She smiled nervously at Emmie and clutched her bag tighter. Her expensive cropped leather blazer creaked. “So this is Wilman Designs,” she said, taking it in with her wide blue eyes.
“Yep, this is it.”
“It’s nice.”
“Yes,” Emmie lied.
“I can’t wait to open my doors—I signed the papers on the space last week. I should be working on finalizing the details right now, but . . .”
“You need design advice?”
Juliet looked confused for a moment, then shook her head. “Oh. Not just yet, no.”
Emmie couldn’t for the life of her figure out why Juliet was standing in front of her, fidgeting. Had Emmie left something behind at the party, and Juliet was stopping by to give it back? Did she do something offensive—even though she thought she had been on her best behavior—and Juliet was going to call her out about it? Did—oh, God in heaven, no—did Graham tell her that she went all googly-eyed at him the first time they met, and now Juliet was going to warn Emmie to keep her mitts off her man?
Finally Juliet fought out, “I was wondering if you were free for lunch.”
Well, that was entirely unexpected, Emmie thought. “Uh . . .” Instead of saying yes or no, she heard herself blurt out rudely, “It’s eleven o’clock.”
“Is that a problem?”
Emmie took another look at Juliet. She wasn’t the confident, gracious socialite she had been last night. In fact, she looked a little green. Emmie wondered what was bothering this lost-looking wisp of a woman.
“No, it’s not a problem,” she said. “Let me get my coat.”
They chose a little café that was within walking distance of the office. Emmie ordered an iced tea, but Juliet ordered a gin and tonic. Emmie stared at it longingly. She raised her eyebrows at how efficiently Juliet sucked it down and asked for another before their flatbread pizzas were even close to arriving.
Wilma was out searching for just the right dining room set for a client, so Emmie knew she had some time—and a good thing, too, as it didn’t look like Juliet was going to be ponying up the reason for asking her to lunch anytime soon. Juliet had been a master of small talk at her party the previous night, but her skill was failing her now—or she was too fixated on getting the last drops out of the bottom of the glass. As she poked at the lime wedge with her thin straw, Emmie debated whether it was better to fill the void with frivolous conversation or get right to the heart of the matter and ask her what she wanted—well, in a more polite way, of course.
After spending a few moments watching Juliet rattle the ice around in her glass, Emmie took a breath. “Juliet—” she began, just as the woman across the table looked up and finally spoke.
“Did you have a good time at the party?” she asked.
“Yeah, it was nice—”
“Look, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“I could kind of tell.”
Juliet tried to smile. “Not a lot of people know this, but . . . I guess you should.”
“Okay . . .” Emmie prompted.
“I can trust you, I think—you seem like a really nice person.”
“Thanks . . . ?”
And suddenly Juliet got the rest out in a rush. “I need to explain about Graham and—and Kevin.”
Juliet was flushed—whether it was because of the alcohol or nerves, Emmie wasn’t sure. But judging by how skittish Juliet was, Emmie could pretty much guess what she was going to say. And she really didn’t want to hear the gory details.
“Juliet, you know, you don’t have to—it doesn’t matter—”
“No, I need to explain. I mean . . . it’s complicated.”
“Seems that way.”
“Kevin doesn’t know . . . Nobody else knows. And I want to keep it that way. I wouldn’t bring it up at all,” Juliet went on, frowning at the tabletop, “but then Graham . . . he . . .”
Emmie sat up a little straighter at Juliet’s suddenly annoyed tone. Graham what?
“He just had to come into the foyer to meet you on Saturday, so now . . . now I need to ask you . . . Emmie, what I need to know is, can I count on you for this?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Emmie saw the server slide their pizzas onto the table. He asked if they needed anything else, and Juliet reminded him that she was still waiting for her second drink. Once he was gone, Juliet prompted, “Emmie?”
She jumped a little. “Right.”
“Can I count on you for this?” she said again.
“Uh,” she rasped, “sure. Yeah.”
Juliet visibly relaxed. “Thank you,” she said. “I can’t tell you what this means to me. But you should know it’s not as bad as—”
“Uh, you know . . .” Emmie blurted out, cutting her off. “I can’t . . . I . . .” The server returned with Juliet’s second gin and tonic, and Emmie looked up at him. “Can I get a box, please?” To Juliet, she said, “I have to go.”
Juliet frowned prettily. “Again? Is it me, or—”
Yes. It damn sure is you this time, Emmie thought, but she only said, “I’m so sorry. I hate to keep doing this to you, but I really do have to get back . . .”
“Emmie, is it because of what I just—”
“No! No, of course not. You can do whatever—I mean, it’s fine. I just have to go. Really.” She made an effort to smile at Juliet, who was looking a whole lot different in her eyes all of a sudden. She wrestled her arms into her coat, nearly knocking over her iced tea, and fumbled for her purse.
“Emmie,” Juliet ventured, “are we still friends?”
“Of—of course,” Emmie heard herself saying, even as she wondered when they had ever actually been friends. “Sure.”
“I’m so glad,” Juliet breathed. “And I’m going to tell everyone I know to go to you if they need work done in their houses.”
Emmie stopped dead. Was that a bribe? She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Juliet was looking so earnest, so worried. What did she think Emmie was going to do, lie in wait on their street and jump out at Kevin when he came home from work, just so she could spill the beans about Juliet’s little secret?
Emmie took a deep breath and, before she could say anything she’d regret, only muttered, “Thanks. I really have to go now.”
“Let’s have coffee sometime!” Juliet called after her, but Emmie was stumbling out of the café on wobbly legs, so hurriedly she even left her box on the table—and usually Emmie was more loyal than the Marines. She never left a pizza behind.
The cold air actually felt good on her flushed cheeks as she thought about Juliet and Graham. How in the world did something like this happen? Well, that wasn’t such a mystery. A couple of happenstance meetings, a bit of unhappiness and loneliness on one or both their parts, some flirtatious exchanges, a private moment or two, and they were off to the races. Happened every day, all over the world, right?
This was Juliet’s life, Juliet’s duplicity, Juliet’s problem. She didn’t care. But she sure didn’t like the notion that Juliet had the perfect life, with a perfectly nice husband and family, and she was playing footsie with yet another perfect man. Why wasn’t she happy with the nice man she had? Was she making a collection or something? And why, she wondered, should some women have too many men, when other women, who were just as worthy of happiness—if not more so, she couldn’t help throwing in—end up with losers like Kyle, and then not even manage to keep the likes of him interested?
Emmie wondered what Graham’s story was. Did he have a wife and kids, too? Did they have to hide from just Juliet’s family, or from his as well? She thought of how quiet the house had been that Saturday. Did Juliet cancel the cookie party in order to steal an afternoon with Graham instead? Why did she care? Why? Because if Graham was going to have an affair, why hadn’t Emmie gotten to him first, that’s why!
Emmie stopped short on the sidewalk so abruptly a few people nearly ran into her. Did she actually just think that? She was in worse shape than she thought. Bu
t she knew better; she’d never get herself into a situation like that, not even with a man as hot as Graham.
Would she?
The ethical dilemma kept her busy all the way back to the office. She peeked in the window; Wilma was back in the office already, talking with a client, who was seated in her guest chair at the front of the room. Suddenly she was glad she had bailed on lunch with Juliet. The last thing she needed right now was an earful from her boss about having the office locked up for too long in the middle of the day. She pushed open the door.
“Oh. There you are.”
“Here I am, John!” she agreed with forced brightness.
As she busied herself with hanging up her coat, Wilma said to the client, “This is my assistant, Emmaline.” Never “associate,” Emmie noted. And never, ever “partner.” God forbid. Then again, she thought, she should be grateful that he didn’t call her his secretary. The client twisted around in the chair, stood up to greet her—and she felt her second punch in the gut within an hour.
“We meet again,” Graham murmured, smiling.
Chapter 6
It was too much. Being ambushed by Juliet was bad enough, but now she had to smile and make small talk with the one person—besides Juliet—she just couldn’t bear to see. She wanted to make some excuse and run away, just as she had done with Juliet—twice—but she couldn’t. This was her job. And that grump over there, that was her dour employer glowering at her, wondering why she was hesitating. She was stuck.
“Emmaline?”
“Yes!” she said briskly.
“This is Graham Cooper—”
Graham smiled more broadly and said to Wilma, “We’ve met. Several times, in fact.” He turned back to her. “But it’s always nice to see you again, Emmie.” He held out his hand.
“Mr. Cooper is an architect.” Wilma beamed at him as he spoke to Emmie. Oh, great—the boss man’s taken a shine to Graham, she thought. Get in line, bub. “He’s looking for a designer to work on his latest project.”
“Oh! Er . . . great,” Emmie tried to enthuse as she reluctantly shook Graham’s hand. That was all she needed. Funny how she had wished for just this circumstance only a few weeks ago.
Without taking his eyes off his new client, Wilma said, “Make a fresh pot of coffee, if you please, Emmaline, while Mr. Cooper and I get started.”
Emmie barely managed to stifle a heavy sigh and she clomped toward the kitchenette at the back of the office. Make coffee . . . he might as well have called her his secretary. She robotically pulled the bag of coffee grounds out of the cupboard, then shoved the glass carafe under the bottled water dispenser.
Seething about Juliet and Graham, Wilma’s abuse, and her aching back as she bent over and watched the water burble into the pot, Emmie completely missed the tastefully muted “ahem” that came from behind her. However, she caught the second, slightly louder one. She stood up and whipped around, keenly aware that she had been displaying a broad view of her backside to . . . Ahh, just great.
“Graham. What can I do for you?”
“I, er, was looking for your restroom.”
“Oh, it’s that door over there.” Emmie moved to point it out, but Graham spoke again.
“Actually, that was a cheap excuse to come back here and talk to you privately,” he murmured. And despite everything she now knew about the man, his warm voice and steady blue-eyed gaze turned her insides to jelly again. He leaned back against the counter, hands in his pockets, looking so casually delectable that Emmie knew if he stood that way thirty more seconds, she’d agree to absolutely anything he asked, and the more torrid the better.
“I heard from my friend Juliet that you’re a remarkable designer.”
Well, didn’t that just dump a bucket of ice water over her agitated hormones. “I see.” And—wait—his “friend”? Ew.
“Yes. She couldn’t say enough good things about you.”
And how in the world was that possible, when Juliet had seen none of her work? “Wow, that was really nice of her. She’s so nice, isn’t she?” Emmie tacked on, with a large dollop of sarcasm.
Graham blinked. “Er, yes. So I was thinking—” he began, but he was interrupted by Wilma, who had come to see what was taking Emmie so long. He looked ready to rage at her, but stopped short when he saw his new client in the kitchenette as well.
Instead he said, quite pleasantly, “Emmaline, when the coffee’s ready, please bring it to the conference table. Mr. Cooper, if you’ll come with me—”
With a lingering glance in Emmie’s direction, which she tried to ignore as she focused on watching the coffee drip, Graham sat down with Wilma at the antique carved pedestal table, and Wilma started his usual introduction about how wonderful and trustworthy he was. Emmie was suddenly grateful that she had the coffee to attend to, if only to avoid having to listen to that drivel for the thousandth time.
When she brought the coffee tray to the meeting area, Wilma was quizzing Graham about the details of his project.
“This must be a significant remodel,” Wilma said admiringly, and Emmie marveled at the black-hole level of vacuum the Suck-up Master was generating. “Or a new build, perhaps?”
Graham glanced up at Emmie and thanked her when she handed him a cup. “No, not a new build. It’s a remodel—an extensive one.”
“Someone not happy with the layout of one of the new places?” Wilma nodded knowingly, ready to dish about difficult clients with someone who knew the trade. Emmie passed him a cup; he stuck his hand out for it without taking his eyes off Graham.
“Actually, it’s one of the older places in town. The Greek Revival just down from the corner of Central and West.”
“Really!” Wilma gushed. “That’s quite a place. Only a few owners in its entire history, am I right?”
“Right. But there’s a lot of work to be done. It’s a bit run down—it’s been empty for a couple of years—and before that there hadn’t been much updating, what with the last owners being pretty up there in years.”
“Of course. The old-timers don’t like change, do they? Nor do they like spending money.” Wilma let out a snort of laughter. Graham smiled politely as he stirred his coffee. “So let’s talk about what you need from me,” Wilma said, getting down to business.
Emmie retrieved a pad of paper from the sideboard against the wall and sat down, poised to take notes as they talked. Usually Wilma took his own notes, but apparently he wanted to give Graham his full attention—no surprise there—so this time it fell to Emmie.
“Well, first of all,” Graham said, shifting a bit in his chair, “I’d like to start with a specific request.”
“Anything. You tell me what you want.”
For now, Emmie thought with a tight grin. She picked up her cup and waited for the battle of the alpha males to commence.
“All right. I want Emmie.”
Emmie choked on her coffee. Oh, sure, she had gone for weeks wanting to hear those very words, but it was disconcerting to hear Graham actually utter them.
“Pardon me?” Wilma responded delicately, utterly confused.
“I want Emmie. To be lead designer.”
Emmie held her breath. Graham was completely serious. She didn’t know what to think of his ludicrous suggestion. First of all, the last thing in the world she wanted or needed at this point was to work closely with her dream man who had just revealed his feet of clay (and his clay shoes that were stored under Juliet’s bed—whenever Kevin wasn’t in it, of course). Second, she wasn’t allowed to be the lead anything at Wilman Designs, except for lead gofer and coffee maker, but obviously Graham didn’t know that—he thought Wilma was a normal, rational business owner. Emmie focused on her notepad but glanced furtively at her boss.
Wilma was at a loss for words; what Graham was suggesting was incomprehensible to him. “I’m sorry, you want . . . what?”
“I would like Emmie to be point person on this project.”
“Emmaline doesn’t design,” Wilma said
with finality.
“But she’s a designer, isn’t she?”
Graham looked over at her, and she nodded. That diploma confirming she had a BFA in interior design was collecting dust in a closet at home, but it sure didn’t have an expiration date.
Not that that mattered to Wilma. “She has no experience.”
“She’s worked with you, hasn’t she?” Graham turned to Emmie again. “I’m so sorry. We’re talking about you like you aren’t even here. How long have you worked with John?”
“Nearly five years,” she said quietly.
“There, you see?” Graham sat back. “In five years, you must have taught her everything you know.”
“Hardly,” Wilma muttered derisively. “Mr. Cooper, I hope you’re not trying to cut corners, either artistically or monetarily, because we at Wilman Designs wouldn’t dream of burdening you with substandard service. I am the sole designer; Emmaline is an assistant. She can get you more coffee, she will deliver some samples, she might even take an order or two from you. But she does not design.”
Graham sat forward, resting his arms on the table and interlacing his fingers, and looked Wilma squarely in the eye. He spoke mildly, but Emmie heard steel beneath his melodic tones. “John, these are my terms. Either Emmie is my interior designer, or I take my business elsewhere.”
Tiny multicolored butterflies invaded Emmie’s belly and fluttered about behind her navel. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. For the moment she ignored the underlying reason he was doing this—because of Juliet—and just enjoyed watching a handsome, charming man championing her. She couldn’t have been more pleased if Graham had taken out a baseball bat and brained Wilma with the force of a Looney Tunes character. In fact, his words had pretty much the same effect: Wilma was now completely speechless. Graham waited patiently.
Finally Wilma spluttered, “Well . . . well . . . of course, if that’s what . . . We can work something out. Of course.”
“Good.” Graham smiled, and the storm cloud passed without a lightning bolt striking the table. “Now let’s talk about some concepts. Emmie, let me get your thoughts on this . . .”
By Design Page 7
