Page 18 of Go Find Less

Piper

Istareattheemail open on one side of my screen, rereading it for probably the tenth time today. It’s been 72 hours since I opened it.

Where the hell do I even start responding to this?

Piper,

Please see below for all relevant measurements at The Pine. I’ve included a tech spec sheet from our AV consultant.

Should you need anything further, please don’t hesitate to reach out via email or text.

Fitz Westfall

Chief Operating Officer | Westfall Hospitality Group

I felt dumb the first time I read it. Fitz doesn’t just work at WHG. WHG is Westfall Hospitality Group. It’s hisfamily’scompany. And I was too busy holding my resentments to put two and two together.

But more than that, the content of the email surprised me. Not only was the tech sheet thorough, but he included measurements for practically every surface in the venue, down to the width of the bathroom stalls. I’m not sure if I’ll need to use that one, but it’s nice to know they’re A.D.A. compliant.

I wonder if he had someone else take the measurements? Or if he took them himself? Part of me enjoyed the mental picture of him taking that tape measure around the venue early one morning, noting all the different numbers in his phone. Bending over in those well-fitted pants…

“You good?”

Kyle’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I blink at the screen. What was I doing?

Oh, right, invitations.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I pull up the message from Jackie with the details we’d hammered out on our last call. I had stayed mostly silent, listening to them go back and forth on start times while I worked on my latest sketch for work, this one of an ivory set with large, sparkly snowflakes front and center. It wasn’t my finest work, but it was something I felt Brianna would like.

“She’s read that email, like, fifteen times,” Carla says from her desk, and I glare at her over my shoulder. We’re gathered in the office Carla and I share, scrolling through my inspiration sites for ideas on eye-catching print and digital designs. Carla is taking the opportunity to cyber-stalk people to add to the contact list she’s maintaining with Fallon, the screen on her neat desk in the corner split between a digital copy of our yearbook and Facebook.

“I can see why,” Kyle responds, stretching in his seat. “He sounds accommodating. Not a word I’d use to describe Fitz.”

He leans back in his padded chair from our dining table, looking around the room. My desk is surrounded by designs, like my cubicle at work, but these pieces are different. Unlike the office, here, I keep my personal designs showcased. Commissions, creative pieces, projects I’d like to complete one day, all scattered across the walls. There’s a small space cleared around my keyboard and mouse for use, but the rest of my L-shaped desk is littered with crafting supplies. Hole punches, rhinestones, the overflowing drawers spill into my workspace, leaving my bookshelf the only organized area in the entire room.

“Are these all yours?” Kyle asks, and points to the drawings on the wall. I nod. “I’ve been working on my stuff too, it’s not particularly good, but it’s fun when I’ve got time to kill before a dinner rush.” He pulls his phone up from the desk, scrolling for a second, and then shows me his screen.

It’s a beautiful hand-drawn landscape of a field, tall yellowing grass topped by a bright, burning sun.

“Is that behind the rec center?” I ask. He seems surprised.

“Yeah, it was kind of a hang-out spot for all the neighborhood guys growing up. How’d you know?”

“No reason,” I say, a bit too quickly. Carla looks at me from her desk. She knows what I'm thinking - about the time that Andy and I layed out in that field, on top of his letterman jacket and a blanket he had stashed in his backseat. “That’s gorgeous,” I add, pointing to his phone. He grins, his sandy hair falling lazily into his face. He turns again, peering at the viking armor designs in front of me. “Those are commission pieces from Greensleeves last year.” He nods appreciatively.

“Paid for this dumb bitch’s eye surgery,” Carla jeers, looking pointedly at Bex, who’s curled up in one of her many dog beds, losing her absolute mind over a silent squeaker toy.

“I haven’t been to Greensleeves since I was a kid.”

“I think we went together once,” I ponder, and he seems to think on it for a second. I have vague memories of our parents packing us up in a car one weekend and driving to the local renaissance festival, letting us run wild with padded swords and bags of kettle corn.

“I’m pretty sure you’re right.” He laughs, probably remembering the same thing I am. “Our parents probably hoped we’d start a budding romance.” I hear Carla’s chair whirl at his words, but he laughs again. “Like that was ever going to happen.” Normally I would let a comment like that hurt, but I know where he’s coming from. Kyle and I were opposites, and had always been, finding camaraderie in seeing each other sneak out of our respective houses for years without really saying anything to each other.

“Hate to break it to you,” I say, reaching over and patting his knee, “but you’re not really my type.”

“What, I’m not tall, red haired and wearing a suit from somewhere other than Men’s Wearhouse?” I snort.

“As if. Fitz isn’t my type, either.”

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