Page 23 of Enemies with my Bestie’s Brother
I heave a sigh and head back over to the dining table. Truthfully, there’s still a lot of work to be done with respect to the new branch of the company that I’m starting with Landon. It’s a lot harder to concentrate knowing that Whitney’s just down the hall, though, especially considering that I can hear her humming a tune while she works. I need another sound to distract me. Grabbing my briefcase, I dig around until I find what I’m looking for: my apparently extremely tangled headphones. It makes sense that they’re tangled; I can’t remember the last time that I used them. After a couple of moments, the knots are undone and I’m able to plug them into my laptop. I find the perfect classical playlist to help me keep my focus and get to work.
Acoupleofhoursgo by before I’m interrupted by knocking on the front door. I swing it wide open to see a large and oddly shaped package sitting against the frame. It’s too heavy to lift, so I push it into the kitchen. I take a knife and slice the clear packing tape to reveal another box. I pull that box out, and on the front is a picture of an enormous walnut wood desk. Is she planning on putting this together herself, or is someone going to be helping her? Not that I don’t think she can do it, because Whitney is a strong and capable woman, but even I thought that package was heavy, which means that the different wood pieces to put together the desk will most certainly also be heavy. I think about asking her, but decide against it — I’d hate to somehow offend her even more.
Instead, I push the box to the office room. The door is closed. I hold my breath as I listen for Whitney, but I hear her muttering to herself from the whiskey lounge, so I open the door and drag the box in. I stand up and take a deep breath as I admire the room. The walls are painted a deep blue, with one of them featuring a silver, stenciled damask pattern. It gives the room an ethereal feel, and it’s something that makes the space interesting, even though it’s basically empty. The only other thing in the room is a potted ficus pushed up against the window. Whitney’s designs included a lot of plants, and when I told her that I didn’t want to worry about keeping plants alive, she told me to hire a gardener because plants are great for air quality.
I don’t know if I necessarily believe that, but I do find myself strangely drawn to the pleasant-looking shrub. I stroll over to it, glancing out the window as I approach. The view from here really is amazing, being able to look out over the entire city. I rub one of the ficus leaves between my fingers, admiring the coolness and texture of it. I smile. It’s perfect.
Actually, the entire room is perfect. It’s like Whitney took who I am as a person and made it into a room, and it’s not even close to complete yet. Even when I consider the desk — the dark wood will look incredible in the space, completely achieving the dark and moody theme that she’s going for.
Truthfully, I’m actually awe-struck that Whitney has managed to capture my essence and style so accurately within this room. I knew she’s good at her job — the proof was in the pudding, or in this case, pictures of her previous work. But, I was still hesitant to put total faith in her until now.
Just like with the apology thing, she was right. Has she been right about a lot more than I gave her credit for? Or, a better question, have I been wrong about a lot more than I thought? I wrestle with the idea that I may have been wrong about Whitney this entire time. I should have known, though. Penny is a pretty good judge of character. And perhaps, so is Whitney, since she seems to know me well enough to create this already-incredible room. Maybe she even knows me better than I know myself.
I know she declined dinner the other day. Well, not so much “declined” as ran away like a rabbit running on coals, but the general message is still the same. Despite that, I still feel this burning desire to offer her a nice meal, as a thank you. So, she doesn’t want to go out. Maybe she’ll say yes to staying in. I leave the office and close the door behind me as quietly as I can before I make my way down the hall to the room Whitney is working on now. I step over the threshold and marvel at the changes.
The windows, which were previously bare, are now covered by sheer, charcoal gray curtains, held up by an ornate gold curtain rod that is brushed with some sort of Patina solution to make it look vintage. On one wall, there is a framed collage filled with various whiskey labels from all of the most recognizable brands. Just from a quick glance, I can pick out Maker’s Mark, Blanton’s, and Jameson. It’s tastefully done and complements the space perfectly. When I walk in, Whitney is working on hanging a framed map of the world. I step closer to look at the art, only to realize that it’s not a sepia-toned map like I originally thought, but actually crafted from bottle corks. This is a pleasantly surprising discovery. I’m completely amazed by the way she’s managed to subtly say ‘this space is a whiskey lounge’ without throwing bottles on a shelf like most people would.
“Do you like it so far?” she asks as she steps back, admiring her own work.
Or, maybe she’s criticizing it. I guess I don’t really know, since I’m not in Whitney’s head as much as she’s in mine, apparently.
“It’s amazing. Where did you find something like this?”
“There’s a man who plays guitar on Pier 39 in the Bay. I spent some time talking to him one day, and he told me that he makes cork art. I asked for a business card, and when you and I decided on a whiskey lounge, I called him up to ask if he had anything that would be suitable,” she says as she steps back with the leveler.
“You talked to a homeless guy on the pier?” I ask, dumbfounded.
When did she find the time to do that?
“He’s not homeless just because he plays guitar on the pier. He just likes sharing his craft with everyone.” She shrugs as she rolls her eyes at me. “Alright, that’s my day. I’ll be back tomorrow?”
“Wait, I want you to have dinner with me.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but I start talking before she can get a word out.
“No, not out. Here. I can make something, and we can just eat here and have a relaxing time to celebrate a hard day's work.” I smile at her.
“Can you cook?” she asks, her eyebrows pulling together.
“Of course I can cook. What would make you think that I can’t?”
“I mean, you do eat out a lot,” she responds.
“Well, that’s just rude of you to assume. I can cook a lot of things.”
Whitney stares at me before sighing.
“You know, I really could go for a slice of pizza and a beer. So, if we have that, I’ll stay.”
Pizza and beer.I try not to gape at Whitney. I seem to have seriously misjudged this woman.
Chapter Ten
Whitney
IstareatGraysonas he takes another bite of his pizza. I know that I shouldn’t judge him, but I am admittedly judging him right now.
“What?” he asks, putting down his pizza and looking at me with a hint of impatience. “You’ve been looking at me like I killed a kitten since we’ve started eating. Just tell me what I did wrong this time.”
