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“We have a new client with a 1920s Back Bay penthouse undergoing a complete renovation. It’s quite a job, Brooke, because of the scope and also the impressive budget. In excess of five million to be exact.” He smiled hugely. “It’s three floors, six thousand square feet with four bedrooms and four and a half baths. There are five fireplaces, a media room, home gym, two home offices—the owner’s an international businessman—five deeded parking spaces, and a landscaped roof deck with unobstructed views across the Charles River to the Boston skyline.”
“Wow. It sounds incredible. And you’re here to give me the good news that I get to do one of the rooms,” I said. “I hope . . .” I added, a bit more humbly.
“Not exactly, my dear.” He tilted his head meaningfully before dropping the bomb on me. “You are in charge of the whole project. He asked for a woman designer—and only a woman will do for him apparently. He made sure of it when he paid the retainer fee directly to you.” Jon pulled what looked like a check out of the folder he’d brought in with him. He laid both on my desk, the check facing up. “Five percent of the total budget is our retainer fee. Your client paid ten percent—a fifty-fifty split between you, the lead designer, and the shop. Congratulations, Brooke. Please come to me for anything you need help with, or Carlisle obviously. You have a magnificent budget, and the opportunity to make your design career right here.” He poked his finger onto the file folder. “Clients like him bring in more business if they are happy with the experience because they talk to their friends.”
I swallowed deeply and said nothing. The city of Boston, and everything and everyone in it, had certainly just been sucked into a swirling vortex of space and time. I think.
I stared down at the amount written on the check. Unbelievable fucking hell?
My name was written clearly on the line. That is your name, idiot.
Last Friday’s date at the top. He said he’d come here and had a consultation with Jon.
And along the bottom right, the signature of one Caleb J. W. Blackstone, written in the same bold handwriting I had on the card that accompanied my flowers, sitting not more than two feet from me at this very moment. The same Caleb who is taking me to dinner tonight. Surreal.
“Make Mr. Blackstone happy with his design experience, Brooke.”
“Yes, Jon. I will make sure of it,” I managed to croak out, despite the fact I was fighting for my sanity in the swirling vortex of time and space which had swallowed up the city of Boston about ten minutes ago.
MARTIN was the last person I expected to see walking through the door, his pleasant demeanor even more of a surprise. He handed me an envelope, which I accepted stiffly.
“Is this my final pay, Martin? Why didn’t you just send it here instead of coming in person? I won’t be returning to work for you in any case.”
“Yes, I know that. I wanted to come and thank you in person, Brooke.”
“Thank me?” Poor Martin was seriously deficient in the brains department. “Whatever
for?”
“For having your boyfriend pay for the damages of the eight ruined designer suits. The cocktail sauce . . .” He trailed off.
“I don’t have a boyfriend. Who paid for it?” I couldn’t imagine who—
“Your friend, Caleb, then. He gave me his card after you quit and said he’d take care of any damages. He paid close to fifty grand for all those suits. Designer threads are expensive.” He shrugged. “Anyway, thanks for your help with everything. Good luck, Brooke.”
He waved once as he went out the door, to which I lifted my hand in response.
I think.
For the second time today, I’d been rendered completely speechless by the covert activities of Caleb Blackstone in regards to me.
What in the hell was he doing? And more importantly, why?
“MR. BLACKSTONE is here.” Eduardo wore a telling smirk on his face as he leaned into my doorway, an extra sparkle in his dark eyes. It was easy to see he was clearly enjoying the spectacle caused by Caleb’s visit today, along with everyone else. The man was definitely worthy of a head turn from what I remembered, and the pictures on the Internet were helpful in jogging my memory as well. His good looks had a bit of a harsh edge to them, but my God, it only made him more attractive. Google had his personal net worth between one and two billion dollars, mostly in oil and sustainable energy. Caleb Blackstone was a legitimate billionaire. What he wanted with me was much more of a mystery. I’d have Eduardo breathing down my neck for that very information as soon as the solemnly hot Mr. Blackstone put me in the know.
“I still don’t understand why he’s asked for me specifically. Why didn’t he request Jon or Carlisle? His budget is bloody huge and I am a junior designer.”
Eduardo cocked his head to the right and his hip to the left in artful unison and rolled his eyes at me. His flair for the dramatic was as expected as it was ridiculously funny. “I can safely say it’s because Jon and Carlisle don’t have a rack as nice as yours, condesa.” He crinkled his nose in distaste. “Although Jon is catching up—he must be a solid B cup by now. All of those midmorning runs for French pastry aren’t helping,” he whispered loudly.
I cut him off before he could lapse into a tirade that I didn’t want to hear right now. “Yes, thank you, Eduardo, for that scintillating assessment of Jon’s developing breasts. What does Mr. Blackstone want from me?” Panic was starting to settle in.
“I think he wants to play hide the sausage with you, but that’s just me.”
“You are so unhelpful right now it’s scary. I know why Jon and Carlisle offered me a part-time assistant. They had absolutely no idea what else to do with you.”
“But I am always honest and that’s a valuable trait to have in an employee,” he told me with a sassy grin.
“Right.” I sighed heavily and realized there was no point making Caleb wait on me. He owned five million dollars of the company’s design services—from me personally—and so I suppose that made him my new boss. I couldn’t put him off for another second. “Eduardo, please show Mr. Blackstone in.”
