Crossing the Picket Line
Jordy
I watch Ashton’s retreating back and feel the smallest amount of hesitation as he disappears around the corner. This isn’t my fight. I’m not even sure I’d have taken this job if I knew there’d be protests. Did Alexander know about this?
I pull out my phone and tap his number on the screen, then wait for him to answer.
“Hey troublemaker, did you have any issues finding the building?”
I roll my eyes at his nickname. Alexander had invited me along to a few fundraising events and one ritzy date before I started working for him, and while he was a nice guy and had more money than I’d seen in a lifetime, I realized quickly that the chemistry wasn’t there.
It was entirely apparent that a romantic connection with him would mean he’d be center stage while I served as arm candy, standing by without an opinion while he discussed his art collection, his latest golf game, or how the stock market was doing.
No, thank you.
If my mother knew I’d turned him down, she’d disown me.
Growing up, she often told me I could fall in love with a rich man just as easily as a poor one, but I can’t pay the bills with a warm heart.
I always felt like this was a dig at my father, even though our family was not poor.
But she was the one who came into the family with money, not him.
We’d had a comfortable lifestyle growing up, but my father and I both knew she wanted more.
Which is why I never told her I’d dated a guy like Alexander, and definitely kept it a secret that I’d turned him down.
That said, I know Alexander is still interested, even if he mostly keeps things professional. I want to believe he hired me for my design skill, which I’m quite proud of. He’s a businessman first, so I’m sure that was part of his decision to bring me on board as their corporate designer.
But when he calls me nicknames like troublemaker , darling , sweetie , or the like, it’s this little reminder of our brief romance, and a hint that he’s open to explore it again.
“Alex, we talked about this,” I say, biting back a grin. He hates when anyone shortens his name. Sure as shit, he sighs heavily on the other end.
“It’s Alexander,” he growls.
“And it’s Jordy, or it’s Ms. Gallo.”
“Fine. Ms. Gallo, did you find the establishment, and was it to your liking?”
I can’t help laughing at his formal tone, and he gives in with a low chuckle. But then I glance at the protesters, sobering with the dread of dealing with this headache.
“Listen, there are a bunch of townspeople with picket signs in front of the store. What’s going on? Did you take this place by force or something? Did you know this was happening?”
“That’s odd. No, it was an easy sale, actually.
I primarily collaborated with Mr. Elliot, the store manager.
But Mr. Felix, the owner, was the one who approached me and signed the documents in the end.
There was very little discussion other than they needed to sell quickly.
” He pauses, then says, “What are they protesting?”
“Something about leaving their small town alone.”
He huffs a low laugh. “Small towns are notorious for hating change. I wouldn’t put much stock in it. By next week, they’ll be onto something new.”
It’s hardly a comfort. I’m supposed to be here for almost a month, and I need to get to work immediately.
“What do I do in the meantime? I can’t just wait them out.”
“You’ll think of something. You’re a smart woman.”
This is not the reassurance I need.
“Listen, this is not the job I signed up for. I thought I was going to be focusing on lighting and textiles, not…” I glance at the people circling out front again, narrowing my eyes as they continue their little circle in front of the building.
“…focusing on a bunch of country bumpkins passing the time with a protest. I mean, maybe they could put some of their energy into making this town smell better. Did you know this place smells like—”
“Shit, Cooper. I told you to wait.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, I have to go. Look, you can handle this, okay? I believe in you. Just flash that Jordy charm, and they won’t know what hit them.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my phone for a moment, then lean heavily on the car. The circling group across the street appears to have gained momentum, and I’m getting the impression this will be an all-day event.
This, apparently, is not going to be the fun, lighthearted gig I thought it would be.
I study the members of the protest, assessing what could happen if I cross the picket line.
In all, there are only about ten people, and two of them are kids who are having more fun swinging the signs at each other than holding them up for the nonexistent traffic.
Leading them is a woman I take to be their mother, wearing a large yellow garden hat and the loudest paisley dress that my fashion-eclectic cousin Nina would probably die over.
There are three older ladies, all wearing overalls over t-shirts, as if they’ve just finished farming.
By the vibe of this town, I don’t doubt it.
There’s a young couple and their three-legged dog, an elderly man who appears to go at a snail’s pace holding a sign resting on his shoulder while he leans on his cane, and a bored looking man wearing a fitted button up shirt with slim pants and loafers—probably the most stylish person in this town.
As I’m watching, he hands his sign to the paisley mom before disappearing into the shop next door, leaving the crowd to nine.
I can take all of them, I realize. I mean, not that I’m looking for a fight. These stilettos cost me a damn fortune, and I’m not about to ruin them on a bunch of simpletons.
But I also have work to do, and if not now, when exactly am I going to find my way into that building? It’s a sure bet they’ll be back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. I can wait until they leave before I walk in … but why? What would that solve?
“Fuck it.” I grab my purse from inside the car, along with my bag full of design plans, then march across the street.
I don’t break my stride as I approach the circling picketers, walking right through their little protest to make it to the door.
Their chants grow silent. I can feel their eyes on me as I pull out the key Alexander gave me before I left New York, then let myself inside.
When I turn to lock the glass doors, a few phones point in my direction as they take photos of me, the enemy.
I offer a huge, toothy grin, then wave for good measure, then I turn back around and ignore them.
What I see in front of me takes my breath away.
I may have been impressed with the architecture of the outside of this building, but I’m severely unprepared for the inside.
It’s incredible. A huge, expansive room with twenty-foot ceilings, roman pillars, and large windows that lets the sunshine spill into the room in dramatic rays.
The floors are pure marble, grey with a kind of crystal sparkling from the sun shining through the windows.
It’s a blank slate, albeit a beautiful one, completely ready for me to work my magic.
I cannot wait to get started.
For the next few hours, I lose myself in amending the designs I’ve already drawn up, working from my tablet to find the right kind of textiles that will enhance the history of this building.
All of these are rough sketches at best, but I feel like I have a better handle on what the interior needs now that I’m inside.
Before I know it, the natural light turns to a dusky pink with the setting sun. I flip the light switch and note the dim glow from unimpressive hanging lamps. Yup, the lighting is going to need an overhaul as well.
The rumbling in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.
I glance out the front door window and note that the picketers have left their post sometime during my design work.
I’d been so engrossed, I hadn’t even noticed their departure, but now I’m relieved to not have to face anyone on my way out.
I’d had the element of surprise on my side when I first faced these yahoos, and if they come at me now, I have ways to make them sorry.
I was raised by a woman who had a barbed response to everything, and I’ve learned the art of taking down my opponent without lifting a finger.
But I also know I have weeks of work ahead of me, and if I make enemies too early, it will make my life a living hell.
But making friends is not my forte, especially with people who obviously want me gone.
So I’m very relieved to be free of the picketers—at least for now.
Still, I feel cautious as I open the door and peer outside, half expecting someone to jump out and ambush me.
But other than a few curious looks from people walking by, no one seems to pay me special attention.
Relieved, I lock the door, then head across the street to gather my luggage from my car.
I’d booked a room at the Lahoma Hotel weeks ago, mostly because of its convenient location right across the street from the shop I’d be working on, but also because it’s literally the only hotel in Lahoma Springs.
And at this moment, I cannot wait to check into my room, order up some room service with a bottle of wine, and settle into bed with some trash TV.
Pushing through the double doors, I’m greeted by a disaster of a lobby.
The bones of the place are there, with red Spanish tile floors, ample windows, sparkling chandeliers, and rustic beamed ceilings that would make Joanna Gaines drool.
It has that same century-old architecture The Till has, which makes my heart ache a little.
Because the decor? It’s awful.