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“The wallpaper’s still the same.”
“I’m aware.”
He looks at me, dark green eyes pinning me in place. “Why?”
I swallow. His gaze is oddly arresting and throws me off for a beat or two. I force myself to hold his stare — I won’t back down. Not now. Not ever. “Because the wallpaper is what brings the space together. It elevates the landing and brings it to life.”
“You don’t think it’s too busy?”
“Clearlyyoudo.” It’s not a question. I can read him like a book.
His lips twitch, and for a second, I think he’s about to laugh. But he quickly schools his expression into something more neutral. “I’m worried it’s not right for the brand. The New York location—”
“This isn’t New York,” I interrupt because I already know what he’s going to say. “You need continuity between the two locations, yes, but you also said you want something that’ll make the London location stand out. Something new. Something different.” I stab at my tablet. “Thiswill do that. The whole venue will be bold, bright, and busy. But still luxury. Still decadent. You’re going to need to trust me on that.”
He inhales deeply through his nose and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. If my tone was too sharp. If there wasn’t enough deference in my words. I’m usually pretty good at managing egos — between Cynthia and my parents, you could say I’m a pro — but I’ve not got Hawthorne right just yet.
“Fine,” he says after a loaded pause. “We’ll go with your lead on this one.”
On this one.
I swallow down my ire and decide to take this as a win. “Great. I’ll get started on hiring contractors in.”
I expect him to return to his spot on the floor, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets his head loll against the window. The sun is peeking through the clouds just enough to shine across his face. It hits his golden hair just right and the thought “the sun suits him” worms its way into my mind without my approval.
“How was your weekend?” he asks suddenly, eyes still squeezed shut.
The question startles me and it brings back memories I’d worked hard over the weekend to push aside. Hawthorne approaching me at the bar, calling me beautiful, beingfartoo charming to be allowed. When I don’t answer right away, he says, “Did you enjoy the event?”
I shrug, then remember he can’t see the action. “It was all right.” I’m reluctant to share much more about my personal life with him, but I can recognise that he’s waiting for something more, so I add, “Did you? Have you settled on a supplier?”
His features twist into that same irritated look from before. “Not yet. We’re struggling to negotiate an acceptable price point for both parties.”
I can’t turn my snort into a believable cough quick enough.
He peeks open an eye and I swear he looks vaguely amused. “Something funny?”
“Not at all.”
He opens both eyes, clearly unconvinced. “Go on. Say it. What’s so funny?”
Part of me — thesanepart of me — knows that I shouldn’t say anything. He’s a client, a very important client, and I owe him at least a veil of professionalism. But there’s another part of me that wonderswhy bother? He already knows I don’t like him, and as far as I can tell, he doesn’t seem to care. He’s not brought our brief conversation at the bar up yet and he’s looking at me like he’s genuinely interested in knowing my thoughts.
Maybe he needs someone who’s not afraid to tell him the truth.
“You’re too cheap, Hawthorne,” I say bluntly.
He blinks at me and…Shit. I’ve definitely fucked up. I read the room wrong. He didn’t want to hear the truth.
And then he laughs. Like full on belly laughs, as if it’s genuinely the funniest thing he’s ever heard. I think there are tears forming in the corner of his eyes.
“Cheap?” He wipes his eyes and shoots me a wide smile. “I’ve never heard that one before.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“What makes you say that?”
I glance down at my tablet pointedly. “You didn’t even want to go with this concept at first,” I remind him. “You thought it was too expensive.”
