Page 3 of So Not My Thing
Jerome helped me load the flat of biscuits into the trunk of my Mercedes, which sounded fancier than it was. It was the cheapest model available, and I’d bought it used when someone had returned it after a three-year lease. Even then, I’d had to take out a loan. I didn’t evenwanta luxury car, but you had to project success to commercial real estate clients. A Mercedes—even a boring one—could do that for you.
Our office was Downtown—the Central Business District—a fifteen-minute drive from my apartment. I spent it listening to theGladiatorsoundtrack because it always sanded down the spikes of my anxiety. I needed to walk into the meeting appearing as calm, cool, and collected as possible.
It was the exact opposite of the way Miles Crowe had last seen me, but I’d changed enough in twelve years that he shouldn’t recognize me. I didn’t want him to see even a trace of the gawky teenage girl he’d humiliated publicly on national television.
That girl—Gabi Jones—had been a frizzy-haired, scrawny, zitty, brace-faced, glasses-wearing, tear-stained high school freshman.
Graduating from puberty, Lasik, hair serums, gym-time, and careful study of fashion trends had turned me into Elle Jones, a sophisticated 26-year-old with a confident smile and a slight air of mystery.
I hoped, anyway.
It was the image I’d cultivated since college.
I pulled into Crescent City Property Investments, retrieved Miss Mary’s biscuits, and rode the elevator up to our offices on the fifth floor. It was the premier boutique agency for New Orleans commercial real estate, the biggest of the little guys.
Because I brought my family’s historic Bywater building with me as a client, I could have gotten on with one of the major national brokerages, but I hadn’t wanted that. I’d wanted to be somewhere with roots in the community, and that meant Crescent.
The reception desk sat empty, but Brenda was already in her office, the only private office on our floor. She had a very literal open-door policy, and this morning was no different as she typed furiously at her keyboard.
“Hey,” I said, popping my head in.
“You’re early.”
“Wanted to make sure I got the chicken biscuit sandwiches here in time. Need any help setting up?”
“I think it’s okay, but let’s go look.”
I followed her to the conference room. Through the windows, I could see she’d already placed a linen folder embossed with the company logo at every seat. Each folder contained slick brochures, net sheets, and disclosures for the locations she’d be highlighting in her presentation.
I set down the biscuits on the table designated for refreshments. High-end paper goods sat in neat stacks and waited only for the coffee and other small bites to be delivered by a local café.
While Brenda fussed with the alignment of the napkin display, I made my most crucial decision of the morning: I picked my seat.
The whole office would be in the meeting except for the receptionist, Jay. Miles Crowe was bringing his business manager, so that meant eight people at the table, with him sitting beside Brenda at its head. I needed to be on the same side of the table with one person between Miles and me and one person between me and the screen. Optimum invisibility.
I dropped my laptop bag in the chair and browsed through the folder, but I knew the specs for each property by heart. Brenda had zeroed in on properties for the jazz club here in the business district but closer to the hotels and high-end restaurants. I got it. The business district had a sophisticated vibe and not too many music venues. But they were expensive leases, and while that made sense for Crescent’s bottom line, it wasn’t the way I would have gone.
In fact, if it were anyone but Miles Crowe opening the club, I’d say that he should be looking in the Bywater. But I didn’t want Miles Crowe in my neighborhood. I didn’t even want him in my city.
“Hey, y’all.” One of the other agents, Dave, popped his head in. “We lookin’ good?”
“We’re looking good,” Brenda confirmed. “Let me run through this presentation with you one more time before the client gets here.”
Dave and I obediently took our seats and listened as Brenda did her spiel, other agents checking in with a wave as they arrived. She was an old pro, and the only feedback I could have offered was to pick different properties. So I kept my mouth shut other than to compliment her.
When the pastry delivery from the café came, Brenda turned her attention to fussing over the display. I checked my not-a-Rolex-yet to see that we had ten minutes before Miles Crowe was due to arrive.
Yeah, right. I’d bet my—future—Rolex he would be late. He was a notorious diva which was why a lot of his career had fizzled. He’d made buckets of money for a few years there, but his tantrums had become so legendary that he hadn’t been worth the trouble to hire anymore.
Or so I’d heard through office gossip. I’d made a point not to follow his career.
By ten minutesafter9:00, my future Rolex was safe. No Miles, and one very twitchy Brenda.
By the twenty-minute mark, I was beginning to wonder if I’d stressed myself out over his visit for nothing. By the thirty-minute mark, I relaxed enough to slip into the conference room and serve myself some coffee.Someoneneeded to enjoy it before it went stale.
You know what? Might as well get some food too. My stomach got weird when I was nervous, so I hadn’t bothered eating this morning, but there was no reason not to now. I’d leave the chicken biscuits for the rest of the office since I could have them whenever I wanted, but I opened the pastry box from the other café to browse. It had about four different Danish plus beignets.
Mmmmm, beignets. I picked up one of the perfect puffed, deep-fried squares of dough. Normally, they were a terrible choice for any kind of formal setting because the coating of powdered sugar had a tendency to get everywhere, just like with funnel cake. But since Miles the Diva wasn’t coming, I didn’t care.
