Page 8 of Designed for Disaster

I looked up to see Stacy frowning at the email. “What did they say?”

“That they’ve reached out before wanting to commission something. It says, ‘I’m in the market for an interesting, one-of-a-kind piece?—’”

An immediate spark of irritation surged through me. “‘Wondering how you’d like to design blah, blah, blah…’” I finished for Stacy. “Is that the gist of the email?”

“Exactly that.”

“God, again? I swear I get an email from this person at least once a month.”

“And that’s…bad?” she asked.

“It is when they waste my time. They’re always super vague when I reach out for details, so I end up coming up with most of the idea on my own. Then I draw up a sketch, and they reject it claiming it’s not what they’re looking for when they didn’t even tell me what that was in the first place.”

“And they keep coming back?” Stacy asked.

“Like clockwork. This is the third or fourth time.” I’d reached the end of my patience with them. “It’s weird, right?”

“It’s definitely a little fishy,” Stacy agreed.

Screw this guy then. “Can you fire back an email and just say I’m too busy right now and not taking any commissions?” It was a lie. Now more than ever, I needed all the commissions I could get. But not from this guy.

“Okay,” Stacy said, her long fingernails clicking away on the keys. “Done and done.”

“Is there anything in there from 1stDibs.com?” That’s where I made most of my legitimate furniture sales online—either refurbished or original designs—unless someone heard about me via word of mouth.

“Give me a sec. No, I don’t see anything…Actually, wait! Here’s one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, looks promising. He included a picture of one of your old pieces—a desk he says his grandmother bought at an estate sale? Aww, this is so cute. He wrote that his grandmother absolutely adores the desk. She uses it to write letters to all her friends.”

I hurried across the room and scanned the email.

“He wants to commission more pieces for her,” I said, nudging Stacy so hard in the arm she almost tumbled off the chair. “Pieces! As in plural. Now this sounds like a project I’m up for.”

“That’s great, Tash. See, I said things were going to turn around for you.”

“Nice to see a guy who appreciates his family for a change,” I said, thinking about Mr. Coffeezilla again.

“Maybe this is your perfect guy,” Stacy joked. “He obviously has money if he wants to pay your prices for a bunch of pieces. Clearly, he has good taste and appreciates furniture. Close to his family. And, hey, if we’re fantasizing here, might as well make him gorgeous too.”

I hummed. Why was I picturing the hot-but-evil asshole that got me fired?

Stacy started typing.

“What are you saying?”

“Why yes, Mr. Moneybags, I will accept your commission since you’re so interested in my assets. Winky face.”

“Oh my god, do not type that.”

“I’m joking…I’m…Oh shit.”

My eyes almost bugged out of my head as her message popped up on the screen below the inquiry. “Did you just hit send?”

“Take it back!” Stacy said, shoving the laptop into my arms. “Delete it!”

“You can’t just delete it. It’s already sent. Oh my god!”

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