Smart Girl (4 page)

She winces sympathetically. “And how is that?”

I toy with the button on my sweater.

“Invisible. And short on air.” I look her in the eye. “Don’t you get it? I’d rather try with everything I’ve got. I’d rather go down in a giant crap-ball of flames than strike out with something as generic as getting turned down for coffee. He’s my lobster.”

She’s shaking her head slowly, equal parts horror and sympathy on her face.

“He can’t be your lobster, Miko. You barely even know him.”

This is where she’s wrong.

“I know what I know.”

She continues to stare at me while the din of the café carries on around us. I stir the remaining foam in my cup round and round until it dissolves into liquid as murky as my thoughts. Her resigned chuckle pulls my attention back up to her.

“Lord, Max is going to kill us when she finds out.”

I push my hair out of my eyes and lean across the table towards her.

“Us?”

“Well, I can’t very well let you try and pull this off alone, now can I? You might be the greatest designer ever, but your execution is terrible.”

I can’t believe she’s going to help me, though I probably should have given her more credit; Landon has been my wingman since jump street. I don’t know why I thought she’d let me down now, but I’m so grateful. I thought Casidee was going to be an asset in this whole scheme, but it seems as if she’s so positive something bad is going to happen that she’s making up excuses every time I want to walk through the next steps. I mean, I know the possibility of breaking and entering or securing a horse and carriage in modern-day Los Angeles wasn’t exactly listed in Cas’s job description, but you’d think she’d be excited about the possibility to do something besides make copies and answer the phone. Kids today.

I take an excited swig of tepid coffee.

“What do you think I should do first?”

“First”—she pulls a pen out and starts writing on the list—“you should start with a bit more subtlety—”

“I’ve had nearly a year of subtlety, Landon. It’s time to go big or—”

“You are not kicking off this insane plan by making yourself sick, Miko!” Her little blonde eyebrows narrow as she reads my notes for the first plan. “Ipecac syrup is no joke, and if you puke all over him, I doubt even you can bounce back from that.”

I cross my arms with a huff. She’s right, which is super annoying.

“So what then?”

“How about number fourteen?”

I glance at the line she’s pointing to.

“A bit subtle if you ask me,” I grumble.

Her response is deadpan. “Your blouse is the color of a traffic cone. You could do with a little more subtlety.”

My mother would die a thousand times if she knew I’d read
Fifty Shades of Grey
. Even if I admitted I read it with my hand covering my mouth in shock, and occasionally I had to hide under my shirt like a turtle because I was totally embarrassed. But regardless of the questionable prose or the unironic use the term
inner goddess
, no one can deny its contribution to the romance book zeitgeist.

It’s become an icon in the romance-book world by people much more experienced than I am, so it seemed like I should include it on the list. But really, there is very little I could use from the plot that didn’t involve things way too inappropriate to even contemplate. So the scene that made the list was the interview from the beginning of the book. It really is the first time the hero takes notice of the heroine, if for no other reason than she doesn’t cower and is dressed badly. I’m physically incapable of the latter, but the former I’ve got in spades. This whole scheme is made all the better by the fact that Liam asked me to meet him at his office. Given that the plan was coming together so nicely, I figured if I was going to take this on, I was going to do it right. I spent last night reading that scene over and over, trying to memorize all the questions and nuances. At the last minute I dropped my iPad with the e-book on it into my purse in case I needed it for reference.

I can’t believe it was Landon who realized number fourteen on my list made a much better option than number one. Sometimes I get so caught up on the way something might look that I don’t take the time to ask myself whether or not it’s in any way realistic. It’s one of my fatal flaws.

“Stella, are you kidding me?” I demand playfully as Liam’s fifty-something assistant opens the door to his office for me. “You have to try coconut oil. It works for
everything
. It makes your hair shiny, your hands smooth. Sometimes I drink a spoonful just to counterbalance the quantity of gummy bears I eat in the course of a week.”

She smiles sweetly.

“I absolutely will, Miss Jin. Thank you for the tip.”

“Oh, and I hope Frank feels better soon. I’ve heard plantar fasciitis is super painful.”

She thanks me again and closes the glass door behind her as she leaves.

If the confusion on his face is anything to go by, Liam has been watching the whole exchange from his desk.

“Do you two know each other?”

“Stella and me? No. I mean yes—we do now. We just met on the walk over from the lobby.”

“You got all of that in a three-minute walk from reception?”

I’m fairly certain the answer is obvious, so I just shrug and take a seat in the chair in front of his desk. Today my outfit says
classy
,
sassy
,
noticeable
. He’s wearing a tailored black suit and a crisp white shirt. The formality of his clothing is in direct opposition to that golden Viking hair that brushes against his collar every time he turns his head.

He nods at the skinny gray tie I added just before I walked out the door this morning—it’s so Christian Grey of me.

“Business attire?”

I flash a grin.

“Something like that.”

An exposed brick wall lines one side of the room, and the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk look out over Little Santa Monica in Beverly Hills. The wall that faces the hallway is made entirely of glass so you can see into the other executive offices along the corridor. The other wall was once white, but now its twelve-feet-high by however-many-feet-wide expanse is filled with graphics. Not framed images or posters, but actual drawings done right on the wall in bold black ink. I get up from my chair to look at it more closely. It’s a collection of hundreds of small pictures, words, or graphics that share no commonality other than the style they’re drawn in. It’s a mismatch of imagery and feelings that is no less powerful for appearing to be cartoons at first glance. Apparently Charlie isn’t the only member of the family who collects art.

“Is this Goodman?”

When he doesn’t answer, I turn around to ask again. He’s sitting on the front side of his desk, studying me, though I have no idea when he moved closer.

“I did it again?”

He nods. “Now that I know you’re not having a stroke when you zone out like that, it’s actually really interesting to observe.” He gestures to the mural beside me. “I carried on for several minutes about his process and how long it took him to draw it out. When you started to trace the rain cloud with your fingers, I realized that you weren’t actually listening. It is Timothy Goodman, though. Good on you for recognizing his work.”

I tuck my hair behind one ear and walk back over to my seat.

“My creative crush on him knows no bounds. Have you seen his Instagram account?”

His brow furrows, and he shakes his head.

“Well, trust me—if you followed him, you’d understand.”

He walks around to his chair and takes a seat himself.

“So do you have the design on your Mac, or do you need—”

“Actually, I was hoping I could ask you some questions before we begin.”

I wonder if he means to look at me so intensely or if I’m imagining it. Now that I’m about to actually try this out, I feel nervous. I reach into my bag and grab my iPad; it’s a digital security blanket.

He raises a questioning eyebrow. I open up my iPad and punch in my code. Immediately my Kindle app opens right to the page I need.

“To design your space, I need to get a better feel for, well, you.”

This is a total fabrication. I’ve already designed the restaurant based on the space, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. The movement makes his biceps tense like they’re ready to attack. I wish they would.

He clears his throat. I look down at the iPad and ask the first question.

“Right. Um, to what do you owe your success?”

“And this is . . . ?” He lets his words trail off in a question.

“Part of my creative process.”

OK, it’s not. But that doesn’t mean it
couldn’t
be part of my creative process going forward.

“My success?”

“Yes, to what do you owe it?”

“Who says I’m successful?”

I can’t tell if he’s trying to engage in some kind of a debate or being deliberately obtuse. I make a point of looking slowly around his stylish office inside his multimillion-dollar headquarters in Beverly Hills.

“Um,
Forbes
?”

He rubs the back of his neck. The gesture looks surprisingly uncomfortable.

“Shouldn’t you ask, to whom do I owe my success?”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it’s easier to become successful if you have a father who’s worth millions to begin with.”

It might have come across as self-deprecating if it weren’t for his tone. I’m a little thrown off. In the book, the question is answered with total unwavering confidence. I never expected any other kind of reply. I tilt my head to study him better. He’s not serious about the secret to success, right? He can’t possibly believe his father is the only reason he’s made it this far. I scan the page of the book for another question that might be a follow-up, and when I don’t find anything that makes sense, I just respond honestly.

“I know for a fact you’ve worked just as hard, if not harder, than anyone else to get where you are. I’ve never seen anyone so driven to succeed.”

There goes that lazy grin.

“So you don’t buy nepotism. How about charm? I’ve been told I’m just oozing with it. It makes for faster deals and easier partnerships.”

When he doesn’t continue, I glance at the page again, looking for something else to ask.

“Um, do you have any interests outside of your work?” I ask without thinking.

He looks at me in confusion. “Yes. I work out, I enjoy golf, I spend a good deal of time with my family.” He frowns. “Not that you and I are exceptionally close or anything, but I thought you’d be familiar enough with me to know those things already. Surely you have enough of an understanding to mark that off the list of your client questionnaire.”

Stupid. Of course I know those things already!

“Just doing my due diligence,” I reply moronically. I scan quickly for another one before I can ask something else without thinking.

“Would your friends say you’re an easy person to get to know?” It’s word for word from the book, and it makes no sense in the context of our conversation. He stares at the iPad in my hands with a frown.

“Yes, I suppose they would, though I’m not really sure what this has to do with—”

The screen of my iPad starts to dim from disuse, and I jab my finger into it to wake it back up. In a hurry to move our conversation along, I recite the first sentence I see on the page with a question mark after it.

“Does the submissive agree to be—” Halfway through the line my brain catches up with what I’m reading, and I make a sort of strangled gagging sound, cutting off my words.

Dear sweet mother of dogs! My stupid e-book skipped to a later chapter, and I just read the word
submissive
in a place of work, during a business meeting! Hysterical laughter bubbles up inside me, but I tamp it down. A few more seconds and I would have asked him the rest of that question and then promptly committed seppuku with the Montblanc on his desk. I shut down the tablet and toss it into my bag like it’s on fire.

“Did you just—”

“Nope,” I cut him off. “Let’s just move on.”

He opens his mouth to answer. Closes it. Opens it again.

I am such an absolute idiot! Why, oh why did I choose something so risqué as my first choice? Even as I ask myself, I know the answer. I want Liam to see me as a woman, not as his little sister’s friend. While that scene is mild, the book is sexy. I somehow thought some of that sexy might rub off on me. Which is ridiculous! Given my experience with awkwardness, I was absolutely asking for something embarrassing like this to happen! So now not only does he think I’m a weirdo, there’s an excellent chance he thinks I have Tourette’s or design red rooms for a whole different clientele on weekends!

I look out into the office beyond his and will myself to find the composure necessary to ask a relatively normal question.

“What is your role within the company?”

He looks utterly confused, which I suppose is the kindest reaction he could have when my weirdness hits level ten.

Liam looks out the wall of glass into the hallway, where Barker-Ash employees bustle around like a swarm of bees. “Let’s put it this way: if Dad is the captain of the ship and Brody is the muscle, I’m the big-bosomed wench they send to shore to sweet-talk new sailors into joining up.”