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I wish I’d been brought in on this project from day one, but most people don’t know how deep a designer’s details really go. Lighting placement affects the whole aesthetic of the hotel, and it’ll make a huge difference to know whether I’m working off someone else’s foundation or if I get to establish my own.
“Uh,” she mutters, pulling herself away from the mass interest in the prickish behavior of our new boss, and rolls out the prints on the makeshift sawhorse table. “I think all of the wiring is run, but they still have to cut in the boxes. If there’s something specific you’re looking for, I think there’s still plenty of room to make changes.”
Fan-flipping-tastic.
“Great. I think we really need to focus on having both soft and hard lighting options in each guest room. There’s nothing I hate more in a hotel than too little or too much light. People want options. Edits on the next great American novel require a slightly different ambiance than a night of bow chicka bow wow, if you know what I’m saying.”
Sarah laughs, and the two guys who were surreptitiously observing Trent through the windows turn to me and smile.
Tony is the food and restaurant manager, and Marcus is a hospitality specialist I met in New York. He’s apparently had a hand in every hotel Trent Turner Senior has ever opened and probably knows more than the rest of us combined, but he’s been remarkably quiet the whole day.
It seems like maybe he’s just waiting to watch Junior fall on his face.
I wonder if Trent’s even considered what an asset Marcus would be to have on his side.
Trent comes back into the room and, of course, immediately the light mood takes a nose dive to the depths of hell.
I shoot imaginary darts at his bright-green eyes and imagine him hitting the ground in pain.
It’s almost ridiculously satisfying, and I can’t help the little laugh that bubbles out of my throat because of the mental image.
It doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Something funny?” Mr. Serious Pants asks sternly.
I raise an eyebrow and hold my ground.
It’s honestly like I’m incapable of doing anything else around him.
“Yes.”
“Care to share?”
I consider the riotous laughter the other people in the room would experience if I were to tell the truth and make a cost comparison against the undeniable shit I will earn for saying it.
The chips are stacked against me, so I decide to keep this little ditty to myself.
“No. I’m good, thanks.”
Trent scowls but doesn’t say anything else as he waves us out of the fitness room—ironic that I’m still giving him shit in hotel gyms, I know—and back into the corridor that leads to reception.
Sarah bumps me with her elbow while we walk, like some girl-code form of congratulations on my back-talking to the boss, and I’m instantly back in high school, cackling at the back of the classroom with the other class clowns.
Dear God, how low I’ve sunk.
I need to get control of my impulses. Not only do I need this job, but after seeing the foundation of this place, I want it.
I can practically smell the fresh paint of my choosing as it goes up on the walls and feel the finest of textures and linens under my fingertips.
I can picture the touches of Creole and charm and everything special this place could be, and I could be the one who makes it that way.
What an accomplishment that would be. It would make all of the hard work and the tears and the struggles worth it, and I know it would make my brother proud to see me do something so significant.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I’m on my best behavior for the rest of the morning. I don’t snark when Trent sneers, and I don’t crack jokes at his expense when he isn’t around.
I am a walking, talking goddamn professional, and I expect some Fortune 500 company owner will be designing a course based on my approach any day now.
Sarah and the guys give me funny looks given that they don’t know how a Stepford wife managed to inhabit my body in such a short time, but I don’t let it sway me.
There’s a head honcho in town, and it just so happens he’s the most annoyingly attractive human on earth.
So what?
But I’m alone in my endeavors.
Trent is still officially the most pompous boss I’ve ever worked for, and with the way his sour attitude commandeered the staff’s mood this morning, his grave looks to be about forty feet deep at this point.
And that really brings to mind just one thing…
I wonder if Emory’s parents will let me bust through the wall when he dies.
Trent
I’m halfway through the fourth day of working with the NOLA project team, and it’s been a long fucking morning.
I slept like shit last night and woke up at the ass-crack of dawn, arriving at the hotel a good two hours before everyone else, just so I could avoid one particular person on my team before I’d managed coffee.
