“And a good friend still,” Juliet added with a tinkling laugh. Emmie raised her eyebrows at Graham, who had caught up and was sort of lurking in Juliet’s shadow as he stood looking in the other direction at nothing in particular. Juliet turned around and tugged on Graham’s sleeve. He turned to face Emmie and Avery, nodding politely, his gaze meeting Emmie’s eyes for a long moment. She swatted at the little butterflies that tickled her insides again. God, she was crazy about him . . . but here he was, out with Juliet. Which put her right back to being angry. And disgusted. And hurt. She looked away with what she hoped was an icy snub.
“Professor Cooper?”
All eyes turned to Avery. Oh, for the love of . . . Emmie groaned inwardly. What fresh hell is this?
Graham brightened in recognition. “Avery! Good to see you!”
They shook hands, and Avery explained to Emmie and Juliet, “I took a course in historic architecture from Professor Cooper at JCC last year.”
“Small world,” Emmie murmured.
He said to Graham, “That was a great class—I learned a lot.”
“Thank you, Avery. That’s nice of you to say. But I’m not a professor,” he was quick to add for Juliet’s and Emmie’s benefit. “Just an adjunct instructor. One class a semester, when I have time.”
Juliet bubbled, “Graham is a wonderful architect. He’s doing some work for me, in fact. I just bought a shop, and it needs a lot of TLC. It’s right over there.” She indicated a dark storefront down the block. “We were just taking a look around the place and thought we’d stop by the festival and warm up a bit. I can’t help it—I have a thing for candied nuts.”
As if to corroborate Juliet’s story, Graham dolefully held up a tiny, white paper bag from the candy shop and shook it a few times so the nuts rattled around inside. He looked for all the world like a melancholy lapdog. Serves him right, Emmie thought, although a faint twinge of pity stirred deep down inside her.
“Congratulations on the new business,” Avery said politely. “What kind is it going to be?”
“A florist shop,” Juliet informed him, then exclaimed, “You two should come see it!” And she pulled out the keys from her jacket pocket.
“Oh . . .” Emmie started shaking her head a little too vehemently. “Nnooo, I don’t think—that is, we have to—er . . .”
“It’ll only take a minute. Emmie, I really want to get your thoughts about the space. I’m hoping that once Graham has done his part, you could take care of the design elements—you know, like we discussed?”
Emmie started to protest anew, but Juliet wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She grabbed Emmie’s arm and practically pulled her down the block and across the street.
It seemed colder inside the vacant shop than outside on the street. Emmie could feel the icy chill of the linoleum floor seeping up through the soles of her boots. She looked around at the shadowed space: high ceilings, cupboards, a dilapidated counter. A doorway in the far wall revealed a hall that stretched straight back, dissolving into darkness.
Avery wandered around and gazed appreciatively up at the tin ceiling, just visible in the light from the streetlamps. Emmie stayed where she was, near the front windows. Juliet took her elbow and pulled her farther in.
“Take a look over here,” she said as she hauled Emmie across the room. “It’s the original counter. Not in the greatest shape, but I thought maybe we could do something to bring it back.”
Emmie tried to focus on the woodwork while wondering if she could get away with bolting from Juliet a third time. She doubted it.
“I just love the dark sage green on the front—was it the original color, do you think?”
Emmie tried to collect her thoughts and respond without sounding like an idiot, even though the last thing in the world she wanted to do was talk turn-of-the-century design elements with Juliet in this cold, dark, echoing space. “Uh . . . no, I don’t think so. If this counter was made from high-quality hardwood, it would have been shellacked, not painted. I can’t really tell what kind of wood this might be—I’ll know better when I see it in daylight—”
Emmie gave herself a virtual dope slap. Had she just agreed to be Juliet’s designer? It seemed Juliet assumed as much. She got the feeling the woman did this a lot—acted as though you wanted what she wanted, and voilà—instant compliance from everyone in her orbit. Emmie wondered if that was how she hooked Graham.
And where was Graham, anyway? Avery was across the room, examining some dusty built-in cabinets with leaded glass doors, but Graham had slipped away. Lucky, Emmie thought. She wondered if he knew about some secret passage, some hidden exit—or at the very least knew where Juliet kept a space heater. Emmie was freezing. She shivered.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” Juliet breathed, putting a petite, finely manicured hand to her mouth in an exaggerated gesture of shock. “I’m being terribly rude, keeping you in the dark and cold like this. I can turn up the heat and get the lights on—”
Emmie started to tell her not to bother, that they wouldn’t be staying, but Juliet called out for Graham. No answer. She started to call him again, but Emmie cut her off, if only to avoid seeing Graham behave like her footman again. Besides, she hated it when women acted like helpless things, ignorant of big, scary, allegedly masculine stuff like switching on a breaker.
“Don’t trouble Graham,” Emmie said. “I can get it. Thermostat, breaker box, they must be in the back room, right?”
“The thermostat’s right here,” Juliet said, rounding the corner into the hallway and adjusting it upward, “but the breaker box is back . . . there, I think.” She gestured loosely with her other hand, and Emmie thought she saw her look a little uncomfortable. Trust Juliet to be afraid of the dark. That sealed it—Emmie would take care of this herself, if only to do something that Juliet couldn’t. Showing off a bit, perhaps, but Emmie was too irritated to care.
She groped her way down the hall and entered the back room. The faint glow of a sodium vapor light in the alley shone through a dirty, six-paned window high up on the back wall. She stood in the middle of the room for a moment while her eyes adjusted to the light; she could make out cabinets, a couple of doors, and an old, stained sink under the window. Then Emmie heard footsteps behind her. She spun around; it was Graham, closer to her than she expected. She stumbled backward a step.
“What do you need?” he asked quietly.
Loaded question. She swallowed. “The—breaker box.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Where the hell did you come from?” Emmie found herself whispering, although she had no idea why.
He gestured behind him at a doorway that revealed a set of dusty stairs going up. “I left some plans upstairs earlier.” He patted some papers sticking up out of the pocket of his black peacoat.
“Oh.” Emmie didn’t want to think about what else was on the second floor, nor why Graham, and likely Juliet, were up there earlier tonight. She knew that these kinds of places had apartments above them where the shop owners used to live; had they found a cozy bedroom for a hot little clinch?
Graham groped his way toward a closet on the side wall. As he pulled open the door, its bottom scraping on the floor, he said something to Emmie that she couldn’t make out. She moved closer and saw that Graham had wedged himself in sideways, among a pile of junk, to reach the electrical panel.
She kept her distance and said, “Sorry—what was that?”
He stuck his head out of the closet. “I said, ‘Nice guy, that Avery.’”
“Oh. Yes, he is.”
“Special to you?”
Emmie felt a little thrill at his words. Did Graham care? Wait. Why did she care if Graham cared? Still, she answered a little smugly, “Yes, he is. Very. He’s a great guy.”
Graham paused. When he spoke again, he sounded highly amused. “Okay.”
Emmie edged a little closer. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. He is a great guy.” Graham bent his knees
and leaned back against the door frame, looking for all the world as though he were sitting in an easy chair instead of crammed in a dusty closet. “You know what I liked best about him? He never took himself too seriously. Get enough beers down him at the Rathskellar, and he’d start calling himself Bill.” He chuckled as he pried open the metal door of the electrical panel.
“Bill?” Emmie was puzzled. “Why in the world would he call himself Bill if his name is—oh.”
“Yeah.”
“As in ‘three dollar’?”
“The same.”
Emmie could tell by the tone of his voice that he was grinning ear to ear, and she became even more annoyed. “Okay, so I’m not exactly his type. Big deal.”
From behind the metal door of the breaker box, Graham uttered a cartoonish little, “Hee hee.”
“Shut up,” Emmie snapped. “And in case you were wondering, I was not implying he was my boyfriend for your benefit. Or—or Juliet’s,” she added hurriedly.
“Never said you were.” Graham pushed at something with a bit of effort, and a resounding thunk echoed in the room. He straightened up, turned around, and leaned in the doorway of the closet, crossing his arms in front of him and studying Emmie in the dim light. Neither of them made an effort to find a light switch. “You seem sort of . . . upset with me for some reason.”
She was blindsided by his statement and could only stammer, “What? Whatever gave you—”
“That idea? Oh, I don’t know. You seem a little frosty tonight. But I admit it could be my imagination.” He looked at her steadily, maybe hoping she’d say his fears were unfounded.
Emmie wasn’t about to tell him that she was stupid in love with him and furious that he was with Juliet. She knew now that she couldn’t bear to be friendly with him in any way—it’d hurt too much. So she said, “It’s not your imagination.”
And for the first time since she’d clapped eyes on him when he had first stood before her in Wilman Designs, Graham didn’t seem so confident. “What did I ever do to you?” he asked.
How could she tell him that he had let her down? That she had thought he was the perfect man, and he wasn’t? That he wasn’t available when she had wanted him to be single, unattached—and interested in her? She couldn’t say any of that. So she said nothing.
“I’ve been nice to you, haven’t I? And we seemed to get along all right when we talked about my project. Speaking of which, that job is quite a feather in your cap, you have to admit. I’m giving you an extensive, complicated assignment—”
“Only because Juliet asked you to,” she spat out.
“Is that what you think?”
“Oh, quit it. We both know what this is about, really.”
“We do?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it just so happens that I don’t,” Graham said impatiently. “Please enlighten me. What is this about, really?”
“Come on. I’m not stupid. I get it. Juliet already said—I keep your secrets, the two of you give me work. Nice exchange. Thanks a lot.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Please. Don’t act all shocked. Personally I think the whole thing is reprehensible and repulsive, but that’s your own business. Just don’t drag me into it.”
Graham seemed stunned. “What in the world did she tell you?”
“Hey! Do we have light?”
They both jumped at the sound of Juliet’s voice calling from the front room. Graham regrouped quickly and called back, “Yep! Go ahead.”
There was the loud click of an old Bakelite light switch, and Juliet said, “That’s better! Emmie, come see now.”
Graham closed the closet door and turned to go. The back room was still dark, but she got the sense that he was glowering at her. She realized she was shaking a little bit. As he passed her, he paused, his arm brushing her shoulder. She froze, her heart hammering against her ribs.
He said quietly, his mouth close to her ear, “I don’t know why you would think that I would entrust my project to you just to—what was it?—‘keep my secrets’? For what it’s worth”—and here he paused, and his shadowed gaze locked on hers—“I would still choose you.”
Emmie tried to speak, but her mouth was dry. She could only manage to lick her lips nervously before Graham spoke again.
“You’re good,” he said. “I can tell already. So let’s knock that chip off your shoulder and get to work. All right?”
Dumbly, she nodded and, with difficulty, looked away. When she looked back, he was gone.
Chapter 8
Emmie awoke early the next morning with Graham’s words still echoing in her head. “I would still choose you.” And in such a sexy voice . . . She curled up tight under her quilt. No, no, no! Professionally—he had been talking professionally. Nothing else . . . although she couldn’t seem to stop those little fluttery feelings that started up inside her whenever she remembered how he had looked at her—so confidently, so steadily. She wanted to euthanize those damned multicolored butterflies. Her feelings for him were useless. There was no room for Emmie in Graham’s life—none at all. Juliet had gotten there first.
And she was going to be reminded of that on a regular basis, apparently, because in addition to working on Graham’s project, now it seemed that she was drafted into working on Juliet’s shop as well. The woman had kept her in the cold storefront for the better part of an hour last night, picking her brain about how she would renovate the place. It didn’t take long for Emmie to realize Juliet was an energy vampire, sucking the life out of a person when she wanted something. Emmie scrambled to come up with ideas, all the while feeling not only Graham’s, but also Avery’s eyes on her as she was put on the spot. Neither one had offered to help—they just looked on, highly amused. But damn, Graham had looked so good when he smiled . . .
Disgusted with herself for even entertaining the idea of pining for a man like some pathetic heroine in a Victorian novel (who, invariably, died in the end, destitute, alone, and unloved), Emmie threw back the bedcovers. She had things to do, dammit. She would make a big pot of coffee, maybe start a fire in the fireplace, and get down to business. She would work all day on ideas for Graham’s project—brush up on her knowledge of 1820s architecture, look up color schemes, choose some period furniture, find some good vintage wallpaper options.
And then she would work on ideas for Juliet’s store, she decided, as she clipped her hair up on top of her head and brushed her teeth. After all, a job was a job—and she couldn’t throw away her first solo assignment. Despite the drama behind it, this was the key to a Wilma-free future—and she needed to know there was the possibility of a Wilma-free future, for her own sanity.
Besides, she told herself, as she pulled on her softest fleece pants and a nubby sweater, lots of people had dubious starts to their careers. What about people who took startup money from less-than-reputable sources? Sold their bosses up the river and took their places? Shared information with their company’s competition? It happened all the time. So she should just grow up and stop pretending she was pure as the driven snow. If she wanted to get anywhere in life, she’d have to take the leg up that she was offered and stop criticizing the ugly shoe it was sporting.
And, she said to herself as she scuffed into her kitchen, she had to plain old forget about Graham. Not another thought about his beautiful blue eyes, not another sniff of her coat trying to catch his clean scent on the fabric where he had leaned close to her last night. She didn’t need Graham. She didn’t need any man. She was going to focus on her career from this moment forward. Starting now. Yeah.
She pulled the ceramic container of coffee out of the cupboard and pried off the lid. Two lonely little coffee beans slid around the bottom.
And the very next moment she was in tears.
She watched her ambitious plans skid all over the place like freight cars in a train derailment. There was no coffee. If she didn’t have coffee, she couldn’t function. If she couldn’t function, she wouldn’t be
able to make a fire in the fireplace. If she couldn’t have a fire in the fireplace, she wouldn’t be able to work on her two new jobs all day. If she couldn’t work on her two new jobs all day, she would never escape Wilma and start her own business. And she would never impress Graham with her artistic insight and professional expertise. And he’d never fall in love with her.
Stop, Emmie commanded herself, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She pushed the empty coffee container aside. Crying because there was no coffee . . . in this, the Age of Starbucks? Phooey. She hitched up her pants and squared her shoulders. Change of plans. The new, improved, in command Emmie was on the case.
Emmie frowned and tried to focus on her sketch pad. She was at a Starbucks up the street from her house, her butt planted in a nice, work-oriented, straight-backed, hard-bottomed chair—perfect for her newly developed self-discipline. She had her laptop, her sketch pad, her colored pencils, a paint color fan, and a booklet of wallpaper styles and stencil patterns, all carefully arranged on the table beside her nearly empty venti mocha (yes, with whipped cream and proudly so) and the remains of her scone—and she was about to lick her finger to mop up the crumbs as well. She had been there an hour and a half, and she had produced one drawing—okay, half finished—of a sitting room that might or might not exist in the house Graham was working on.
She sighed heavily, her eyes glazing over. She thought about calling Trish just for a diversion, but she didn’t really feel like it—not even to laugh about the unfortunate outcome of the date with Avery. She would tell Trish the story soon, but right now she just wanted to be alone with her inadequacies. Maybe she had no self-discipline, she thought. Maybe, the wicked little self-confidence-destroying gnome who lived deep inside her suggested, she had no talent. Maybe, no matter what her problem, it was all going to come down to the same thing: She would be doomed to be Wilma’s slave forever.
She sighed again. This wasn’t working. She decided to give up, maybe go grocery shopping—woo, what an exciting way to spend a Sunday afternoon—and try again another day.
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