I laugh inside. Is he even listening to himself? He should try following his own fucking advice sometime.
“I’m making sure you’ve got the best group of people around you. Experts in their field.”
The pointed statement rubs against my skin like sandpaper, and I can’t help but throw out a sardonic question. “Who do you think I was planning on hiring?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m sure you would have hired people who seemed like experts. But it’s not always as simple as a fancy resume and smooth-talking, Trent. I’ve had years and years to get an eye.”
“Through experience,” I stress. “If you don’t ever let me fully take the reins, how do you plan on having me learn it?”
He smirks then. “Through observation. If you want to learn through trial and error, you’ll have to do it with your own money.”
And that’s the real crux of our issues. Trent Turner Senior doesn’t think it’s possible for anyone else to invest as much interest and care into the business he built. He thinks I’ll take what he’s made and run it into the ground with carelessness and laziness and entitlement.
But none of those things are true of me.
There’s nothing that means more to me than the business he built on his back, and there’s no one, despite our disagreements, who respects him as much as me.
That’s why I put every ounce of blood, sweat, and time I have into it.
That said, all I have to give him is a tight nod. I don’t trust myself to respond any other way.
“I’ll let you know when you can meet them.”
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“You have nine months, Trent,” he says in closing. “Nine. Don’t fuck this up.”
Greer
Vomit pools in my throat as I move my purse from one side to the other and back again in the bulky leather office chairs in the waiting room outside of Mr. Turner’s office.
Helen, his bob-sporting assistant, smiles at me awkwardly, and I know she’s noticed my fidgeting.
Great.
I sit up straighter and smooth my smart pencil skirt down over my knees. Helen pushes a crinkly plastic-covered candy toward the edge of her desk and then turns back to her computer.
Helen, it’s now obvious, is someone’s mom. That kind of care and compassion is nothing short of maternal, and it’s the sort of thing I missed out on as a kid.
My brother and my grandfather did their best, don’t get me wrong, but there’s only so much motherly instinct inside a body with a penis.
Grateful, I get up to take the candy, regardless of whether I want it or not. My stomach hasn’t decided, but accepting the gesture seems like the right thing to do either way.
When I get back to my seat and look at its contents, red and white pinwheeled together, I realize Helen really has thought of everything.
Peppermint soothes nausea.
I pop it into my mouth and suck until it disappears, and by the time I finish, I’m feeling a little better.
Helen types furiously on her computer without looking at the screen, clearly transcribing something for Mr. Turner, and then stops immediately.
She touches the Bluetooth piece in her ear. “Yes, Mr. Turner?”
A brief pause.
“Of course. I’ll send her in.”
I gather my purse and portfolio and stand as Helen gestures me forward with the curl of two fingers, saves the document on her computer, and rounds her desk to hold open Mr. Turner’s office door for me.
She is efficient to the point of madness. I hope I can live up to the employee standard she’s set.
Trent Turner is an attractive older man who’s started to gray around the edges. His temples and hairline are more salt than pepper, and a wire-framed pair of glasses sit perched at the end of his nose.
Helen knocks on the frosted-glass pane of the door to announce my entrance, and he looks up and tosses his glasses to the surface of his massive desk before rounding it to greet me.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Turner,” I say as I shake his hand.
His grip is firm, a quality I appreciate, and he indicates I should take a seat with the other hand. “You too, Greer. And please, call me Trent.”
I smile nervously and settle into the soft leather chair in front of his desk before tucking a curled lock of hair behind my ear. My knee bounces—thankfully out of his sight—and I put a weighty hand on top of it to slow it down.
“Okay. Trent.” I test out his name to make sure I can say it without dropping to my knees and begging for the job. It’s close, but somehow, I manage. “I really appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule to meet with me.”
He waves me off and sits in the large desk chair on the other side of the mahogany island between us. His desk is so massive, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had hermits camped in the middle of it that he doesn’t even know about. “Please. I need a designer, and you come highly recommended.”
Really? By whom? Clarise Beaumont doesn’t hate me or anything, but she’s not the kind of person to speak highly of anyone. Other than her, the only person I’ve ever worked for is my grandfather, and if he’s giving me references from the grave, I’m officially freaked out.
I’m careful to cover the shock in my heart with a smile on my face, but he’s too keen and too experienced to miss the subtle clues.
“I’ve spoken with several of your clients.”
“My…” I swallow a sudden flood of saliva. “You’ve spoken to my clients.”
He grins, comfortable in a position of power. Clearly, he didn’t get to the place he is in the hotel business by playing by the rules, and I didn’t get into the trouble I am by expecting the unexpected. We’re a match made in hell, and he’s the devil who plays all the chords.
Each and every one of my client relationships is important to me. I’ve been a part of creating the perfect home for a new couple just starting to build a life together, making a space for a new life to live out its days and nights in several nurseries, and restoring a foundering home left ravaged by Katrina to its former glory. My design expertise even turned a barely surviving gallery in NOLA’s Arts District into a thriving, successful business that now attracts some of the most popular artists in the country. But I’ve never done anything with the magnitude of a hotel, and I’m afraid the limitations of my past experience will work against me.
What does Trent Turner, one of the richest men in the country, care about Genevieve and Ford Amant’s nursery? Or Lisette Ellois’s kitchen remodel?
“I’ve always hated references from employers and coworkers and industry professionals because they’re good at feeding bullshit in whatever direction benefits them. You were good, you weren’t, whatever. Their opinions are based on their needs and wants. Not the needs and wants of your clients. And I’m in the market to be a client, not an employer.”
“I…” I frown and put a hand to his desk, swirling a smudge onto the wood with a fingertip before coming to a conclusion. He’s not holding anything back, and neither should I. I’m either going to save everything I’ve been working toward or go down in a blaze of glory.
Go big, or go home.
“Would you mind explaining to me how you see those as different? To me, my clients are my employers. I work for you and your goals. I’m only meant to be an expert in all the areas you’re too busy to get lost in.”