Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 53697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 268(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 268(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
I’m still shocked that she agreed to meet me here. I left Sebastien’s condo since she said she had a free evening and could spare a couple of hours to take a look at the place when I told her, in fumbling tones over the phone, that I was in need of an interior decorator. Designer? I wasn’t sure what the right term was.
I gave her my real address this time, not the fake one I used before. She showed up about twenty minutes after I got home. I’m glad Sebastien wouldn’t let me have another beer. Or that he did not drink himself. He was the one who drove me back here and wished me luck. Fervently, loudly, and obnoxiously. I’m glad he didn’t try and invite himself in just to try and coach me along.
“I didn’t know what to do with it,” I mumble.
Pearl looks good. No, she looks amazing. I know I probably look like I live in a trash can down in the basement. I haven’t showered for two days, I can’t remember when was the last time I combed my hair, and I know my clothes are rumpled. I probably have big bags under my eyes since I pulled an all-nighter last night doing absolutely nothing other than farting around on my computer. I’ve never been more conscious of the fact that I probably look like leftovers that fell off the kitchen counter between the stove and the cupboard or something. You know, the ones you find like a week later when they start to really stink.
To Pearl’s credit, she doesn’t look at me like that. In fact, she hasn’t really looked at me at all. When I let her in, she breezed through the front door, already looking anywhere but at me. She wandered from room to room, and I let her do her thing. On the phone, I did ask for her services. Uh, professional services. And I didn’t say I wanted to talk to her about us. She might sense it, but she’s holding her cards tightly, and she has a good poker face.
I want to think she wouldn’t have come if she didn’t already know we were going to talk about us in some way, or that I wanted to apologize, at the very least, but I can’t be sure. Maybe this is her way of sticking it to me for being a dick that night at her parent’s house and hurting her feelings. Okay, more than her feelings.
I wish she could know how much I’ve hurt myself too. Or at least, how much I’ve been hurting.
“It won’t take much work. It’s a nice house. Good choice. You probably already have quite a bit of equity built up. I did some checking, and ever since the house was built, property values here have really gone up. The lots are mostly sold, so those are at a premium. Anyway, maybe you want to talk budget. For something this size, depending on what you’d like me to do, and we’re just talking decorating here unless you want to take down walls or redo your kitchen, but I can’t see why you would, considering everything is brand new…and uh…for something this size, I’d say anywhere between thirty and fifty thousand would get you premium, high-end touches. Original art, great quality furniture, handwoven rugs, some pretty amazing antique finds, that kind of thing. Normally. For you, though, I’d charge double.”
I stare at her, uncomprehending. Her face remains a mask—a beautiful mask, but a mask that doesn’t let me in on whether she’s kidding or not. I think she is. Is she? Did she come here just to flip me the bird? She has every right to prove a point.
“Because, you know, I know you can afford it. Far more than most people. Why not make a tidy commission for myself while I’m at it? Go on a nice vacation? Maybe do some of the repairs on my own house that I’ve been saving up to get done?”
“Are you—”
“Serious?” Pearl crosses her arms. She’s wearing a yellow blouse and a pair of dress pants. Her hair is done up in a tight bun, and she has a set of black pumps on. She looks very business professional right now. And not much else.
I search her face for some kind of sign. A spark. Anything. A bit of humor or the tiniest glint in her eyes. But nothing.
“No, I’m not serious.” Finally, she cracks. Her lips wobble at the corners, and those beautiful hazel eyes of hers twinkle. “God. I’m definitely not serious. Why don’t we stop pretending I’m here to talk about decorating your house, which I admit, could use it, and actually talk about why you really called me? Unless you really did call to talk about the house? In that case, I’m going to be very embarrassed right about now. I’d have to refer you to a friend because there’s no way I could take you on as a client.”