Page 61 of Bad Boy Bachelor Christmas
WINTER
The mall director looked like he’d been plucked out of a nineties’ mobster film.
He wore a pinstripe black suit with a dark red pocket square that matched his thick tie. His glasses were perhaps the only modern thing about him with trendy half-frames and designer labels. A pocket watch hung in the front vest pocket of his suit, and the chain disappeared somewhere amongst the panel of his jacket, and as he lowered himself into his seat, he curled his thick finger around the chain like a woman curled her finger around a lock of hair.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Waylon,” the director said. He had a voice like gravel, and based on the scent of cigar smoke wafting off him, I assumed he was a committed smoker. “And who do you have here?” His dark eyes slid to me and brightened some. Perhaps he wasn’t as severe as his first impression made him out to be.
North turned his chair toward me. “This is my design expert, Winter Dodson. Winter, this is Mr. O’Malley.”
“Please,” O’Malley purred as he extended his hand for me to shake. “Call me Roger.”
“Nice to meet you, Roger,” I said, all politeness and professionalism. In the back of my head the words “design expert” were ringing. North hadn’t introduced me as his intern.
Roger leaned back in his chair and pressed all of his fingertips together. He had arthritis in his hands—I noticed from the thickness of his knuckles, much like my father’s—and wore an old school gold watch on his left wrist. “Thank you for making the time to come talk to me today. As you know, I’m torn between you and the company we’ve worked with for the past ten years.”
“I understand,” North said. “I’m not here to bid for your favor or try to convince you, but I am here to answer any questions you might have, or any concerns. And I brought Winter with me so you could pick her brain about design. She’s been impressing clients all season with her innovative creations. She even landed some spotlight features on some design socials.” North pulled out his phone and showed off some of the work I’d done, and I tried to sit there looking dignified, and not like the giddy six-year-old I felt like inside.
“Pick her brain, huh?” Roger’s dark eyes fell on me once more, and instead of seeing an outdated mobster wannabe, I saw a grandfather.
Between us, a framed picture of him and three kids under seven grinned at the lens. He looked like a totally different man in the photo than he did behind his desk, and I wondered if the suit and the hard-ass image were to maintain order in his job.
As a mall director.
Weird,I thought.
But who was I to judge? He probably had to deal with a lot of company CEOs and a lot of bullshit on a daily basis.
“I’m all yours,” I said, perhaps a little too eagerly. I giggled nervously and shot North a look. He gave me an encouraging nod. “I’ve been up to my eyeballs in fun with decorating Christmas trees for the company this year, Mr. O’Malley.”
“Roger,” he said.
“Right, sorry, Roger,” I said. “Every time I sit down and meet a client, I soak up what I can about them personally and listen to the things they aren’t saying as well as their requests. Then I come up with a design. It’s like art,” I explained. “We all see art through our own lens of perception and experience. So, on that note, who is this tree most important to? Who cares the most?”
He studied me over his pressed fingertips before letting his gaze slide back to North. “She’s good.”
Before North had a chance to answer, I said, “I’m only getting started.”
The men chuckled, but not at my expense.
I could feel the atmosphere in the room, and my opinion held just as much weight as theirs. This was the feeling I’d been chasing through all my years of study. All I wanted was for professionals to take me seriously and give me room to express myself creatively. I knew I could meet and exceed needs. I’d known it for a long time. Finally, I had a chance to prove it, and this job?
Well, it carried a lot of weight.
Roger leaned forward in his chair. Sunlight shining through the window glinted off the face of his watch before it disappeared under his suit sleeve. “I suppose it matters most to my patrons. Guests of the mall. Shoppers and consumers who’ve been coming here to do their Christmas shopping for generations. They’ve seen it all, Miss Dodson.”
“Winter,” I said.
“Winter,” he corrected, giving me a knowing smile. “Do you know what happened last year?”
“A bit,” I admitted. “No specific details though, only that you were left high and dry for a tree, and Waylon Farms provided one in a pinch.”
He nodded. “Yes, yes, precisely. It was a beautiful tree, of course. Healthy. Vibrant. Nicely decorated. But due to the time crunch, we did not have time to make it a true masterpiece. This year I want to make up for the error and bring something to my mall that people haven’t seen before. Something fresh but also rooted in the bones of tradition and holiday spirit. What do you think of that?”
“Where does your mall Santa go?” I asked.
Roger frowned. “Sorry?”
I realized the question came out of left field, but my creative juices were already flowing.
