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“I guess we will.” I try to ease my anxiety by concentrating on the hum of the plane.Tomorrow, I’m going to meet Libby Bardot tomorrow.
Chapter 2 - Libby
Is it possible to die from exhaustion? I drop my head against my headrest and close my eyes.Just a few minutes, I tell myself. I started my organization business six months ago. I fronted a lot of the cost, in the beginning, to film aesthetic organization videos in friends’ and family's houses with the hope of finding clients through social media. Was it stressful?Hell yes.
My credit card balances are alarmingly high, and I am only now starting to see a return on my investment. Over the past two months, I’ve received a steady stream of inquiries from my organization and cleaning videos. Luckily, I’ve also collected enough subscribers for an okay side income, but it’s just me. I am a business of one and this is my fourth visit of the day.
When I got the message last night, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. I needed just one more client this month to reach my goals and based on the address of this high rise, it might be a lucrative one.
My phone buzzes, reminding me to get my shit together. I flip the visor down and check my makeup. A little smudged but still professional. I smile hard in the mirror. I might be tired but this is my dream and I’m doing it. I snap the visor up and hustle the three blocks to the building, straightening my polo before entering the glamorous lobby.
“Hi, I’m here to see the tenant in apartment 25-B.” I look at my phone to confirm the number when the security guy’s face scrunches at the request.
“Uh-huh. Is he expecting you?”
His tone throws me off and I stand a little straighter feeling self-conscious in my ‘work uniform’. I know jeans aren’t super dressy, but this is California.
“Umm, yes? I’m here with Libby Cleans it All? I have an appointment with Mr. Hart at one.”
His lips press together. “Mr. Hart, huh? Let me call.” He says skeptically. He picks up the phone and a little unease finds its home in my stomach. If some asshole trolled me, I might cry. I’ve been up since four in the morning, and I don’t know if I can take it.
“Miss?” I look up at the security guard and he holds his hand over the phone. “What’s your full name?”
“Libby Bardot, with Libby Cleans it All.” He repeats the information, nodding at whatever the person says before hanging up.
“Sorry for the wait.” His whole demeanor has changed, and I honestly don’t know what to think about it. Is this guy famous or something?
“Sure, no problem.” He pulls out a binder and I sign out a key card.
“You’ll need to hold this to the keypad to get access to the penthouse floor. Good luck.” He waves me toward the elevator, and I clutch the keycard and shuffle forward.
Holy shit, a penthouse. Just the thought of what this could mean for my business has my heart racing. I wonder what size the closet is. Or how many closets. I press the P at the top of the button panel and hold the keycard to a thin black console until it beeps.
When the elevator opens there’s one hallway with two doors on either side. The apartments must be huge. I turn to the right for the door with the big B and tentatively ring the bell. When Mr. Hart messaged me last night his picture was of a nice-looking guy in a suit. Maybe he works in finance or something.
I’m expecting that same guy to open the door. Or maybe his wife. I wonder if they have kids, and I could do some kids’ bedrooms. I hope to continue to make content, but I’ve never worked with a client this wealthy before.
My mind is racing a million miles a minute when the door swing opens to reveal a whole lot of chest. The man is a literal mountain. A black shirt stretches across his pecs, straining at the biceps and I tilt my chin to see his face.This is not the guy from the picture.
“Umm, I’m sorry, I must have the wrong door.” I pick up my phone to confirm the number. “Does Mr. Hart liv –”
“Yeah, it’s Noah. Come on in, you’re in the right place.”
He opens the door and I step into the space. It’s huge, with oversized furniture and the kind of natural lighting only possible when you’re rich and have windows for days. With the building, I would have expected contemporary or ultra-modern decor but instead, it looks a little more lived in. My heels click on the tile, echoing in the short hallway. To the right, there’s an arch where I can see a large kitchen peeking through. The bedrooms must be on the other side of the apartment.
“Sorry for the confusion,” I say slowly. “Your assistant must have messaged me.” I bite my lip and turn to him.
This man is beautiful. He has a classic square jaw and deeply tanned skin like he spends a lot of time out in the sun. His hair is dark brown and just a little curly. His green eyes peep out behind glasses. He’s kind of hard to take in because of the sheer size and the…muscles. Holy shit this man must work out all damn day.
“I don’t have an assistant, that was my friend Luka.” His voice is gruff, and he crosses his arms over his expansive chest.
“Oh,” I say like I understand. “Umm, well, perhaps we could tour the space you want organized?”
He continues to watch me, the silence stretching between us, and I don’t know what to do. If his friend reached out to me does that mean he’s not actually looking for organizational services? Was this some kind of joke? I paste my best professional smile on my face and clutch the strap of my bag, waiting.
“Let’s go to the kitchen first so you can review and sign the NDA.”
“NDA?”
