Mr. Garcia gives me a tight smile that shows zero teeth. “Yes,” he says. “The Amherst family put this in about four years ago so Miss Amherst would have a place for her photography studio. And even though they still own the building, we all own our individual offices, which is why we’re called the co-op.”
“Right,” I say, forcing myself to smile—not tightly and with teeth. “That’s an amazing concept.”
But what I want to say is, I’m a fucking developer, dude. I know what a co-op is.
“Everyone else is already here, Mr. North. So if you’d like to follow me into the board room, we can get this meeting underway.”
I follow him in and find eight people sitting around a large mahogany table. Garcia pans his hand at the empty chair at the bottom of the table and then walks the length of the room to stand in front of his seat at the top.
“Everyone,” he says. “This is Mr. North. The drummer.”
And the way he says ‘drummer’ indicates one of two things. One. He doesn’t believe I’m a drummer. I’m just some rich asshole from uptown trying to take over his hood. Or two. I am a drummer and drummers are not welcome here.
Which… I can see his point. Because drums are loud and obnoxious. Not calming and beautiful like the violin. They belong in garages, and bars, and the backs of vans. Not in this apparently highly sophisticated artists’ community.
But I’m prepared for that. I’ve already come up with a solution.
He goes around the table introducing people. Mrs. Chi, Mr. Stratkowski, Miss Lynst, etc. etc. etc. until he ends up at Miss Amherst.
Amherst. As in the people who own the building. As in the spoiled little photographer who needed a trendy place to create.
Normally I’d internally roll my eyes at that, but Miss Amherst is very sexy.
She’s wearing a tight, white button-down shirt that gives the impression it’s made for a man, but has darts and tucks in all the right places so her ample breasts are stretching the buttons just enough. Not enough so I can get a peek at her bra, but just enough to hint that one tug and all those buttons will come flying off to reveal something truly spectacular.
Her hair is dark red. Not ginger. Not auburn. But burgundy. She’s got it up in a tight bun that makes me think she’d look good in that ballerina’s leotard and tutu just down the hall.
And she’s young. In college, probably.
Which is kinda my thing. Ever since I left my twenties behind—far behind now—I’ve been drawn to the young ones. Not something I’m particularly proud of, just something I’ve come to accept about myself.
I nod hello and force myself not to stare at Miss Amherst. Pointedly turning my attention back to Garcia as he begins to talk and ask me questions about why I’d like to buy into the Creative Co-Op.
I answer dutifully. I’ve prepared a statement and I’m a natural speaker so I don’t need notes or anything. Just ramble on about how I lost my creativity during freshman year of college and became interested in business and blah, blah, blah, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
All the while I’m secretly gawking at Miss Amherst out of the corner of my eye, wondering what color her bra is.
CHAPTER THREE – ARIA
“OK,” Mr. Garcia says. “Thank you for that, Mr. North.”
I like Mr. Garcia so far. He’s a painter and he’s always drinking beer in his little studio. Even during the day. April talks about him all the time like they are best friends. Actually, everyone here has been really cool about me taking over April’s studio for a month to work on my Photoshop skills. They are encouraging and upbeat. Always telling me that I should stay away from my father’s banking business and do something fun with my life. Like April is.
It’s just… I’m not that girl.
I’m just not into fun.
No, that’s not true. And it’s kinda stupid. Everyone is into fun. It’s just that all my acquaintances are like me. Quiet, studious, and Saturday nights are mostly about chatting online or gramming ourselves to make people think we’re having fun.
I’m not daring, like April. I’m not outgoing or bold.
I’m actually pretty shy. And the way Mr. North is looking at me has my neck all sweaty and my skin all prickly.
The white shirt was a mistake. I knew it was too tight. I’m a size bigger than April in the bra department so my buttons are stretched.
He noticed that. I saw him looking at them.
And even though he was making eye contact with everyone but me, he was looking at me all covertly.
Jesus, Aria. You’re imagining things. What the hell would a successful businessman like North see in a stupid high-school girl like you?
Get a grip.