Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Everyone raises their hands.
“Do it, do it,” Levi chants.
“Best boss ever,” Zuri goads.
“I can’t wait till tomorrow,” Hazel sings.
“I vote for brioche,” Nisha says.
I hold up a stop-sign hand. “This is not a daily thing. Do not expect it,” I say, since the last thing I want is to be known as the treat boss. A daily habit like that breeds complacency rather than gratitude.
I swing my gaze back to Chloe and mouth “troublemaker” then return to my office for the rest of the day.
That night, I’ve got just enough time before I see Banks to hustle over to Duck Falls for a meeting that’s been on my agenda for a while. The meeting goes well, and the bar owner at Pour Decisions extends a hand when we’re done.
“Looking forward to this,” says the grizzled guy with sleeves of tattoos.
“Same here,” I add, glad to have struck that deal at last.
I head out, hop into my car, and drive to meet Banks back over in Darling Springs at Mister Fox.
We rack the balls at the pool table. “All right. Tell me what I need to know about winning a deal with a Hollywood producer.”
Banks gives me a wry nod as he rubs chalk on the cue. “Discretion. That’s the key to everything.”
I listen as he tells me more.
The next day, I’m ready. I want this to work—because it’s good business. And because Chloe deserves the win too.
16
CONFIDENCE, BABY
CHLOE
“You’ve done it before! Of course you can do it!”
But I don’t know that I have the time to do it well. That’s the issue. I’m trying to convince my mother that I’m not the right accompanist for her cabaret fundraiser, even though, yes, of course I’ve done it before. My brother did warn me about her request, but I’m still not entirely prepared for the scope of it. Just yesterday I met with her about the piano music, but she didn’t mention she wanted me to play along for every number.
“But you know the music, Mom,” I point out, in case she’s forgotten she knows how to play too. She did teach me after all. I grew up on an eclectic diet of my mother’s music—from show tunes to her classic rock loves like the Beatles and her alternative loves like Pearl Jam and Nirvana. I reach for my bag, which is hooked on the front-row seat of the community theater. I really should get to work.
“Of course I do. And I’m not just saying this because you’re my daughter, but the student became the teacher. You’re simply better than your former piano teacher.”
Mom crosses her legs like she’s given the last word.
“Thank you. I’m flattered.”
“It’s not flattery. It’s truth. Besides, you’ve done it before,” she says again, seeming undeterred. “And you know plenty of the songs too. Noah is singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ for his final number. Plus, I want to close it with a fun little Fred Astaire–Ginger Rogers jazzy dance interlude before he sings the final verse. He’ll offer you a hand at the piano bench, and you’ll stop playing and the pre-recorded instrumental break will kick in, so he can do a little dance number and dip you back onto the bench.”
“So you want me to dance too?”
Mom sets a soft hand on my arm, squeezing playfully. She’s touchy, like most theater people. “You say that as if you didn’t take ballroom dancing for years. Dancing is easy for you, darling. So is playing. And you know ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ by heart.”
She’s making a good case, and I really hate to say no. But I’m worried about taking too much on. What if I can’t focus on my clients? What if I don’t have time for the potential Webflix gig, if I get it? Worry twists through me. “I know, but I’m trying to grow my business, and now I have this space, and I have to make rent on it each month. I’m always out there hustling for clients. I have this meeting later today with Webflix. At five-thirty,” I say, glancing toward the door of the theater. Her rehearsal for another show starts soon. “This could be a huge opportunity.”
“Of course it is. But so is this,” she says, sweeping a hand across the auditorium. Her boyfriend Angelo is here too, but he’s off washing grapes for her. “Which is why I convinced Saffron to introduce the cabaret night.”
I blink. “What?” I almost want to ask if she stole my client, but it’s not like that with my mom. “How?”
“Darling, I’m very convincing. Now, can you do it? Just imagine how fun it’ll be—you’ll even get to play ‘It’s Raining Men’ when Angelo’s cousins perform that song. And it might be a little spicy.”
Right on cue, her boyfriend—twenty years younger, go Mom—walks down the red-carpeted aisle, all muscles, long curly locks, and glowy brown skin, wielding a silver tray of glistening grapes. He parks himself beside her and offers her the tray with a flourish. “Here you go, my Karenina,” he says, using the affectionate nickname he’s given my mom. When he bestowed it on her, he said, “You’re not a Karen. You’re a Karenina.”