“I’m never letting you go, Nikki,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me close.
“I’d never forgive you if you did.”
The next morning I stand transfixed as Lisa spreads her arms wide to indicate the modest office space. “So?” she asks. She’s petite, but so poised that she seems to fill the room anyway. “What do you think?”
“I love it,” I say. The space comes furnished, and apparently the owner of Granite Investment Strategies has excellent taste. Not only is the desk large enough to spread out half-a-dozen projects, but it’s also sleek and modern with enough whimsy to be fun, but not so much that it lacks professionalism. The walls are bare, but that should be easy enough to fix.
The love seat is a bonus. The space is small enough that it would have made sense to only have the two molded plastic guest chairs. But the original tenant had managed to work the space well, and the small sofa that sits against the far wall seems to pull the room together instead of overwhelming the space.
“It’s available immediately,” Lisa says. “My client’s very eager.”
I run my fingertip over the desktop, tempted. I’ve been on the fence about leasing office space, but now that I’m actually standing in an office that could have my name on the door, I have to admit that it’s pretty heady stuff.
I slide my hand into my pocket and run my fingertip over the edge of one of the business cards that Damien presented to me this morning. Nikki L. Fairchild, CEO, Fairchild Development. I’d laughed when I opened the box, but there had been tears, too. Not just because I’m finally, really doing this, but because of the pride I saw in Damien’s eyes.
It occurs to me that he must have started much the same way; after all, he hardly sprang fully born from Zeus’s head with a tennis racquet in one hand and Stark Tower in the other. No, he started small and worked his way up to gazillionaire status. I smile, oddly comforted by the thought.
“It’s a great opportunity,” Lisa prompts.
“I know,” I say honestly. Because of the circumstances, the terms of the sublease are exceptional. Not only that, but the building has great security—as Damien discovered last night when he made a few calls after the police left. Tenants need a card key to enter the building and clients must be buzzed in by the receptionist who serves as the gatekeeper between the outside world and the building’s twelve tenants.
Even better, it’s walking distance to the Sherman Oaks Galleria. If I have a bad day at work, I can console myself by going shopping. And if I have a good day at work, I can celebrate by going shopping.
I sway a bit on my heels, trying to decide. No, that’s not true. I want this. But it’s scary—like jumping out of a plane without a parachute. Except that I have a parachute. His name is Damien, and I know that he will always catch me.
“I can just work from home,” I say lamely.
“No question,” Lisa says. “I have lots of clients who do that. Most start-ups begin in the home.”
I eye her with surprise; I wasn’t expecting solidarity.
“But what about your roommate?” she asks. “Jamie, right? You said she’s an actress? Does she have a steady job? I mean, is she a regular on a show?”
“No, but what does that—oh. Right.” Jamie is supportive as hell, but she’s also my best friend and a talker. If I’m trying to code and she wants to dish about men or her wardrobe or whether or not to get a tattoo on her ass, then it’s going to be hard to focus on work. And the rent on this place really is low.
“I put together a plan for you,” Lisa says, pulling a leather folio out of her briefcase. It’s monogramed with my initials—NLF—and she moves to stand by my side as I flip it open, a little bit awed by everything she’s done for me.
Inside, I find a plan for networking that focuses on women in tech and entertainment. “There are at least two dozen organizations in town focusing on women in tech-related fields,” she explains. “You can’t ask for a better way to meet potential business partners or clients. As for the entertainment contacts, it’s a bit of a stretch, but you’re on the radar now, like it or not. Might as well use it.”
I’m not sure I want to trade on my rather unwelcome celebrity status, but I can’t help but agree with her assessment.
She flips a few pages in the portfolio and shows me a rough profit and loss statement that factors in the cost of the office space along with income projections based on her research into the app market. I’m happy to see that the few apps I already have on the market are beating the averages.
“That’s conservative,” she says. “But as you can see, I expect you to be very solidly in the black within six months, and any start-up capital that you pull from your savings will be fully recouped.”
I continue to flip pages, a little in awe. “Lisa, this is great. But it must have taken you forever to pull together, and I—”
I hesitate. I want to say that I’m not a client, but it sounds a little harsh.
Lisa must understand what I’m getting at because she laughs. “I’m happy to help a friend,” she says. “Even one I barely know because we got off to such a crazy start.”
I can’t help but grin. She’s right. Objectively, we hardly know each other. But she’s one of those people that seems to fit, and I’m grateful that she started chatting me up back when I worked for Bruce, and that she didn’t get scared away when he fired me and the paparazzi shit hit the fan.
“Not that I’m totally altruistic,” she adds, with a gleam in her eye. “I expect some awesome referrals.” Her phone rings, and she holds up a finger as she looks at the display. “I need to take this,” she says. “Take a look at the rest of that and give me a sec.”
I nod, then take the portfolio over to the single window at the side of the room. It’s large and lets in enough light that the room feels airy and pleasant. I glance down and realize that it overlooks Ventura Boulevard. I lean forward so that my head is almost touching the glass, but from this angle, I can’t see the Galleria. What I do see, however, is the black sedan parked on the street across from the building. It’s familiar, and it only takes me a second to remember where I saw it before—on the street in front of my condo just this morning.
Security guys.
I think about the protective bubble that I so desperately crave, but I know that it has already cracked. Or maybe it was only an illusion to begin with. Either way, Damien and I are living in the real world now. And, honestly, I can’t deny that after last night, I’m happy to have someone watching my back.
The shrill ring of my phone interrupts my melancholy thoughts. I grab it out of my purse, then freeze when I see the caller ID—Giselle Reynard. Oh, joy.
I consider letting it roll to voice mail. Giselle is not on my favorite people list. Not only did I recently discover that she and Damien dated years ago, but I also learned that she told her husband, Bruce—who happened to be my boss—that I was the girl in the erotic portrait that now dominates one wall of Damien’s Malibu house. Still, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. I know she and Bruce are in the throes of a contentious divorce. And I know she feels guilty for revealing my secret. As a gallery owner who deals with nude portraits all the time, it simply didn’t occur to her that the secret was important to me.
“I’d never forgive you if you did.”
The next morning I stand transfixed as Lisa spreads her arms wide to indicate the modest office space. “So?” she asks. She’s petite, but so poised that she seems to fill the room anyway. “What do you think?”
“I love it,” I say. The space comes furnished, and apparently the owner of Granite Investment Strategies has excellent taste. Not only is the desk large enough to spread out half-a-dozen projects, but it’s also sleek and modern with enough whimsy to be fun, but not so much that it lacks professionalism. The walls are bare, but that should be easy enough to fix.
The love seat is a bonus. The space is small enough that it would have made sense to only have the two molded plastic guest chairs. But the original tenant had managed to work the space well, and the small sofa that sits against the far wall seems to pull the room together instead of overwhelming the space.
“It’s available immediately,” Lisa says. “My client’s very eager.”
I run my fingertip over the desktop, tempted. I’ve been on the fence about leasing office space, but now that I’m actually standing in an office that could have my name on the door, I have to admit that it’s pretty heady stuff.
I slide my hand into my pocket and run my fingertip over the edge of one of the business cards that Damien presented to me this morning. Nikki L. Fairchild, CEO, Fairchild Development. I’d laughed when I opened the box, but there had been tears, too. Not just because I’m finally, really doing this, but because of the pride I saw in Damien’s eyes.
It occurs to me that he must have started much the same way; after all, he hardly sprang fully born from Zeus’s head with a tennis racquet in one hand and Stark Tower in the other. No, he started small and worked his way up to gazillionaire status. I smile, oddly comforted by the thought.
“It’s a great opportunity,” Lisa prompts.
“I know,” I say honestly. Because of the circumstances, the terms of the sublease are exceptional. Not only that, but the building has great security—as Damien discovered last night when he made a few calls after the police left. Tenants need a card key to enter the building and clients must be buzzed in by the receptionist who serves as the gatekeeper between the outside world and the building’s twelve tenants.
Even better, it’s walking distance to the Sherman Oaks Galleria. If I have a bad day at work, I can console myself by going shopping. And if I have a good day at work, I can celebrate by going shopping.
I sway a bit on my heels, trying to decide. No, that’s not true. I want this. But it’s scary—like jumping out of a plane without a parachute. Except that I have a parachute. His name is Damien, and I know that he will always catch me.
“I can just work from home,” I say lamely.
“No question,” Lisa says. “I have lots of clients who do that. Most start-ups begin in the home.”
I eye her with surprise; I wasn’t expecting solidarity.
“But what about your roommate?” she asks. “Jamie, right? You said she’s an actress? Does she have a steady job? I mean, is she a regular on a show?”
“No, but what does that—oh. Right.” Jamie is supportive as hell, but she’s also my best friend and a talker. If I’m trying to code and she wants to dish about men or her wardrobe or whether or not to get a tattoo on her ass, then it’s going to be hard to focus on work. And the rent on this place really is low.
“I put together a plan for you,” Lisa says, pulling a leather folio out of her briefcase. It’s monogramed with my initials—NLF—and she moves to stand by my side as I flip it open, a little bit awed by everything she’s done for me.
Inside, I find a plan for networking that focuses on women in tech and entertainment. “There are at least two dozen organizations in town focusing on women in tech-related fields,” she explains. “You can’t ask for a better way to meet potential business partners or clients. As for the entertainment contacts, it’s a bit of a stretch, but you’re on the radar now, like it or not. Might as well use it.”
I’m not sure I want to trade on my rather unwelcome celebrity status, but I can’t help but agree with her assessment.
She flips a few pages in the portfolio and shows me a rough profit and loss statement that factors in the cost of the office space along with income projections based on her research into the app market. I’m happy to see that the few apps I already have on the market are beating the averages.
“That’s conservative,” she says. “But as you can see, I expect you to be very solidly in the black within six months, and any start-up capital that you pull from your savings will be fully recouped.”
I continue to flip pages, a little in awe. “Lisa, this is great. But it must have taken you forever to pull together, and I—”
I hesitate. I want to say that I’m not a client, but it sounds a little harsh.
Lisa must understand what I’m getting at because she laughs. “I’m happy to help a friend,” she says. “Even one I barely know because we got off to such a crazy start.”
I can’t help but grin. She’s right. Objectively, we hardly know each other. But she’s one of those people that seems to fit, and I’m grateful that she started chatting me up back when I worked for Bruce, and that she didn’t get scared away when he fired me and the paparazzi shit hit the fan.
“Not that I’m totally altruistic,” she adds, with a gleam in her eye. “I expect some awesome referrals.” Her phone rings, and she holds up a finger as she looks at the display. “I need to take this,” she says. “Take a look at the rest of that and give me a sec.”
I nod, then take the portfolio over to the single window at the side of the room. It’s large and lets in enough light that the room feels airy and pleasant. I glance down and realize that it overlooks Ventura Boulevard. I lean forward so that my head is almost touching the glass, but from this angle, I can’t see the Galleria. What I do see, however, is the black sedan parked on the street across from the building. It’s familiar, and it only takes me a second to remember where I saw it before—on the street in front of my condo just this morning.
Security guys.
I think about the protective bubble that I so desperately crave, but I know that it has already cracked. Or maybe it was only an illusion to begin with. Either way, Damien and I are living in the real world now. And, honestly, I can’t deny that after last night, I’m happy to have someone watching my back.
The shrill ring of my phone interrupts my melancholy thoughts. I grab it out of my purse, then freeze when I see the caller ID—Giselle Reynard. Oh, joy.
I consider letting it roll to voice mail. Giselle is not on my favorite people list. Not only did I recently discover that she and Damien dated years ago, but I also learned that she told her husband, Bruce—who happened to be my boss—that I was the girl in the erotic portrait that now dominates one wall of Damien’s Malibu house. Still, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. I know she and Bruce are in the throes of a contentious divorce. And I know she feels guilty for revealing my secret. As a gallery owner who deals with nude portraits all the time, it simply didn’t occur to her that the secret was important to me.
