“Hello,” she returned. She wanted to walk toward him, but she didn’t trust herself in heels, and she worried that she might fall. He crossed the room and stopped in front of her, giving the two of them a large amount of personal space. He held out his hand in greeting, the starched cuff of his button-up shirt peeking out from underneath his sweater. She shook his hand.
“It’s nice to finally put a face with the voice,” he said. “Shall we head into my office?” He moved aside so that she could step up next to him. “We can discuss the details of your employment more easily there.” He smiled. It was a pleasant smile, but it didn’t seem to sit comfortably on his face.
They walked along the corridor, a lofty area so wide and open that it couldn’t possibly be called just a hallway. It, too, was quite empty—no pictures, no accent tables, nothing. Abbey was shocked at the lack of decorations. The house was so cold and unfriendly that it made her wonder about Mr. Sinclair. Was he as cold as this house? They finally stopped outside what looked like Nick’s office.
“You can just call me Abbey,” she said, gripping her portfolio case to keep her hands steady.
He smiled down at her.
“Did you just move in?” she asked out of curiosity. There was nothing in this home to suggest that it was regularly lived in. There were no photos, no memorabilia anywhere—nothing to tell her about who he was.
“No,” he said, sitting down behind a shiny desk with a mahogany finish. His chair rolled on the slick marble floor beneath it. Then, he made eye contact. “My grandmother tells me that you are a very good decorator,” he said, offering that manufactured smile again. This time, Abbey could almost tell that he’d practiced it. Was he used to having to smile when he really didn’t want to? She wondered what he looked like when he laughed—really laughed. What would his mouth do then? Would he keep still or throw his head back? Would she be able to see amusement in his eyes?
She sat down in one of the leather chairs facing his desk and crossed her legs at the ankle. With a tiny breath to steady herself, she put her portfolio case on her lap and unzipped it. She’d taken a few photos of her best decorating and had them blown up to a larger size for her presentation. “I’ve never had a project this size,” she warned. What she really wanted to tell him was that the only decorating experience she’d had was when she’d decorated his grandmother’s cottage because Caroline didn’t have the ability to paint and decorate herself. Abbey had worked hard to make her presentation professional, and there was a lot riding on this. She had Max to think about.
Abbey’s son, Max, was in first grade. He needed lunch money, school supplies; he was on neighborhood sports teams. There were things she had to pay for if she wanted Max to have a regular childhood. Her poor judgment with his father had been her fault, not Max’s. And the fact that her grandfather needed medicine that she had to help her mother pay for—that wasn’t Max’s fault either. Her son deserved nothing but the best, and she was going to give that to him, even if it meant that she went without. And she had before. Abbey had gone nights with no dinner, skipped parties with her friends, and lived on meager funds so that Max would never know that he was any different than anyone else. Secretly, she worried about him. Would he wonder why he didn’t get beach vacations with his family? Would he wish that he could have big birthday parties with all his friends? She fretted about it all the time. And this was her chance to do something great for his future.
“I’m not concerned about any lack of experience. You come highly recommended by my grandmother, and she’s hard to please, so I trust you’ll do just fine.”
She pulled back the flap on her portfolio and retrieved the first photo from it, turning it around for him to view. “I have experience decorating in a small variety of styles…” she said nervously. She’d practiced her presentation last night a hundred times but it was quite different with Nick’s eyes on her. “As you know, this is a picture from your grandmother’s cottage. I thought I’d start with hers first, since you could envision the before and after…”
He cleared his throat. “You don’t need to sell me,” he said. “I’m already hiring you.” He offered a pleasant expression, but it was clear from his face that her presentation was over.
She slid the photo back into the case and closed it.
“Are you planning to charge a flat rate per square foot, or would you prefer a salary with a decorating budget?” he asked.