Page 4 of The Focal Point

“And this is not perfection,” I growled, stalking back across the room to my tablet on the top of the desk.

The original measurements had to be in here somewhere—I kept every single piece of information about a client’s design, down to my notes on the elements of the tertiary wall colors. But this simple element escaped me.

And I had to find it—I had to prove the textile company was wrong. I didn’t make mistakes like ordering the wrong size curtain, and I expected them to fix their error. This client was too important.

This was my first big client. Big client.

When I landed the work on Mr. Kinnear’s house, I’d had difficulty believing it was real at first. Yes, I had made it into the Sacramento Daily, the local magazine highlighting our city's best, newest, and most interesting. It had taken a lot of work, not to mention schmoozing and connecting and networking, to get myself a two-paragraph mention and an entire article. I had the two-page spread framed in my office—me posing in a designer dress with my arms crossed and an expression that dared the reader to find a better designer in a living room I had designed for a local radio personality.

The article even called me a “rising star of the design world.”

It was all a bluff, of course. The dress had been one of the magazine’s loaners, someone else had done my hair and makeup in a way I would never even attempt, and I barely had a quarter of the self-assurance the woman on the page radiated. More than that, no one had ever called me a “rising star.”

But there it was, the crowning achievement of my career so far. But I still hadn’t expected the offers to come rolling in—and they hadn’t.

Until I got the call from Mr. Kinnear’s assistant. Did I know Vitality Venture? Of course, I did—who didn’t in our town? They were one of our startups trying to disrupt Silicon Valley's hold on tech in the region.

I’d almost told the young woman to shut up, that she had to be kidding like the teenager I had been a decade ago. Thankfully, I wasn’t a teenager anymore, so I had cleared my throat, put on my most professional voice, and told her I would see him on Thursday the 25th.

Then I had turned and squealed like a kid on Christmas, jumping and laughing around my office with my assistant until we had both collapsed, giggling, into the couch.

“That will show that asshole.” Kristen, my assistant, had nudged me with her shoulder.

“One big client isn’t showing anyone up,” I had cautioned, unwilling to give in to overconfidence. “I have to continue to get big clients before that happens.”

“Oh, whatever.” Kristen had sat up, giving me a mock glare. “You’ve done it, Bailey. This is it. All your hard work has paid off, and your career is only going up. Why can’t you just accept it?”

Kristin was young and fresh-faced, newly graduated from college, and her take on life was refreshing. Except when she turned it on me.

“I will when I actually get where I’m going.”

My reply had engendered an exaggerated eye roll as Kristen pushed herself up off the couch.

“You’re never going to be satisfied as long as that guy is still in your head,” she said with a huff, flouncing off to her desk.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t satisfied. I just didn’t want to count my chickens before they hatched. Plenty could go wrong before then—Mr. Kinnear could decide he didn’t like my design ideas after the initial consult, and that would be that. Or I could royally screw something up. Or another interior designer could swoop in and take the job, promising more, possibly for less. Maybe Mr. Kinnear wouldn’t like me. I had no idea what he was like—old, crotchety, didn’t like young women?

I’d worried about it for days until casually mentioning to Kristen that maybe a client this high-profile wasn’t such a good idea. She had rolled her eyes again, put both hands on my shoulders, and looked me in the eye, which always meant she would give me some hard love.

“Look, Bailey, you’re good. You’re better than good—you’re great. You’re amazing at what you do, and you deserve this job. What could it hurt?”

It could hurt—a lot.

Kristen must have seen a change in my expression because her sigh was long-suffering.

“Right now, you are overthinking and letting the asshole-who-will-not-be-named get inside your head. You need to take this. You can do this. If I have to, I will tie you up and drag you over there, but you are not backing out of this job.”

“Who’s the boss here—you or me?” I asked, feeling my mouth turn up into a half-smile.

Kristen had snorted, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and returned to her desk—her favorite way to end a conversation she thought was ridiculous.

So I took the job, quaking on the inside, ready to throw up at a moment’s notice.

Despite my fears, however, the job had gone well. Really well. Mr. Kinnear—Thomas, as he had insisted I call him—had turned out to be young, friendly, and often distracted, his mind entirely elsewhere during our meetings. He had loved my designs and, better yet, had stayed out of my way, allowing me the freedom to do some of my best work to date.

And now, here I was, nearing the end of the weeks-long project, staring at imperfect curtains.

“What’s up?”