How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3)

by Stacey Wiedower

  At least we're to the point that we can be civil to each other again, if only while typing.

  * * *

  An hour later, I'm still awake, scrolling mindlessly down Facebook on my phone screen while lying in bed. I'm wired from my long day and evening, and I don't feel like going to sleep yet. I'd probably do myself more benefit by reading an actual book instead of an electronic device—I know all the sleep experts say to avoid using electronics for an hour before bedtime to help quiet your mind and prepare yourself for rest, but who does that in this day and age? I swear, my iPhone feels like an appendage—it's the last thing I touch before I turn off my lamp at night and the first thing I reach for in the morning.

  It's sick, really, how dependent I've gotten to be on the damn thing. A small, rechargeable piece of plastic with which I can not only damage my career and ruin relationships in a few keystrokes but also find my way when I'm lost in the desert or use as a TV remote in a pinch.

  The reason I logged on to Facebook was to see if Eleanor posted the selfie the three of us took tonight at Chihuahua's, but as usual, once I pulled up the app I forgot what I was looking for and got lost down the rabbit hole of my news feed. I've just found out that my friend Lucy from SCAD is pregnant again (from the nonchalant photo she posted of her daughter wearing a "Big Sister" T-shirt—at first glance I didn't notice it, but then I saw that the post had ninety-two comments, so I took another look) when my message notification lights up.

  It's 12:33 a.m. Who would possibly be sending me a Facebook message right now? And then my stomach lurches. Simon!

  I hurriedly click the message icon and see that it isn't Jeremy who's trying to reach me but Brandon Royer. I take a deep breath. It's been long enough now since our night out that I was well past assuming he was going to call me again. And I was fine with it—in fact, happy about it. Brandon is a complication I don't need in my life right now, mainly because I don't trust myself not to act like a high school idiot around him.

  Instead of opening his message, I set my phone down and get up to go to the bathroom and then into the kitchen for a glass of water. I don't want him to think that every time he contacts me I'm going to jump to see what he wants.

  But I can't hold myself back for too long, and once I crawl back under my sheets I click into Messenger.

  Hey beautiful. Any chance you're up for happy hour this Friday?

  My cheeks flush at the "beautiful" comment. It's official: Brandon Royer is about as dangerous for me as a grizzly bear on roller skates careening toward me at the edge of a cliff. The worst part is that just seeing the words causes me to tingle in places that make my bed the appropriate place to be.

  It takes me at least ten minutes to formulate a reply. Every time I start typing, I back up and start again, and even as I click send I'm not at all sure I'm doing the right thing. In fact, I'm almost one hundred percent sure I'm doing the very most wrong thing possible.

  Sounds good. What time, and where do you want to meet?

  * * *

  Thursday morning finds me on my way to Brewster's house. He won't be there, but I'm going by to see what's changed since I was there last and to get my bearings back on the project. I set the whole thing up with Aubrey, and as I wait for the iron gate to swing inward at the entrance to his neighborhood, I'm feeling eerily like I've traveled a full circle in the grand span of eight weeks. I wonder how Aubrey feels about this game of designer musical chairs we're playing.

  Maybe she doesn't find it unusual at all, since she works for an unusual guy like Emory Brewster. Or maybe she wouldn't say anything either way. It seems like a key trait for working successfully for Brewster is discretion. I could say the same thing about working for Candace…which is one reason I haven't been working successfully for Candace in recent months.

  Before I left the office this morning, I saw and heard Rachael in the throes of planning for the Paris trip, and it was making my blood boil. I remember my recent comment to Ellie Kate musing over why Rachael didn't ask me for help, and now I understand that I couldn't help her even if she asked. It's still too raw, and it's getting worse instead of better because of the way everyone in the office is avoiding the subject. If Rachael so much as asks me which market is my favorite, I think I might snap and hit her.

  Or at least I'd want to.

  As I pull up in Brewster's grand, circular drive, my mind is spinning over the long to-do list I still need to complete this week. This afternoon I'm meeting with the artist I mentioned to Chick to gauge her interest and ability in providing art for the bakery study room, and before I can go home tonight I have to start doing some initial sketching and space planning for the Santiagos' house to get ready to present ideas to them next week. And that's because tomorrow I have what could turn into an all-day site visit and meeting at the bicycle factory.

  I'm trying not to quake from the stress of it, but that isn't easy, considering I'm heading into the lion's den. At least the lion is off devouring somebody else right now. Aubrey told me Brewster is in Nashville today for a deposition, so I know he won't show up unexpectedly.

  Once I'm inside and Aubrey and I have made the expected, stilted small talk, I walk through the project spaces—two rooms, the study where Candace began her treachery and the hearth room off of Brewster's pseudo-rustic kitchen. I'm taken aback by how little has been accomplished since I was here last. The old furniture hasn't even been removed from the hearth room, for which Candace has ordered this staggeringly expensive exotic hardwood that hails from a depleted Brazilian rainforest. I saw in the file that it's already shipped, and our subs should be doing prep work by now.

  I would have chosen a more sustainable flooring option, but whatever. I also would have had the schedule for this job drawn out to the smallest detail, with subcontractors hired and listed with anticipated dates and times on the project calendar. The file is so amateurish that I'm assuming Candace handed off the schedule—and pretty much all the dirty work—to Rachael, and it's a shoddy, disorganized jumble of mess. She doesn't even have bids yet for the built-ins that are going into the study, though I'm supposed to be overseeing the construction work next week. Yeah, right.

  I'm starting to wonder if Candace handing this job back over to me is a new form of punishment rather than a reward.

  After completing my walk-through, I sit down with Aubrey to go over Brewster's calendar and make a plan to coordinate the heavy construction work into a two-week period when he's scheduled to be out of town, since she thinks it's best if we disrupt his routine as little as possible.

  It's probably not ideal to work with a client you dislike as much as I've grown to dislike Brewster, but at least I don't work for him, like she does. The whole time we're talking, my mind is screaming, What's your story? But I don't feel comfortable asking Aubrey questions that aren't related to the job.

  So I'm surprised and almost relieved when she's the one who starts talking.

  "Do you think…Candace…is on the up-and-up?" she asks me, her voice so tentative it's tremulous.

  "What do you mean?" I ask, my head cocked to one side.

  "I mean, the way she's done this whole thing—do you think she's…using him?"

  I stare at Aubrey for a few long seconds, and then I word my reply carefully. "I actually know very little about the way she's done things. She pushed me off this project almost before it started, and she's told me next to nothing." I hesitate and then add, "I think she's only bringing me back in because she has to, since my coworker hasn't been up to the task of managing a project this large."

  Might as well be frank, since she's asking.

  "But you do know that she's seeing him, right?"

  "She did tell me that, yes."

  "And isn't she married?"

  I nod slowly. "Yes, but she told me she and her husband are separated." I'm trying to keep the judgment off of my face since I am, after all, supposed to be on the side of my employer. But I'm sure Aubrey can read it in my eyes. That honest face of mine
and all.

  Aubrey nods too. I'm dying to know why she cares so much—the way she's acting, almost…jealous, makes it seem as if she has more of a personal interest in Brewster's situation than a professional one. I'm wondering if she's involved romantically with Brewster. From the start I've had the feeling that she lives here, which means this whole thing just keeps getting weirder and weirder.

  "Do you think you might—" She stops and starts over again. "Will you—tell me, that is, if you get the feeling that Candace is interested in Mr. Brewster for something other than…legitimate…reasons?"

  "Oh…kay," I say, my eyes narrowing into two confused slits. "Can you tell me why I should be looking out for these nefarious intentions?"

  She pauses for a long moment, looking past me out the big picture window in the den where we're sitting. It's one of at least four separate living rooms in the house, and this one is decorated in the same fabricated Tuscan style as the rest of the mansion, with a subtle Venetian plaster treatment on the walls and mostly neutral furniture. It's a comfortable room, but I don't feel Brewster in the space at all, which makes it feel uncomfortable to me, like I'm a stranger visiting a squatter in someone else's life.

  By that I mean Brewster, though I get the same feeling from Aubrey—like she's not at all comfortable in his home or her own skin. I glance up at her, watching her consider my question.

  She meets my eyes for the first time since the conversation turned personal. "Emory, I mean, Mr. Brewster. He's been hurt a lot," she says, surprising me again. The impression I've received from the times I've met Brewster in person are of a man with the bristling impatience of someone who always gets what he wants. I didn't sense a whit of vulnerability.

  But that shows what I know. One lesson I've learned since I started dancing in the shadows of people's home lives as an interior designer is that we know nothing about people from the fronts they present to the world. However, people's homes—their tastes, the things they choose to keep or buy, and whether or how they maintain their houses—these things offer a deeper glimpse into people's minds than almost anything else about them.

  Brewster's house is like a museum dedicated to modern residential life—more of a catalog spread than a home. Even his bedroom, which I saw on my initial tour of the space, holds no trace of personality. And I gained almost nothing from him in our initial meeting. He wouldn't even fill out my client questionnaire, just waved his hand in the air and said to "buy what I thought worked best." As a client, he's like a blander version of Jay Gatsby—and that's saying something.

  This makes me think of Jeremy's weird comment to me when we were breaking up, that "in seven years he hadn't figured out the first damn thing about me," and it scares me a little. Surely I'm not like Brewster in that way? Or Jeremy himself, for that matter. Jeremy is the one who's all smoke and mirrors, all front. But me, I'm the girl with the honest face. My house is quirky and lived-in and reflects everything I love. What could he even have meant by that statement?

  I realize Aubrey is staring at me with an expectant look on her face, which pulls me back to the situation at hand. Suddenly I can't wait to get out of here.

  "Um, yeah, okay," I mumble. "If I get the idea that Candace is…like, gold digging or something, I'll let you know." As if. Candace's soon-to-be ex-husband is loaded, as were her first and second husbands. She has no reason to find a new sugar daddy.

  I'm expecting Aubrey to laugh me off or act embarrassed. But instead she nods, with a serious expression on her face. "Thank you," she says.

  As she walks me out, she makes a vague comment about the weather, and I comment vaguely back, and it's as if this whole situation resulted from a normal project on a normal day, with normal people involved.

  What a job I have.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Accentuate the Positive

  I spend the entire morning Friday on a site tour of the bicycle factory, which is currently being gutted and parceled out into individual condo units. The 1930s building is steel frame with a brick exterior and huge plate glass windows—very old-school-meets-International-Style, and the developer wants to keep that juxtaposition intact. I couldn't be more excited. I can already visualize a finished unit in my head.

  The interesting thing about this project is that Marc Rasmutin, the developer, awarded the bid not just to me but also to another designer, Amanda Jossamon-Barnes. I've always liked Amanda—she's a bit older than me, probably mid-forties, and has two tween-age daughters who look exactly like her, as if they arrived via immaculate conception, no father involved at all. And there is no father involved. From what she's told me and what I've heard through the grapevine in Memphis's small, gossipy design community, she's raising her girls completely on her own, while running her own successful business.

  I'm charged with designing one entire model unit, and Amanda is designing another. We're collaborating on the interior finish selections for the remaining spec units. The finished building will contain forty-six condos, along with ground-floor retail space that isn't leased yet. Marc alluded to the fact that depending on the tenant, we might get pulled in on that project too.

  I'm super-excited but also nervous, since this is another big job at a time when I'm swamped with big jobs. But I'm so thankful to be busy that I decide to focus on the positive.

  After the site tour we have lunch off-site at a deli within walking distance, and then the meeting wraps with a presentation that Marc conducts from a makeshift podium set up on the bare concrete floors of the construction site. Me, Amanda, the architect, the general contractor, and a group of five or six men in suits who I'm assuming comprise the investment team are wearing hard hats and sitting in metal folding chairs, watching Marc give his speech in front of a projector screen with images and renderings. When it's finished, Amanda turns to me.

  "I'm bursting with ideas," she says.

  "Me too. We should probably schedule a meeting in the next few days to make sure we're in line with each other." Marc made it clear that while he wants Amanda and me to put an individual spin on our units, bringing our own aesthetics and sensibilities to the project, he also wants cohesion in palette and style. It's rare that I get to make design decisions carte blanche, and I'm aching to get to my worktable and start drafting out ideas.

  "That sounds great." She pulls out an iPad and taps into a calendar app. "How's…Tuesday afternoon? Say 2:30?"

  I'm scrolling down my own calendar on my phone. "I'm booked all day Tuesday," I say.

  That's when I'm presenting to the Santiagos. Monday is also out because I'll spend all day prepping for that presentation. "How about Wednesday at eleven?"

  She consults her schedule. "No, I'm doing an installation that morning. I've got the afternoon open though. Three o'clock?"

  I shake my head, scrolling down my screen. "Sorry. I'm in a project meeting then." I laugh, continuing to scroll. "Okay, what about Thursday at ten?"

  She chuckles too. "Thursday morning is okay, but does nine work instead of ten? I have a lunch meeting I'll need to prepare for."

  "Done," I say, adding the appointment to my calendar. I look up, and she's doing the same. "Damn, you're as busy as I am."

  "It's nice to be busy," she says, smiling at me as she tucks her tablet back into her bag. "Much better than the alternative. Although some days I really wish I could clone myself."

  I nod, in full agreement with every part of her statement—especially considering how close I came to that "alternative" when I badmouthed my boss on Facebook. "Tell me about it."

  * * *

  I get back to my office around 2:30 and spend the next two and a half hours hunched over the worktable drawing rough sketches, studying the renderings Marc emailed this afternoon, and researching similar adaptive-reuse projects. I want to go into Thursday's meeting with Amanda with a clear vision so her ideas don't muddy up my own, but at the same time, I'm looking forward to collaborating with her. She's a class act, and her work is possibly my favorite among all t
he designers in the city—even Candace, whose designs can be kind of fussy and heavy-handed. Amanda leans to a clean, simple aesthetic that forms a smooth bridge between modern and traditional design—important in a city like Memphis that's slow to embrace trends and where it's tough to coax clients out of the Southern-traditional past. A college professor of mine liked to say that Southerners live "behind the Magnolia Curtain."

  I'm so absorbed in my work that when Carrie texts me around five and asks me if I'm in for SOB, I gasp. I've completely forgotten that I told Brandon I'd meet him for drinks this afternoon.

  Immediately, my stomach tightens into a knot. Almost since the moment I said yes to meeting him, I've regretted the decision—but not enough to contact him and cancel. I glance down at myself. I'm pretty well put together today thanks to my client meeting, but because the site visit required sensible shoes, I'm not exactly dressed for a date.

  It is what it is. I don't even want to go, so there's no need to look like I dressed up for him. I text Carrie back, and then reluctantly I shut down my laptop, gather up my materials, and start loading things into my bag to take with me so I can work this weekend. If not for this date with Brandon, I'd probably be in the office past dark again tonight.

  As I'm bending over my cubbies, shelving items I don't need to take home, Quinn walks up behind me and says, "I heard you talked to my cousin the other night."

  I straighten up, startled. "Huh?" I'm rushing around, barely listening to her because I'm actually going to be late—Brandon and I are meeting in Midtown at 5:30, and it's already after 5:15.

  She follows me to my desk and watches as I pull my purse from my desk drawer and sling it and my heavy bag over my shoulders.

  "Todd," she says, and at that I stop moving so suddenly that my bag crashes hard against my right hip. "Urff," I grunt.