Page 31 of In Love with Lewis Prescott
“I stood up from the head of the conference table, rested my hands on the edge, looked him square in the eye and said, ‘Are you asking me, the head of this project, if the design I’ve spent months perfecting is the right way to go?’ And then I just stared. And stared. And after a few seconds of stammering, he muttered, ‘Sorry,’ and then I moved on with the rest of the meeting.”
“I like your style. To the point. In-your-face.”
“I’ve learned that the best way to tell someone off is to just repeat their words back to them. They realize real quick just how ridiculous they sound when they’re promptly called out. It’s my go-to method.”
I run the blade of the recip saw along the bottom of another loosened floorboard, then set it aside with the rest.
“Did that happen to you a lot? People questioning your authority?” he asks.
I set down the pry bar, taking a second to rest. “It happened more frequently in my first couple of years at the firm. By the end of my time there, the people I worked with knew me and my work well, so they didn’t doubt me. But it was something I’ve always dealt with. I suspect I will again whenever I decide to go back to work.”
“Is that your plan after the renovation? To work at an architecture firm again?”
“Yeah, probably.”
When I look up, I catch Lewis studying me.
“What?”
“You don’t sound excited about it,” he says.
I shrug. “I love being an architect. I just want to do something meaningful too. That’s why I’m volunteering a lot more now that I’m not working, since it was hard for me to do it much while I was putting in long hours. But corporate gigs pay the best and the Bay Area is expensive to live in, so I always feel like those are the jobs I need to take. When I do eventually go back to work, I’ll be sad to have to cut down on my volunteering.”
“What’s your dream job?”
His question jolts me. No one’s ever asked me that before.
“Honestly? I don’t know. As much as I love being an architect, I think I love volunteering for Glad You’re Here more. It’s so gratifying to help people.”
“Then why don’t you just make that your job? Do what you love.”
I laugh. “Yeah, right. As if it’s that simple.”
“Isn’t it?”
I tilt my head at him. “No, it’s not. I’ve looked into nonprofit jobs before, and the pay is a lot lower than what I made as an architect. As much as I wish money didn’t matter, it does. This is an expensive area, and I want to stay here. And be able to help out my family whenever they need it.”
“Right.” His cheeks flush pink as he glances down. “Sorry, I guess I sounded pretty out of touch there. Easy for someone like me, an actor, to say do what you love. Kinda obnoxious, now that I think about it.”
I tell him it’s okay while quietly acknowledging the glaring differences in our lifestyles. I wonder what it’s like to be working your dream job that pays millions and you never have to worry about finances.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you had to deal with people doubting you in your old job. I hope that doesn’t happen when you start working again.”
I shrug. “I’m not what some people picture when they think of a corporate architect. I know I look young for my age. My thick-rimmed glasses don’t help, but I hate wearing contacts. I’m sure there are a lot of things I could have done appearance-wise to present as more professional. But I’m not the kind of person who’s interested in fitting into other people’s expectations. As long as I do my job well, I should be able to look however I want.”
When Lewis stretches his fist to me, I laugh and return the bump.
“Spoken like a true badass,” he says. “You’re a talented and qualified architect, Harper. The work you did on the additions to your house is some of the best that I’ve seen.” He ruffles his hair with a hand as his gaze drops to the floor. “Maybe that’s not saying much since it’s been years since I’ve worked full-time on a jobsite, but I recognize quality when I see it.”
Was I imagining it, or did his eyes linger on me a little longer after that statement?
“No. It means a lot. Thank you.”
The few seconds we spend smiling and looking at each other makes me go warm and gooey on the inside. I’ve always been confident in my abilities as a professional, but it’s always nice to hear a genuine compliment from someone.
“Did you ever feel the urge to tell any of those guys who doubted you to fuck off?” Lewis asks after a few minutes of us quietly working.
I burst out laughing. “Of course I did, but I didn’t want to get disciplined or fired for unprofessional conduct.”
