Page 4 of The Jilted Lovers Club
“Shit, Cooper. I told you to wait.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, I have to go. Look, you can handle this, okay? I believe in you. Just flash that Jordy charm, and they won’t know what hit them.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my phone for a moment, then lean heavily on the car. The circling group across the street appears to have gained momentum, and I’m getting the impression this will be an all-day event.
This, apparently, is not going to be the fun, lighthearted gig I thought it would be.
I study the members of the protest, assessing what could happen if I cross the picket line. In all, there are only about ten people, and two of them are kids who are having more fun swinging the signs at each other than holding them up for the nonexistent traffic. Leading them is a woman I take to be their mother, wearing a large yellow garden hat and the loudest paisley dress that my fashion-eclectic cousin Nina would probably die over. There are three older ladies, all wearing overalls over t-shirts, as if they’ve just finished farming. By the vibe of this town, I don’t doubt it. There’s a young couple and their three-legged dog, an elderly man who appears to go at a snail’s pace holding a sign resting on his shoulder while he leans on his cane, and a bored looking man wearing a fitted button up shirt with slim pants and loafers—probably the most stylish person in this town. As I’m watching, he hands his sign to the paisley mom before disappearing into the shop next door, leaving the crowd to nine.
I can take all of them, I realize. I mean, not that I’m looking for a fight. These stilettos cost me a damn fortune, and I’m not about to ruin them on a bunch of simpletons.
But I also have work to do, and if not now, when exactly am I going to find my way into that building? It’s a sure bet they’ll be back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. I can wait until they leave before I walk in … but why? What would that solve?
“Fuck it.” I grab my purse from inside the car, along with my bag full of design plans, then march across the street. I don’t break my stride as I approach the circling picketers, walking right through their little protest to make it to the door. Their chants grow silent. I can feel their eyes on me as I pull out the key Alexander gave me before I left New York, then let myself inside. When I turn to lock the glass doors, a few phones point in my direction as they take photos of me, the enemy.
I offer a huge, toothy grin, then wave for good measure, then I turn back around and ignore them.
What I see in front of me takes my breath away.
I may have been impressed with the architecture of the outside of this building, but I’m severely unprepared for the inside. It’s incredible. A huge, expansive room with twenty-foot ceilings, roman pillars, and large windows that lets the sunshine spill into the room in dramatic rays. The floors are pure marble, grey with a kind of crystal sparkling from the sun shining through the windows.
It’s a blank slate, albeit a beautiful one, completely ready for me to work my magic.
I cannot wait to get started.
For the next few hours, I lose myself in amending the designs I’ve already drawn up, working from my tablet to find the right kind of textiles that will enhance the history of this building. All of these are rough sketches at best, but I feel like I have a better handle on what the interior needs now that I’m inside.
Before I know it, the natural light turns to a dusky pink with the setting sun. I flip the light switch and note the dim glow fromunimpressive hanging lamps. Yup, the lighting is going to need an overhaul as well.
The rumbling in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.
I glance out the front door window and note that the picketers have left their post sometime during my design work. I’d been so engrossed, I hadn’t even noticed their departure, but now I’m relieved to not have to face anyone on my way out. I’d had the element of surprise on my side when I first faced these yahoos, and if they come at me now, I have ways to make them sorry. I was raised by a woman who had a barbed response to everything, and I’ve learned the art of taking down my opponent without lifting a finger. But I also know I have weeks of work ahead of me, and if I make enemies too early, it will make my life a living hell.
But making friends is not my forte, especially with people who obviously want me gone. So I’m very relieved to be free of the picketers—at least for now. Still, I feel cautious as I open the door and peer outside, half expecting someone to jump out and ambush me. But other than a few curious looks from people walking by, no one seems to pay me special attention. Relieved, I lock the door, then head across the street to gather my luggage from my car.
I’d booked a room at the Lahoma Hotel weeks ago, mostly because of its convenient location right across the street from the shop I’d be working on, but also because it’s literally the only hotel in Lahoma Springs. And at this moment, I cannot wait to check into my room, order up some room service with a bottle of wine, and settle into bed with some trash TV.
Pushing through the double doors, I’m greeted by a disaster of a lobby. The bones of the place are there, with red Spanish tile floors, ample windows, sparkling chandeliers, and rustic beamed ceilings that would make Joanna Gaines drool. It hasthat same century-old architecture The Till has, which makes my heart ache a little.
Because the decor? It’s awful.
This is the plight of being an interior designer—my critical thinking cap never comes off. But in this case, I don’t need a degree to see how this place is all bad. Judging by the tired 1970s striped couches and shag carpets, it’s been in need of a makeover for at least fifty years. It’s not even retro in an ironic way. It’s like someone went into their grandmother’s attic and made use of the plastic covered couches. I mean, there are even doilies on some of them. Whoever chose the color palate must have been really into purple and orange, because both colors are vomited all over the place, clashing with the natural palate of the building.
“Can I help you?”
I tear myself away from mentally redesigning this whole hotel and turn to the woman calling to me from the front desk. She’s older, wearing a brown uniform with her silver hair piled into a tight twist. Her age has settled into her face, with deep lines and overdrawn eyebrows. But her red painted smile is turned up bright, and I can’t help smiling back as I approach the desk. Her eyes take on a look of surprise as I stop in front of her, and her smile freezes.
“Yes, Jordan Gallo checking in.”
“Uh, yes. Hold a moment.”
She picks up her phone and glances at the screen and back at me, which is odd because I’m standing right here, a whole paying customer. I glance at the nametag—Bernice—taking a mental note in case I need to speak with management about her. The brightness in her face has completely disappeared, and her eyebrows furrow as she places the phone on the desk, face down. Then she starts typing fast. She pauses and looks at me with narrowed eyes.
“I’m sorry, we don’t have a Jordan Gallo staying here.”
And then, with her long French manicured nails, she turns her phone back over just long enough to see a photo of MY FACE staring back at me before she flips it again. I recognize it immediately, especially the indignation in my expression as I glare at the photographing protester.
