I grabbed a coffee from the coffee station in the middle of the open office, saying hi to the other employees of Tower VC. My brother’s office door was open, so I walked in. He was sitting behind his desk. Tall, handsome, dark-haired, clean-shaven, Aidan was wearing his signature all-black suit, black shirt, black tie. It made him look severe and a little scary, but he smiled when he saw me.
“You made it,” he said. “Only fifteen minutes late.”
“In my book, that’s early.” I sat down on the chair opposite him, biting back a groan. I loved high heels, but the older I got, the less my feet liked them. At least it was air conditioned in here, unlike in my apartment in Brooklyn. “Okay, here I am,” I said to Aidan as I took a sip of his excellent coffee. “I almost saw a dick on the way here, so I hope this is important.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do I want to know?”
I took another sip. “You never ride the subway, so you wouldn’t understand.”
He frowned, trying to look stern, but he was happy to see me. “I grew up in the same shit neighborhood you did, remember?”
He had. Our childhood in Chicago was hardly my favorite topic. “Okay, fine,” I said. “You’re still street.”
“I’m going to guess that people who are actually street don’t say that.” He grinned and leaned back in his chair. “How are you, Ava? I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
I’m tired. I’m hung over. I’m broke. My feet hurt. My last boyfriend dumped me and it still hurts. “You know me,” I said. “I’m
fine.”
He looked at me for a long minute, his gaze steady. Aidan could usually see through me, but today I didn’t want him to. I cocked my head and blinked my mascaraed eyes at him. “Did I grow a third eye, big brother?”
“You look lovely,” he said, his voice gentle and sincere. And for a second my throat closed, my eyes burning. Because no one ever told me that. Not ever. And it was so nice to hear.
But I swallowed, unwilling to burst into tears in my brother’s office. “Samantha is having a good effect on you,” I said. “You’re nice. Almost.”
He smiled. “She’s definitely having a good effect on me. She’s out at an appointment right now, but you’ll see her when she gets back.”
I sipped my coffee, regaining my composure. I liked Samantha. She was a successful career woman, like me. The only difference—a vast difference—was our bank accounts. Fake it ‘til you make it was the mantra in fashion. Your bank account didn’t matter—it was how you looked that counted.
Which was why I was surprised when my brother said, “Do you want a job?”
I looked around. “Here? I’m not exactly the office type, Aidan.”
“Not here at Tower VC.” He scratched his chin. “Though you would be working for the company in a way. Performing a valuable service.”
I laughed, because something about this was hurting me and I didn’t want to let on. “Do you want me to be the janitor? No thanks. I already have a job.”
“How much styling work have you been getting?”
“Enough.” Not nearly enough. Not even close. A stylist was hired to be on a photography set, choosing and styling the clothes on the models, making sure they fit right and sat right for the shot, making sure there were no wrinkles or crooked seams or imperfections. The model and the photographer were the famous ones, but the stylist was the one who made everything sing. The stylist was the one who made sure no one looked bad.
It was good, lucrative work, but it was freelance, and the jobs had dried up, even in Brooklyn, where a lot of the shoots took place. I wasn’t getting as many calls. Summer was a dead time of year for work. The industry was being pinched, and I was thirty. Thirty was a million years old in the fashion world.
That was bad enough, but what was I going to do at forty? Fifty? I tried not to think about it, about my lack of savings. How much had those margaritas cost last night, anyway, and why didn’t I keep track?
“The whole industry is lean,” Aidan said, annoyingly right. “I hear there’s a glut of students coming out of design school, and designers are paying less than ever.”
My throat was tight, trying not to think about the younger, hotter stylists with bigger Instagram accounts and better connections than me. “I do just fine, Aidan.”
“This isn’t about your pride, Ava. I’m not trying to give you money. We’ve been through it enough times and I know better than that.”
Why were the tears burning again? Why was I so fucking tired? “No, you’re not giving me money. You’re handing me a job.”
“Not handing. I’m offering you a job.”
What the hell could I do for a venture capital company? “You’re offering me a job I guarantee I’m not qualified for.”
“That’s just it.” He pushed back his chair and stood, walking around his desk toward me. “You are qualified. You’re uniquely qualified. In fact, I believe you’re the only person on earth who can do this job and get it done. This isn’t pity, Ava. I need you.”