From the corner of my eye, I see Jolie glance my way. I push my personal feelings aside and try to focus, looking at the board objectively. She invited me over for my opinion. And even if Jolie isn’t my client, she’s still the client. She deserves a home that reflects her own style.
The inspiration board contains fabric swatches, paint chips, photographs of potential furniture and artwork. It’s elegant and put together. Too elegant and put together. There’s an energy to Jolie, a vibrant happiness I can feel in the home she shares with her family. It shines through, even though it’s obvious she’s exhausted.
“It’s beautiful,” I finally admit, ignoring a pang of disloyalty for criticizing my mentor, “but it feels a little safe. There’s nothing here that exemplifies the boldness and creativity I see in your jewelry line.”
“Safe,” she repeats, running her free hand through her hair and sighing again as she frowns at the array of fabric swatches and photographs. “That’s exactly it. I wish could spend a day walking through showrooms with her, give her a feel for what I’m looking for, but we’re launching a new collection soon and I just don’t have the time.”
“This new collection—did you design it?”
Jolie’s beams. “I did. It’s based on a chain of islands I used to visit frequently back in my modeling days. The water was the most perfect shade of aquamarine. Not blue, not green, but a stunning blend of the two. And the sunsets—you would think a crayon box had melted in the sky. Orange and raspberry and gold.” Her voice softens to a husky whisper, her eyes turning wistful.
“Have you considered showing Anne your collection? Because I don’t see a single color you just mentioned on that board.”
“That’s a great idea. I hadn’t thought of it.”
“Anytime.” I tickle the bottom of Joey’s bare feet and he kicks his little legs, releasing a high-pitched cackle.
I should be working with Jolie on this project. And I would be, if I hadn’t let my emotions get in the way.
I lost out on a great opportunity because I made decisions with my broken heart rather than my brain.
And for that, I have no one to blame but myself.
“I should probably get out of your hair, let you get back to work.” Just because Tripp and Lance are friends doesn’t mean that Jolie has to go out of her way to build a rapport with me. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.
“I’m actually waiting on proofs from a photographer, so I’m in a bit of a lull. But I do need to feed this guy. I can put on some coffee . . . unless you need to rush back to Lance.”
Nervous laughter builds inside my throat, escaping as I follow Jolie into her kitchen. “Ah, no. No need to rush. He probably hasn’t even noticed I’m gone.”
Despite sharing the same house, I’ve become an expert at avoiding Lance. It’s not even hard—during the week, he’s mostly glued to his laptop or pacing his office while talking on his phone. I borrow his car to scope out art galleries and estate sales, often taking photographs to document my progress on the house and adding them to my online portfolio and Instagram account.
Once Joey is settled into his high chair, Jolie glances at me from below lifted brows. “I find that hard to believe. The other night, he could barely take his eyes off of you.” She snaps a bib around her son’s neck and takes a jar of baby food from the refrigerator.
I shift uncomfortably, picking up a ceramic bowl from the counter and inspecting it as I swallow the truth that sits in a gnarled knot at the back of my tongue. That Lance is only putting on a show. Pretending to care for me. Finally, I manage only a deprecating, “I doubt that.”
Jolie spoons a bright green bite into Joey’s mouth, which he promptly spits out. For a moment, she merely closes her eyes and releases a heavy exhale. “Anyway, I know it’s none of my business. But believe me, that man is seriously smitten.”
She’s wrong. Lance isn’t smitten. He just hasn’t gotten laid in three weeks.
Jolie tries another spoonful. Joey spits it out again. This time accompanied by a shriek.
“Sometimes, Romy can get him to eat his greens, but I swear, he knows I’m a pushover. And lately, she’s been over at her friend’s house all the time. I’m starting to think we need to get a puppy just to compete with her friend’s bearded dragon.”
“What exactly is a bearded dragon?”
“A big lizard, I think.” She puts the jar and spoon on the countertop. “A puppy has to be better than a lizard, right?”
There’s a vulnerability to Jolie’s question that gnaws at me. I only know the tabloid version of Jolie and Romy’s relationship, but the tangled web of love and insecurity their past has woven is obvious. “Want me to try feeding Joey?” I offer, sidestepping the puppy vs. lizard question.
“Please.” She slides his food toward me with a sigh and walks to the other side of the kitchen, gesturing at a complicated looking appliance set into the wall. “I need some caffeine. Cappuccino, espresso, coffee—what can I get for you?”
“Um,” I pick up the spoon, approaching Joey cautiously, “whatever you’re having will be great.”
“Triple espresso Americano with almond milk and a sprinkle of mocha.” She says it with the confidence of a barista.
I laugh. “Late night?”
“More like early morning.” She puts a finger to her lips. “No. Late night, too. I keep telling myself that sleep is overrated, but my body is having none of it.”
“Well, that sounds like the perfect caffeine boost. I’d love one.” Turning my attention to Joey, I make a flying airplane noise, waving the spoon in the air and gliding it into his mouth.
He stares at me in surprise, like he knows I’m not supposed to be feeding him. But the pureed baby food stays behind his pursed lips. I grin triumphantly. “I did—”
Without swallowing his food, Joey attempts to replicate the sound I made, spattering me in green.
Jolie gasps in horror. “Oh no! I’m so sorry!”
Just then Tripp comes into the room, a worried frown on his face as he addresses his wife. “Is everything okay?”
She gestures at me and presses a button on the machine. “Vivienne has officially been christened by your son.”
There’s a hissing noise, and then coffee starts streaming from a valve. Except that there’s no mug beneath it.
Tripp looks back and forth between us, assessing the situation. “Okay, that’s it. You’re both fired. Out. I’m officially taking over.”
“I told you we aren’t cute,” Jolie mumbles as Tripp throws a dishtowel over the puddle of coffee on the tile floor.
I shake my head. Forget cute, these two are #couplegoals. “I think you need to get some sleep. I’m going to head back to the house and change.”
“I’m so sorry about your shirt.” Jolie’s expression is a mix of embarrassment and pure exhaustion.
“Please, this is nothing,” I lie. I’m wearing one of the four-hundred-dollar T-shirts Lance bought for me, but it’s still just a T-shirt.
Tripp walks to his wife and presses a kiss to her forehead. “You have coffee all over your jeans, and I’m quite sure the world will keep turning.”