me close, and then the walk home in the fresh night air with our dogs while they sniffed flowers in gardens and peed on patches of dewy grass.
We’d stood outside the entrance to my apartment building talking about our dreams and aspirations for another half hour before he kissed me good night.
After that, I went to bed happy, and now all I want to do is put my hands on his chest and feel his lips on mine again. But I’m at work, standing in my office, with two of my employees on the other side of the door, possibly with their ears pressed up against it.
“I had a great time on the weekend,” Nate says, with a smile that makes me melt.
“So did I. I couldn’t wait for you to get here this morning.”
He stares at me, and I feel certain he’s reading my thoughts. “I’d really like to kiss you right now, but I’m worried if I start, I won’t be able to stop, and we’ll end up on your couch.”
I glance at the white leather sofa. “That could happen.”
There’s a humorous glimmer in his eyes. “You were supposed to give me a tour?”
“Yes.” Pleased to have a reason to clear my head of images of us on my leather sofa, I let out a breath, but I still feel like a pressure cooker as I turn on my heel and gesture toward my white desk. “Here, we have mission control.”
Nate checks out my sleek ergonomic chair and moves around it. “This is pretty cool. May I?”
“Be my guest.”
He takes a seat and leans back, tests out the lumbar support.
Then he glances around the room at the bookcases, carefully staged with a variety of personal items and plants.
He takes in the tall weeping fig tree in a gigantic blue ceramic pot, the pewter framed mirror over the sideboard where I keep my paint chips and fabric samples, and the white filing cabinet.
“This is fantastic,” he says. “You’ve really done it. Started your own company, took the bull by the horns.”
I know he’s happy for me, but at the same time, there’s a sadness in his voice, which I understand deeply. “I hope you can figure things out too,” I tell him.
The telephone rings, and I listen to Gretchen answer it out front.
“Shall we continue the tour?” I ask Nate.
“Let’s do it.” He rises from my chair and follows me out of my office.
As we make our way across reception to the design studio, I find it excruciating to resist the urge to take hold of his entire arm and rest my head on his shoulder. All I want to do is touch him.
We enter the studio, and I show him the gallery, which features some of our best recent work, and feel like I’m seventeen again, when I had no fears or reservations about falling in love and possessed the courage to jump in with both feet.
But I’m not seventeen anymore, and I don’t have that same courage.
Though I’m wildly attracted to this man, a part of me is terrified to become involved because I don’t want to experience the kind of pain I felt when I lost Jacob.
And I barely know Nate. Sure . . . he’s handsome, and I feel an intimacy that shocks the hell out of me.
For all I know, he could be my soulmate, the one I was always meant to be with.
On the other hand, he could be a reckless charmer who knows how to play this game really, really well. It would probably be wise to be cautious. Maybe sometimes, fear is good.