“Pizza’s ready,” I say.
We both jump up from the couch and make our way to the kitchen. Dean’s throwing on an oven mitt when my phone buzzes in my front pocket. I pull it out and unlock the screen, my smile widening as I read Lina’s text:
Lina: Hey, there. Meeting clients for a wedding rehearsal Friday evening. Another opportunity to get a feel for what I do. These folks are putting everything on social media. You could probably record it. Game? There won’t be any cake, I promise.
The idea that Lina’s somewhere in the universe thinking about me—even if it’s just for the few seconds it took her to fire off this text—improves my day a fraction. And there’s no earthly reason why that should be the case. Damn, I’m in trouble.
“Hang on,” I tell Dean. “Let me just shoot her a reply real quick.”
With one hand constrained by the oven mitt, Dean uses his other to snatch the phone away from me. He glances at Lina’s text and rolls his eyes. “Don’t respond. It’s after-hours. Wait until tomorrow.”
I tackle him, attempting to get my phone back, but he holds it above his head and out of reach. “Pull yourself together, Max. Desperation does not become you.”
I plop onto a stool at the kitchen island. “I’m not desperate. Just being professional.”
“It’s not unprofessional to wait until business hours to respond to a colleague. Try again.” He places my phone in his back pocket. “And just in case this pizza and my stimulating company aren’t enough to distract you, I’ll keep your cell until you leave. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Still, I’m itching to reclaim my phone and reply to Lina’s text. Which is precisely why I won’t. Not until tomorrow morning, at least. Whatever “this” is, it ends now.
Chapter Twelve
Lina
I cover the phone receiver and clear my throat to get Jaslene’s attention. “I think I may have found a promising lead.”
She mouths yay and pretends to high-five me.
We’re both on the phone, investigating potential office space, before the city’s business districts shut down for the weekend. The realtor I’m speaking with now, who’s put me on hold to grab the details of the listing, says their client’s just reduced the price per square footage, and I’m anxiously awaiting more information about the amenities. If I had a choice, I’d move my and Jaslene’s belongings to the Cartwright today, but there’s no guarantee I’ll get the job, so I need to investigate alternatives.
The agent returns to the phone and mutters to himself as papers crinkle in the background. Why isn’t the info in a computer database, for God’s sake?
“Let’s see, let’s see,” he says. “Ah, here it is. This is class B space just off New York Avenue. Very close to the convention center. Two hundred and fifty-three square feet. Possibility of changing the floor plan to accommodate two lessees. Includes a restroom adjacent to the space. Working sink. You’ve seen the pictures?”
“Yes,” I say. The possibility of sharing the space, and thus the rent, is key. But he hasn’t told me the price per square footage yet, so I’m trying to temper my excitement. “And the PPSF?”
“Forty-two dollars for a one-year lease. Thirty-eight dollars if you agree to a three-year lease.”
My shoulders drop and I squeeze my eyes shut. No way can I afford that and my own rent. I suppose I could move in with my mother and aunts, but that still won’t be enough to pay the lease and have any disposable income. Securing more clients would be another route, but I’m already busy as it is, and since many weddings are scheduled on weekends, that’s only fifty-two weekends a year to work with anyway.
“Oh, there are a few things you should know,” the agent advises. “The sprinkler system and one of the office doors are noncompliant. You’ll need to make those changes as part of the lease agreement. Would you like to tour the space?”
Well, this one’s another dud. I’m not signing up for a lease I can’t afford and agreeing to make renovations on my own dime. “Thanks for the info. I’m going to make some more inquiries before scheduling any tour appointments.”
After I hang up, I look at Jaslene, who’s massaging her temples.
“That bad?” I ask her.
She nods. “Class A. Fifty-seven dollars per square foot.”
I wince at the thought of spending that much money on an office for my business. The situation’s looking direr with each passing day. If I can’t convince Rebecca that I’m the superior person to act as wedding coordinator for her hotels, I’m screwed.
“We’re not going to resolve this tonight, though,” Jaslene observes. “And you’re due across town in thirty minutes.”
I jump up from my chair. “Shit. Time flies when you’re getting your ass handed to you by DC’s commercial real estate market.”
“The Lyft should be arriving in five minutes. The Josephine Butler Parks Center, right?”
I nod and grab my purse. “What would I do without you, Jaslene?”
She blows me a kiss. “Shrivel up and die, probably.”
Twenty minutes later, I arrive at the center, a historic house in Columbia Heights with breathtaking grounds, elegant staircases perfect for wedding photos, and indoor accommodations in case the weather doesn’t cooperate. The couple, Brent Sales and Terrence Ramsey, met in medical school. They’re low maintenance, easy to please, and focused on two goals: making their special day festive and serving scrumptious food. Clients like Brent and Terrence make my job a breeze. It doesn’t hurt that they’re also the nicest couple I’ve ever worked with. Oh, and they’re striking, both tall and broad-shouldered and too cute for words.
The wedding party is small, consisting of three of their closest friends and Brent’s younger sister. The couple, their officiant, and all but one of their attendants are standing in the garden when I arrive.
“Fingers crossed we have weather like this on the actual day,” I say by way of greeting.
Brent and Terrence cross their fingers; the officiant, a friend who applied for a license to perform weddings solely for this occasion, raises her hands in prayer. After we all exchange hellos, the couple and I stroll to the top of the cascading walkway, where the procession will begin.
“Fair warning,” Terrence says, waving his pager in the air. “I’m the on-call hospital doc for my practice this weekend, so I might be pulled away through no fault of my own.”
“Oh, it’s your fault, all right,” Brent says with a smile. “You’re just so skilled at what you do, people need your advice at all times.”
“That’s no problem,” I tell them. “We’ll work around your schedule if need be. The photographer and videographer should be here soon to get the lay of the land. They’ll want to see where you’ll be standing during the ceremony so they can plan their shots and figure out the best location to set up shop. In the meantime, let’s gather everyone and work on the procession. The band will be here for the actual ceremony obviously, but I’ve got your song cued up on my phone.”