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“No reason,” I lie. “Just in the area and thought I’d get some work done. But you’ve clearly set up in here.” I shrug, like it’s no big deal. “I’ll find another room.”
He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “This is going to be the office anyway; you might as well use it. There’s plenty of space.”
I can’t think of an excuse that’s not the verbal equivalent of a childish foot stomp. “All right.”
I step into the room and make my way to the corner closest to the window. The sill stretches out just enough to make a little nook for me to sit on.
“Maybe you should do this room first?” he says, watching as I pull my laptop and tablet out of my bag. “Decorate it and get all the furniture in. I think we could both do with a desk.”
“That’s the plan,” I grit out and remind myself that he’s trying to be helpful. That he doesn’t mean to be annoying. That he doesn’t realise he’s talking to me like I’m an idiot.
“Great,” he says brightly. “How long do you think it’ll take? Do you think we could have everything in here by the end of the week?”
“Unlikely.”
“Well, how long will it take?” he pushes, his brows knitting in the middle again. “It’s just one room.”
Just one room.
I run a hand through my hair, my fingers twisting tightly around a few strands at the front. It’s ten past nine on a Monday morning and I’m already on edge. Is this how the next three months are going to be? Him makingsuggestionsevery few days? Me desperately trying to resist the urge to call it quits on this project before it’s even really started?
“It’s notjust one room,” I say, and there’s more venom in my tone than I’d like.
He’s a client, I tell myself. An annoying client, but a client all the same. I take a deep breath and remind myself just how much is riding on the success of this project.
“There are a lot of things I have to do first. Hire contractors, order in paint and wallpaper. Source the furniture. The list goeson. So forgive me if it takes me a little longer than a week to get things going.”
To his credit, he looks a little contrite. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then his laptoppingsand his gaze slides down toward his screen. Frustration, clear as day, flashes across his face as he reads whatever email has just come in. I’d be lying if I said the look doesn’t give me a tiny bit of satisfaction. I’m glad that he’s currently feeling even a tiny fraction of the irritation I am.
I use this sudden distraction as an opportunity to go through my emails.
I was right. The one that just came inwasanother one from him.
FROM:Finn Hawthorne
SUBJECT:RE: Further thoughts
BODY:Also the reception area rug choices…maybe a bittoobold?
My brow twitches. Just two days ago he was saying that I captured his vision perfectly, but now there are suddenly problems with the wallpaper and my choice in rugs?
I glance over at him. He’s glaring at his laptop like it’s personally wronged him. One hand drifts up from his keyboard and tugs at the salmon coloured tie around his neck. He lets out a loud groan.
A nicer person than me would ask him what’s wrong, but I’m still irritated about the emails, so I ignore the obvious conflict he’s going through. Instead, I pull up the design concepts on my tablet and swipe through them.
As a gesture of goodwill, I spend the next two hours making the amends he’s asked for. I add the low lighting in the corridors and swap out the rug in the reception for something a little more subtle, but the wallpaper on the third floor makes me pause. It’s perfect and brings the whole third floor landing together. I flick through a few other options I’d been considering, but none of them make the space pop as much as my current choice.
I make an executive decision.
I’m not changing the wallpaper. He’s just going to have to deal.
“I’ve got thefinaldesigns ready,” I say, hoping he hears the pointed emphasis there. “If you want to take a look.”
He nods, pushes himself up from the floor, and crosses the distance between us in three long strides. I move to hand my tablet over to him but he drops onto the windowsill beside me. His arm brushes against mine as he leans over my shoulder.
Has this guy never heard of personal space?
He hums quietly as he flicks through the designs. When he reaches the slide with the third floor landing, his lips dip at the corners into a frown.
