Page 233 of Manhattan Bossholes

“You can’t just delete it. It’s already sent. Oh my God!”

“Did I just lose you the commission? Natasha, I am so sorry!”

My heart beat in my throat. “No, no, no…” I had to be able to fix this. There had to be something… “He’s responding!”

“What?”

“He’s online. Or someone is. They’re typing up a reply.” I watched the three little dots flick in and out of focus, practically holding my breath. I thought I might be sick.

“Let me see!” Stacy said, wrenching the laptop back. “Oh, he posted! Um, it’s…very formal,” she said as I paced, holding my head in my hands. “But not bad!” she continued.

I hurried to her side, peering over her shoulder. He’d written, Thank you for your prompt response. I will try to look past your lack of professionalism as my grandmother is such a fan of your work.

“Okay, clearly he wasn’t amused,” Stacy said. “But it could be worse.”

I was mortified, my heart still pounding uncomfortably. But she was right. He didn’t cancel the commission. In fact, he’d suggested I come to his grandmother’s house in Long Island so we could discuss what pieces would work best with what his grandmother already owned.

“Should I set a date and time?” Stacy asked.

I yanked the laptop away from her. “You are officially fired from all personal assistant duties.”

4

TRENT

Sofia Garcia, Nana Dee’s homecare nurse, and Nana Dee’s best friend, Bernie Branson, met me at the door of the sprawling Jamesport house Nana Dee had lived in longer than I’d been alive. Ever since the two of them had retired, my grandmother and Bernie had gotten in the habit of meeting two or three times a week for breakfast. Usually, that would be out somewhere, but since Nana Dee had gotten sick, Bernie had started regularly making the trek out to Jamesport. Bernie patted me on the shoulder as she stepped out of the house. “You’re late,” she said.

“I’m not late.”

“According to Dee, you’re late.”

I checked my watch. I was right on time, but we all knew that as far as Nana Dee was concerned, if you weren’t five minutes early, you were late. “Thanks for making the drive out, Bernie.”

She waved me off. “You know I’d do anything for Dee,” she said and then glanced at Sofia with a sad look. “I just wish that she would feel that way about herself.”

I nodded. “I’ll keep trying to change her mind,” I promised.

“I know you will.” She patted my shoulder again before heading towards her car.

“How is she?” I asked Sofia, stepping into the house.

She closed the beautifully carved mahogany door behind me. “Honestly, even with Bernie here for breakfast, this morning hasn’t been great.”

“What happened?” Sofia waved me into the corner of the foyer, out of sight of the hallway. When I didn’t move fast enough, she latched onto my arm and tugged.

“She had some trouble getting out of bed,” Sofia said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure we were still alone. Nana Dee might have been getting on in age, but she still had ears like a bat and a sixth sense for when I was fretting over her.

If she spotted us, she’d tell us both off for gossiping about her. Then she’d be annoyed with me and Sofia for the rest of the day. “She also caught her cane on the oxygen tubing when we were trying to get her dressed,” she continued.

“Did she hurt herself?” I asked, worried.

“No, but she’s frustrated,” Sofia said. “And her energy is low. I could barely convince her to relocate to the living room for Bernie’s visit. I don’t think there’s any hope in getting her to go for a walk after all of that.”

I rubbed a hand down my face, watching the way the light reflected through the stained glass windows on either side of the front door, painting the wall in fractals of greens and blues.

I was forever grateful for Sofia’s patience. It seemed Nana Dee needed more and more encouragement to participate in daily activities. “Well, thanks for trying. Don’t worry about getting her up now. I’ll see if I can entice her into a walk a little later.”

I could only hope that meeting this furniture designer would cheer her up. That was the one and only reason I was willing to put up with that flake after her initial reply. Mr. Moneybags? And that winky face! I wrinkled my nose at the memory. It was blatantly unprofessional, bordering on tacky. After reading that message, I’d been close to saying to hell with it and dropping the whole idea—but damn, her furniture was gorgeous. Whatever kind of trainwreck the creator was, she knew her craft. I’d just have to see if she could figure out how to keep herself in check, at least for long enough to make a piece or two for Nana Dee.