Seraphina’s first reaction was discomfort. She didn’t enjoy being analyzed, and yet couldn’t deny it wasn’t at all far-fetched for Roper to see her that way—elusive, private, contained. What made the statement particularly unnerving was that she wasn’t a mother or a significant other. She lived her work.
At least she had some good friends. Kay Bing was the head designer at Free Leaf Concepts, who’d given Seraphina her dues for Sweetclover, Little Rock’s newest spa, which was making waves among the young and moneyed set as the hot new place to go. And recently, Seraphina had begun making some headway as a friend of Neve Harper’s, one of Grant Gallagher’s most famous contemporaries. In fact, Seraphina hoped the two of them never met. It would be like stars colliding, and the universe would implode from the impact. As for romance, who had time to go chasing fairy tales?
She studied her manicure and nibbled her lip, hating the nervous tics even as she couldn’t help herself. “Married to our jobs.” She smiled humorlessly, hoping it worked to put distance between Roper and herself. She didn’t like when people became too familiar. “Families are needy distractions, and plenty of men in high performance industries forgo them without any ill effects. Perhaps Ophelia and I will find some common ground, after all.”
The lack of warmth in her reply had the desired effect. Roper cast her an uncertain glance, laced with a tinge of regret, and pointed to her tablet. “May I?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “If I can, as well.”
The glow returned to his smile. He handed his own tablet to Seraphina. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”
They each settled back to peruse the other’s work. Roper laughed out loud. “We even named the file similarly. You labeled yours ‘GovMan,’ and I named mine ‘GovsMan.’” He tapped his temple. “Great minds. Too bad we’re competing. We’d make excellent partners.”
After that, they fell silent. Seraphina snuck glances over the rim of the tablet she held in front of her, curious if Roper’s expression gave anything away. It didn’t, although he wore an intent look she’d seen only once or twice before. When he worked, he devoted his whole mind to the task.
Seraphina shuttered away her curiosity—self-possessed, indeed—and focused on Roper’s file. She scanned through his measurements, noting differences in sizes and dimensions of certain rooms. He wanted to do away with the still-standing fireplace, and install a carousel closet. The original fireplace remained in her plans, and she’d tackled the question of storage by converting the old canning shed attached to the back of the house.
Her puzzlement grew the deeper she delved. Roper’s design lacked integrity. Imagination, even. Everything seemed so modern. He wanted glass and steel and plastic and nylon, where she’d opted for locally sourced wood and other natural materials. She desired to compliment the history of the old building. Roper wanted to rewrite it.
Had Seraphina presented a strong enough portfolio to win Grant over, to convince him to bank his trust on her vision? She nibbled her lip. Perhaps she had played it too safe, but surely class and harmony would win over…over…whatever Roper had done. His vision wasn’t strictly modern, she realized, poking further. Brass hardware? Linoleum in the back entryway? Stark white walls in nearly every room?
His ideas were terrible. A flutter of delight beat in her chest like a tiny butterfly. The tendril of hope ignited an equally fierce measure of guilt—she liked Roper. She wished they weren’t competing, but all the same, she wanted to win. And she was almost certain she was holding proof that she had won.
She didn’t get the chance to ponder further. Her cell phone buzzed in the pocket of her fitted black coat at the same time Roper’s chimed softly from the pocket of his slacks. They met one another’s eyes for a fraction of a second. She and Roper set their tablets down on the table simultaneously. Doing her best to appear completely unaffected by whatever came next, because she had no doubt this was an e-mail from Grant announcing the lead designer on Tanbee House, Seraphina pulled her phone from her hip and checked the incoming message. Yes, an e-mail. And yes, it was from Grant.
But the words made no sense at all.
I appreciate your waiting for my decision. I don’t count it among easy ones to make. After deliberation with several other designers, Gallagher Interiors will be moving forward on the Governor’s Mansion expansion with the design proposed by Roper McLeod. My heartfelt congratulations, Mr. McLeod. To those of you who submitted plans, I thank you for your effort and your many excellent ideas. The one thing we do not lack here at Gallagher Interiors is talent.
Best Regards,
Grant Gallagher
Her heart fell. Well, there was the cost of confidence when she dared have any. Roper’s designs were atrocious. Grant had to see that. She shook her head at herself.
She gave Roper a cursory farewell, pausing only to issue the briefest of congratulations as she swiped her tablet from the table and all but fled. She didn’t swing by her office, but headed straight for the exit, deciding no one would miss her for one afternoon.
She arrived at her small studio apartment a little while later. The bottle of wine she grasped seemed like a glowing promise, and she could hardly work out the stubborn cork fast enough. If she were truly as wise as her friends believed, she’d call someone and get her feelings off her chest instead of indulging in an expensive pinot noir. But tonight, she felt like a failure, and couldn’t bear to face anyone.
Her whole life was about maintaining an image of control, of power over herself, because it was all she had the ability to manipulate. She couldn’t tell her father that his criticisms and his neglect seared her from the inside out, or she’d be mocked for her weakness. She couldn’t take those deep hurts to other friends and family, because they were all ghosts. And she couldn’t escape one parent for the refuge of another, because her mother had left them behind before Seraphina learned to say her name.
And always, those criticisms were the demon she battled constantly. They’d held her back from pursuing her dream when she was younger. She’d floated around the university for years after graduating, helping kids like Kay Bing realize theirs instead. She and Neve Harper were nearly the same age, but Neve rivaled Grant Gallagher’s esteem all over Arkansas, in both business and reputation.
While Seraphina was still struggling to make a dent. She thought she had with Sweetclover. Kay’s acknowledgment had given Seraphina’s career the small boost it needed—just the thing to catch Grant Gallagher’s attention and secure her position as the newest member of his company. Yet still she failed. Every time she started to think she had some innate talent, she failed.
Tomorrow was another day, of course. She’d do what she always did—grab the fresh start with everything she had. She’d call Kay and let her coo and cluck, she’d call Neve and let her dish out stark advice, and then she’d go to work and do her best to live up to the potential she’d been struggling to realize her entire life.
An ancient pain filled her. No, she couldn’t handle her well-meaning friends tonight. Tonight, she’d drink too much wine and feel sorry for herself. She’d delete every scrap of the Tanbee House plans from her tablet and the company cloud. Not for the sake of self-pity, though she was practically drowning in it, but because she’d keep coming back to them over and over again. She’d tweak, and change, and turn it upside down and sideways looking for the fatal flaw in her designs. One day, she’d learn to fail without needing to know why or how.
Today was not that day.
Chapter 3
Seraphina’s skull was too tight for her brain. Her throat was the kind of dry that water couldn’t soothe. Concealer couldn’t quite hide the purple half-moons under her eyes. The elevator made her stomach pitch, and the lights along the corridor were bright enough to shine through the dark lenses of her Ray Bans.
Red wine hangovers were the worst.
She groaned and ignored the few strange
looks from coworkers. Gallagher Interiors was an industrious place. Designers, assistants, couriers, engineers—a veritable hive of people buzzed and flitted around. Grant’s firm was huge, and despite being Arkansas’s Wal-Mart of interior design, at least in terms of output and popularity, managed to maintain a superbly high degree of quality and exclusivity. He managed a productivity that seemed at odds with the elite nature of his reputation.
Seraphina could only envy the hectic energy. She kept her dark sunglasses on until she finally escaped to her small office. Small, but functional and warm. The wallpaper danced with a subtle silver design on a faded golden background, and the lush carpet was a deep brown that complimented the honey-hued furniture.
Her personal touches were few. A small potted cactus she kept on her desk for the sake of having something green and difficult to kill nearby. A few framed photographs of family, none of whom she was particularly close to. But it seemed strange not to display them, like she was ashamed or something. Besides, it was a reminder she did, in fact, have family, even if their connections were tenuous at best.
She picked up the photograph of her father that sat on the shelf next to the printer. She recognized the shape of her own face in his, but that was where their likeness ended. Daniel Fawkes carried his mother’s Greek heritage heavily, from the olive tone of his skin, the deep green of his eyes, and his long, hooked nose to his thick wave of black hair, worn long and unruly. Seraphina had few photos of her mother, and sometimes wondered why she kept any at all, except for that the mystery of the desertion tugged at her. Certainly none of those pictures were on display, not even at home. Her fair Irish skin, dramatic red hair, and striking blue eyes were all courtesy of her mom.
At least she gave me one thing I can appreciate, Seraphina told herself dryly. She set her father’s picture down. He was smiling, and it seemed that she was the only person in the world who saw the cutting edge on that happy, carefree grin.
She was waiting for her computer to boot up when Roper knocked on her doorframe, greeting her with a wide smile. She’d say he was an insufferable morning person, but he was in the same mood regardless of the time of day. She didn’t even try to match it. She grunted a hello and downed a big gulp of coffee. She also had a Sprite and a sleeve of saltine crackers near at hand. If Roper noticed the ingredients for a recipe against a hangover strewn across her workspace, he didn’t mention it. In fact, he seemed distracted.
Roper approached her desk, looked down, and spotted her tablet. “Ah. There it is. We accidently mixed them up yesterday. You left in such a hurry, I didn’t realize the swap until this morning. Grant’s waiting, so I’d better jet.” He snatched up one tablet, traded for the other.
Seraphina’s jaw unhinged. Her mind emptied of everything expect a loud roar of utter disbelief. She froze, unable to respond. Roper didn’t notice. In his hurry, he hardly glanced at her while making the swap, and rushed from her office before the words and their horrifying implications settled onto her brain.
She was awash in paralyzing fire. Her scalp tingled and she couldn’t swallow past a hard knot in her throat. She stared blankly ahead at the empty doorway, trying fruitlessly to convince herself it wasn’t true.
No. No, of course not. She’d been drunk and pitiful, but surely…surely she hadn’t actually deleted the files for the Governor’s Mansion project.
Oh, God. Was it ‘GovMan’ or ‘GovsMan’?
She pressed her palms to her temples. The throbbing had nothing to do with last night’s indulgence. She closed her eyes, forced herself to work through her faded memories from the night before. There’d been some crying. Smeared mascara on her fingers this morning. A little nausea, if the Pepto on her nightstand was any indication. She’d definitely done some stuff on her tablet—on Roper’s tablet. It had been laying on the pillow this morning when she’d woken up with her tongue thick in her mouth and her eyes on fire from bad sleep.
It just wasn’t possible. Oh, shit. But it is. It’s totally possible…
Her palms were sweating, and she swayed on her feet as she stood. She felt stone-cold sober now. The shock of what she’d done broke through what remained of her fogginess. Her stomach clenched painfully against on onslaught of nerves that zapped like lightning. When had she last felt this incredibly bad and frightened?
Fear tried to root her to the spot, but she forced herself to move. She couldn’t keep silent. Whatever the fallout, she wouldn’t, couldn’t, be that person. Once, back at the university, when she’d been a teaching assistant, she’d screwed up big time. A student had accidently taken credit for her mishap. She finally came clean, and the professor had been a good sport about the whole thing, but she’d never forget how slimy and hollow it made her feel.
Shaking, she made her way to the elevator and pressed the button for Grant’s floor. How would she ever look Roper in the face after this? Shit, how would she look Grant in the face? They’d suspect sabotage. They’d think her capable of a graceless act of spite that was, in reality, beyond her. Her mind raced through possible explanations like a magician whipping through a deck of cards, scattering them like confetti. Somehow, I got wasted last night and meant to delete my own plans didn’t sound all that believable. But, really, who could make that crap up.
This morning, she’d slapped on her least favorite outfit—a black dress that fit like a traffic cone. Tight at the neck and flowing out in a tulip skirt, like some sixties tunic dress. The only good thing was that it was a single piece of stretchy fabric. There were no buttons, ties, or clasps. She wore it only on her laziest days, when the thought of dealing with skirt zippers and dress shirt buttons was beyond her. She was regretting the decision now. The worse thing about the dress, besides being utterly unflattering to every body shape known to man, was how it made her feel like a blob. She wished now she had picked an outfit that might’ve given her the illusion of some backbone. Not only did she feel like death, she also looked like something a street paver had rolled over.
It was a strange time to care about her wardrobe, but early in life she’d discovered the power of clothing. The right packaging made all the difference in the world.
Her knees were weak when she stepped out of the elevator. She had to force herself forward. Apprehension settled over her like a cloud, making the air thick with tension. She swallowed hard outside Grant’s office, then strode around the corner like she’d been summoned.
“Hi, Annie. I know Mr. Gallagher is seeing Roper, but I have something, uh…something related to Tanbee House I need to tell them, before it’s too late.” Technically true.
The older woman blinked up at Seraphina with her mouth slightly open. Probably this type of thing didn’t happen too often. Or maybe, Seraphina mused, she looked worse than she realized, and Annie was just soaking it in. Her eyes still pinned to Seraphina, Annie picked up the phone on her desk, punched a button, mentioned Seraphina’s name, and then hung up. “You can go back.”
“Thanks, Annie.” Seraphina forced a grateful smile.
The coffee from this morning sloshed around in her stomach, a hint of threat in the roiling discomfort. She prayed she wouldn’t be sick, but stepping through the door and under the tense, expectant gazes of Grant and Roper, Seraphina’s stomach turned over. She swallowed past the awkward lump in her throat and forced a deep breath, exhaling with as much control as possible through her nostrils. She couldn’t even hide her nervousness. Between her hangover, the awful dress, and emotions she couldn’t button down for once, she felt like a fraying rope, dangerously close to coming completely undone.
“Seraphina,” Grant greeted her, standing briefly behind his desk. “You said this is about Tanbee House? I was actually about to ask Annie to schedule a meeting with you later. It’s just as well you’re here now, though. Roper showed up with some unfortunate news.”
“Oh.” Her throat was painfully dry. She noticed she was wringing her hands together, a
nd forced them down at her sides. “Um. Yes. I-I came to tell you, Roper and I, we—”
“Looked at each other’s designs yesterday,” Roper cut in, smiling widely at Seraphina, but with an open warning in his gaze. He shrugged and looked back at Grant. “I know, we shouldn’t have. And I can’t blame Seraphina for wanting to admit the breach in the unspoken rule among us. Frowned upon, of course, due to the proprietary nature of a designer’s personal ideas, which in turn encourages an environment free of ‘borrowing.’ But I trusted Seraphina not to steal any ideas of mine for future use.” He sent her a brief smile. It still didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then he stood, and put a hand out to shake Grant’s. “Again, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the mix up. I really did think I’d deleted an older version of the file, not the final blueprint.”
Seraphina’s mouth fell open. “You—”
Roper swiveled toward her, his hands tucked easily into the pocket of his slacks. He looked, as unlikely as it seemed, completely relaxed. “Word to the wise, Grant deletes our plans once he’s gone over them.”
Grant’s blond eyebrows came together in a pained expression. “I open files from the cloud, but I only save the ones greenlighted for use on my personal device. If I kept them all, I’d run out of hard drive storage twice a year. Perhaps I should consider changing tactics.”
“But the cloud—”
Grant gave a humorless grin. “The files were deleted there, as well, it seems.”
“I’ll be more careful cleaning out my files in the future,” Roper assured him. “Seraphina, I believe congratulations are in order.” His grin this time was the genuine article. “Grant tried to talk me into drawing up my designs again, but after seeing yours, I respectfully bow out of the running. Besides, I have my eye on a few other projects.”
From the Top Page 3
