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“Then improve them.”
I cringe at once. Any idiot could’ve seen that that was the next logical stepping stone—I guess I just never really thought that Dmitri Egorov would ask for my opinion.
“I don’t have any real experience,” I stammer stupidly.
“Try anyway.”
And just like that, I’m sweating under my arms. And down my back. And on my forehead. And in other places that shall remain nameless.
“Okay,” I whisper, reaching for the mockup prints. At first glance, I can pick out half a dozen details that I would change. But I start with the biggest adjustments first. “First off, he hasn’t utilized the space well. This is meant to be a luxury bridal boutique. It has to be different from all the other stores hawking dresses.” I take the second mockup and place it right in front of Dmitri. “This arrangement is decent, but he’s closed off each space. Why not open it up, have one room flow into the other? Why not create the illusion of more room? Airy, bright, free-flowing?”
I glance eagerly at his expression, waiting for some sort of reaction, some sign of approval. But apart from a slight “Hmm,” he doesn’t give away a thing.
“And here,” I say, pointing to the crenelated arch along the back wall that overlooks a courtyard garden, “He’s made it so jagged and masculine. Let the garden talk to customers, you know? Let the light in. Give these women beautiful white spaces like canvases for them to project their fantasies onto.”
Dmitri purses his lips. “All good suggestions.”
Is he just humoring me? He has to be. I’m way out of my depth here.
All the girlboss Instagram accounts are screaming at me in my head to stand up for myself, to not apologize for taking up space—but I just can’t do it. A lifetime of conditioning tells me to hedge. To back down. To shrink.
“Like I said, I’m no expert, but I have an eye for spaces. And I know enough about Madison Montgomery to know that she’ll appreciate a design that’s out of the norm.”
Not bad, girl. Not bad at all.
“Okay.”
I have no idea what that means. I’m weighing whether or not to ask him when Dmitri moves first. He picks up his phone again and starts dialing in a number. Then he transfers the call to the speaker and sets it back down on the table.
“Yes, Mr. Egorov?”
I suck my breath in. Is that Jackson Mitchell again?
Dmitri doesn’t so much as give me a warning glance. “Mitchell, I’m bringing in a new designer to help you with the Montgomery project.”
He’s not—He can’t—He wouldn’t… My eyeballs feel as though they’re about to jump out of my sockets.
Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s blindsided, because Mitchell starts hemming and hawing. “M-Mr. Egorov, I respect your judgment but?—”
“They say anything that follows a ‘but’ cancels out everything that was said before,” Dmitri interrupts smoothly. “If you trust my judgment, then there’s no room for buts. And if you don’t, then you can get the fuck out of my office building.”
I’m mouthing, What the hell are you doing?!
Dmitri just ignores me. “She’s young and inexperienced, but she’s wildly talented and her vision will help get this next mockup approved. So I’m assigning her to your team as project manager. Do what she tells you to do.”
This time, I do more than just gesture theatrically in the air. I reach down and put the call on mute, cutting off Mitchell’s indignant stuttering.
“What are you doing?” I cry out.
He lifts his eyebrows calmly. “I would have thought it was obvious.”
“I wasn’t giving you a sales pitch. I was just trying to help!”
“And you have. But unless you want Mitchell taking the credit for your ideas, I’d suggest you jump on this train and stop worrying about stepping on people’s toes.”
That last point pierces through my sense of panic. Is that what I’m worried about? No. Well, yes and no. I really don’t want to piss Jackson Mitchell off by undermining him.
But I’m also worried about failing. It’s so much more painful to fall on your ass when you desperately want to stay on your feet. The much easier option is just to accept your place on the floor.
