Page 67 of Broken Headboards
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Austin
“Mr. Giannoni,”I greet him as he walks through Oakmont’s lobby door. “Thank you for meeting with me.” I extend my arm half way to shake his hand. He does the same while also gently caressing my elbow.
Ok…it must be a European thing.
“Mr. Randall, the pleasure is all mine,” he says, a trace of his Italian accent mingling with his words. He eyes me up and down and for a second, I feel objectified. But then, I remember it’s Giovanni Giannoni, a world-renowned designer who’s known for his bedroom sets and headboards, so I don’t fucking care. He can objectify me all he wants, I’m used to it anyway.
That’s the reason why he is here right now. Well, no, not to stare at me—but for his expertise. The last round of this competition is on bedroom sets, especially headboards, and this is the man for the job.
I might know furniture, as my billion-dollar empire suggests, but he’s a highly sought-after and respected designer in the industry.
And, it’s his headboards that made him who he is today. This meeting is a big fucking deal and I’m not about to waste it. With his help, I’ll be able to win this whole fucking competition.
I gotta hand it to Taylor—he hooked me up in a big way.
“Please, come with me. Would you like some tea or coffee?” I ask him, leading him down the hallway to my office.
“No, thank you,” he shakes his head and enters my office when I open the door for him.
“Miranda, please hold all my calls until Mr. Giannoni leaves,” I instruct her.
“Yes, Mr. Randall,” she glances up at me from her computer and then goes back to work.
I could’ve had her, or my receptionist greet him. But I wanted to do it. Sure, for smaller clients I’ll have Miranda offer refreshments, but he is a big deal and I want him to know that I respect his time and willingness to meet with me. You can chalk it up to southern hospitality. I remember where I’m from.
I close the door, and twist around to find him standing in front of my bookcase, looking over the contents.
“Very fascinating material, Mr. Randall,” he says. “I’m impressed.”
“Thank you. Please have a seat,” I pull out the chair for him and walk over to my desk, buttoning my suit jacket as I sit down on my chair.
He walks over it, whipping his palms on his thighs as he slithers down onto the leather seat. He smiles, and his crooked teeth poke out from under his lips. He’s not the most unfortunate looking man, but there are some slimy qualities about him. He also dresses like he sleeps under the Milan runway and wears their castoffs, but then again, it is Giovanni Giannoni. He can do whatever the fuck he wants.
And, I’m also not paying him to look good. I’m paying for his skill and ability to deliver me the $2 billion-dollar contract with the Clarendon Tower with a design that I can manufacture.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Randall?” He asks, reaching for his brown satchel and retracting a worn-leather notepad and pen.
Good, this guy gets right to it.
“A headboard,” I don’t mince words. “I know you’re the man to ask for such a piece. From what I’ve seen, you’re work is impeccable, and the headboards are exquisite—one-of-kind type of designs, and I’d like to discuss commissioning one of them.”
“Ah, a headboard,” the corners of his mouth curl up, but they don’t reach his eyes. Rather there’s a flicker of something in them and it instinctively worries me, but I can’t put my finger on it. “You’re right, that’s one of my specialties.”
Ok…maybe, he just has an odd way of talking about himself?
“Exactly. That’s why I knew you were the man for this job,” I smile, reassuringly.
“That I am.” He nods and looks down at his notepad, scribbling something down aggressively.
“Now, at Oakmont, we specialize in heavier pieces, relying on overstated and rich luxury. For instance, one of our best-sellers and most awarded pieces is our genuine leather chair,” I point to the back corner where I have the first one ever made on display. “We’re known for our sturdiness, and we don’t shy away from showing off our plush pieces.”
“Hmm. I see,” he mumbles and runs his pen over his mouth, overacting his thinking process. Or maybe this is his method? I have no idea. Each person is different with how they approach their work and he might have to sit and mull over a design in silence while rubbing a pen across his mouth. To each their own. But still, it’s a bit uncomfortable to watch.
I clasp my hands in my lap, and lean back, watching him contemplate what I just said.
After a few seconds, the silence weighs on me and I lean my elbows on the desk.
