Page 4 of Practice Makes Perfect

Through the store, out the back door, and across a short parking lot is all the space that separates my workspace from the selling floor. The smell of sawdust and pinewood fills my nose as I open the door and walk inside, taking stock of what projects are in a half-finished state and which are ready to ship. After grabbing my leather apron and tying it on, I walk over to my workbench, gliding my hands over the smooth surface of the wooden vases I’ve been working on today. After another round of sanding, I’ll stain them a beautiful golden pecan color and send them off to the mysterious owner of Post Office Box 153 in Denver, the same person who has custom ordered at least half a dozen items over the last few months.

The orders come through the online store and are paid for by an account with a third party payment platform, so I have no idea who this person is. It ultimately doesn’t matter, money is money after all, but it would be nice to know who is ordering such interesting items. The set of three wooden vases isn’t unusual in itself, but together with the other items ordered, they stand out in a way that has me intrigued. Most of my orders are for furniture—stools, chairs, dining tables, and the like—but not PO Box 153. Whoever this person is has ordered a set of drink goblets, a fruit bowl, a honeypot and dipper, four small perfume bottles, a cigar box, and a pipe with a lion carved at the end. That last order especially had me brushing up on my whittling skills, but the customer was happy in the end and left a rave review on our site, so I guess I did all right.

My phone chimes, and after brushing the bits of sawdust that have already collected on my hand onto my jeans, I snag it from my pocket and smile when I see that the store’s Instagram page has a new notification. Maya posts pictures on the site, most of which are different items that are available at the store. Occasionally, she’ll get a picture of me in there standing next to one of my creations, just like she did this morning with the two stools I handed off moments ago. Sliding open my phone and navigating over to the social media app, I click it open, ready to read a comment from Jake’s friend, Billie.

Billie is always the first to comment with something flirty or borderline inappropriate, and while I know she’s just teasing me, each word she writes brings a smile to my face. Mostly. Sometimes they’re a reminder of what I wish I could have but don’t. A year ago when her comments started popping up, I blocked her before I knew who she was and that she wasn’t being malicious. Now it’s the only bit of contact I get from the gorgeous woman, so I cherish every like and comment, hoarding them like a dragon with his gold.

The smile I was sporting slides off my face when I see that it’s just a like from our Aunt Sue. Sue was best friends with our mom and comes into town every now and then to visit, but we mostly keep in touch via text and social media comments. A notification from her comment pops up. “Keep up the good work, Carter,” she writes. The praise feels good, but not as good as Billie’s requests for me to post thirst traps or commenting that I’m looking particularly good that day. She has the uncanny ability to get my chest puffing out with pride in my appearance.

My thumbs scroll through past posts until I find one of her older comments. “The chair looks amazing, but not as amazing as the man that created it.” Even if there is no truth in her words, my heart still swells slightly as I read them and the fire emojis she has trailing at the end. Clicking on her account name, billie@theparty, I navigate to her page and scroll though the pictures like I have many times before. Fortunately, it’s public. Even if I had my own personal account, which I don’t, I could never be brave enough to follow her.

My eyes move across the images that paint the picture of a very happy, very social woman. She’s constantly surrounded by other members of the beautiful people club, smiling, laughing, and generally looking like she is winning at life. The most recent picture is of Billie at some kind of high-end pub. She looks stunning. Locks of mocha brown hair cascade down past her shoulders in waves, and a bright, cheeky smile is on her face as she looks into the camera. She’s wearing a professional looking black suit, but the jacket is open and shows off the lace corset underneath. God, even in her work clothes she looks like sin, the kind of sin men like me would happily burn in Hell for having committed.

Seeing the movie star handsome man standing next to her with his arm slung around her shoulders has jealousy slicing through my chest, but it has no right to be there. Billie isn’t mine, nor will she ever be. Just because she’s the one person I felt instantly attracted to and connected with doesn’t mean anything. It was just a fluke, too much talk of magic in the air connected to Maya and Jake that night in November is what caused the sparks I felt shooting up and down my spine, not anything real. Granted, that fluke tends to repeat itself every time she comes to visit, but maybe I’m just projecting my desire for another person onto her. We don’t know each other very well, and we most likely won’t anytime soon.

With a sigh, I shove my phone back in my pocket and try to get back to work, but as I start sanding the vases, my mind can’t help but wander back to Billie and her recent lack of activity on the store’s page. Maybe she finally realized what most other women do halfway through a single date. I’m not really worth the time.

Chapter Four

Billie

The incessant ringing of my cell phone stirs me from a deep sleep. With a groan, I roll over and look at the clock on my nightstand. My eyes blink a few times against the bright light of morning as it pours in through the crack in my curtains, and I shake my head for a moment before peeking back at the clock, hoping the time I’m reading isn’t correct. 6:00 in the morning is not an hour I am used to seeing, at least from this side of it. Plenty of all-night study sessions as well as never-ending partying kept me up until this hour, but even that ended years ago. Scrubbing a hand down my face, I reach over to my phone, immediately alarmed when I see that it’s my father calling. He wouldn’t call this early if it wasn’t important.

“What’s going on, Dad?” I ask in fluent Bulgarian. Both of my parents may have immigrated to the US long ago and speak perfect English, but outside of work we speak in their native tongue.

A heavy sigh pours over the speaker and I brace myself for some bad news. As far as I know, both of my parents are in good health. My father is a regular down at the boxing club and my mother goes on long walks or hikes with her friends daily, so I can’t imagine that one or both of them is experiencing a health crisis. “This is a conversation better suited to the office, Biliyana,” he says with a resigned tone.

My dad always calls me by my full name whether I am in trouble or not, so that doesn’t give me any clue, but the fact that he wants to speak at the office is a little unusual. “Why at the office? Can’t you tell me now?”

“No.” It’s a simple and direct reply, his tone letting me know my presence is not a polite request. My parents weren’t strict with me growing up, but they did earn my respect and no matter what, when one of them makes a demand, I go with it. “Come in as soon as possible. This cannot wait.”

The lack of cheer in his voice has my stomach bottoming out. “Okay. I’ll see you soon. Bye, Dad,” I tell him. My father is almost always in a good mood when we talk to one another, so to say I am shaken is an understatement. Hopefully nothing is majorly wrong with the business since I know how important it is to him. Work is basically his number one activity and if he doesn’t have that, I would start to worry about his health and happiness.

“Goodbye.” With that final word from Dad, the rock that has formed in my gut settles in for the long haul. His tone was so serious and his words so frank that I’m freaking out a little bit.

My mind whirs with ideas of what could possibly be going on as I slide off my plush bed and pad over the carpet to my bathroom. The marble tiles feel cold against my bare feet and I shiver as I turn on the water in the large glass shower. The apartment is a luxury one, leased by the firm. Normally that kind of thing is reserved for executives only, but being the daughter of the owner comes with more than a few perks. Covering rent is still my responsibility, though it is discounted, another perk of being Ivan Kochev’s daughter. Between that and my car being paid off, I’m able to invest most of my money in stocks and other things. My eyes flick over to the two wooden perfume bottles I ordered from Hodgepodge earlier this year and I smile. That is definitely an investment worth making. The other set were given to my mother who was brought to tears by the reminder of something her mother had when she was younger. Between those and the other things I’ve ordered both for myself and my parents, I’ve probably kept Carter pretty busy.

My smile widens at the thought as I step into the warm water, letting it release a little bit of the tension that’s settled into my body after my father’s phone call. Picturing Carter in his workshop, the sinewy muscles of his forearms on display as he carves into a piece of wood has me wanting to linger in the shower for a bit and take care of another kind of tension, but I don’t have time to indulge in that particular fantasy at the moment. After turning the water to cold and quickly washing up, I dry off and head over to my closet, trying to decide which outfit best works for a meeting of undetermined significance. Finally, I decide on a high-waist black skirt and pink blouse. Normally my style leans more toward sexy day-to-night ensembles, but if the business is in trouble, I need to look as professional as possible. After dressing quickly, I throw my wet hair into a high bun and make my way out to the kitchen.

My feet take me past the family room, the beige walls screaming for a bit of color. One of these days I’m going to replace all the black and white stock artwork with something more vibrant, more eclectic. Maybe another Carter Johansen original, I think to myself as I open the fridge and pull out some overnight oats. While I scarf down the blueberry flavored grains, the temptation to check on Hodgepodge’s Instagram page is real. My fingers twitch with the desire to whip out my phone and take a gander at any new photos. It’s been so hard not posting comments on the pictures I have seen, but I’ve persevered. As tough as it’s been, thinking that I’ve been making Carter uncomfortable isn’t something I can live with. Teasing and flirting is only fun if the attention is wanted, and if Jake is to be believed, it sounds like mine is definitely not.

With the oats gone and nothing left to do but face the music, I grab my purse and head down to the parking garage. My little red roadster is a welcome sight as I make my way over to it, slide inside, and turn on my dance music. There is no traffic to distract me as I make the short drive to work, dancing along with the music in an attempt to lift my spirits and take my mind off what my father wants to meet about. If the business is in trouble, I may have to look for another job. The dread I expect to feel at that thought doesn’t come. Instead, I think about how I could use my skillset elsewhere. Maybe I could start over, finally leaving the party girl firmly in the past. My chest balloons with something akin to elation as I think about finally being able to figure out who I really am, deep down inside.

After parking my car and hopping on the elevator, I’m finally at the thirty-fifth floor. When the doors open and I step out, my eyes wander around and take in the sight before me which is nothing but an unoccupied receptionist desk standing in front of a sea of empty cubicles. It’s just past 7:00, so it’s not surprising to see that no one else is here, but if the business is in trouble, people would be swarming around like angry wasps. Confused, I make my way towards the corner offices, my heavy feet practically dragging behind me. When I see that my dad’s is the only one with a light on, I suddenly wonder if maybe it’s not the business that’s in trouble, but me. Confusion turns to dread as my fist raises to knock on the door jamb, but I pause when my father’s light brown eyes meet mine and he waves me in, rendering my announcing myself useless.

“Come in, Biliyana.” We’re completely alone, but he’s speaking in English. It’s unsettling, and that rock in my gut sinks further still, anchoring my feet to the floor. When he sees I’m not moving, he smiles at me, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Please.”

“Okay.” My voice sounds small, childlike, as I step over to the chair in front of him and take a seat. It seems my ability to fake confidence doesn’t work with my dad, though I already knew that. Daddy’s girl is also up there along with all of the other descriptors for me. Anytime I was in trouble or anytime I was sad, I would go to my father and he would make it all better. A kiss to the tip of my nose could heal a skinned knee or a broken heart, but I have the feeling it’s going to take a lot more than that to fix whatever it is that I broke this time. “What did you want to meet about?”

Tall and built like a bear, my father is an imposing figure, but it’s the stoic expression on his normally affable looking face as he gathers his large hands together on his desk that has me feeling intimidated. “You took the owners of Foster Transportation out to a comedy club last night. Is that correct?”

A relieved sigh escapes my previously tight lungs. There is no way I could be in trouble about anything that happened last night. “Yes. We went to see the Chuckleheads. It’s an improv group. Everyone had a great time,” I explain. The owners didn’t participate as much as I thought they would, but they also hadn’t had as much to drink as some of the other audience members, so maybe that’s why. “Did they want me to get them tickets to another show?” It’s not uncommon for clients to want to hit the places I take them to again, and I’m happy to use my connections for them, even if being everyone’s nightlife guru has gotten tiresome.

“No, Biliyana. They don’t want more tickets,” he explains. His tone is dark and his expression even more dour than it was seconds ago as he rakes a hand through his silver hair, giving me a pointed look. “They were highly offended, not only by the content of the show, but by the fact that alcohol was served.”

My jaw drops because I can’t think of anything in the comedy show that I would deem offensive, though my humor is a little crasser than other people’s. And why alcohol? It’s not like I forced them to drink, and since I was driving I stuck to my virgin daiquiris. “I don’t understand. They seemed to have a good time.” Didn’t they? Maybe I had a great time and was so caught up in that that the other two people sort of faded from my concern. My interest in my job has waned quite a bit, so that might have affected things as well.

My father gives me a stern look, and I swallow thickly at the sight of it. “Mark Foster is a recovering alcoholic and his wife is a devout Christian. You should have taken them to the symphony or something like that, not a low-brow comedy show,” he explains gruffly.

---