Home > Franco (Bright Side #3)(17)

Franco (Bright Side #3)(17)
Author: Kim Holden

I bow deeply. "Consider me your servant for the day."

Eyes twinkling, she flirts. "Oh, I quite like that. Are you good with commands, squire?"

"I'd love nothing more than to accommodate all of your needs tonight." I would.

"All the needs?" she asks.

I nod.

"Wow. You're going to be busy, naughty American boy."

While I'm waiting on Gemma, two women walk through the entry a few feet from me. One is incredibly tall and the other incredibly short. The tall one is holding a cell phone in one hand and immediately picks up a glass of champagne in the other, her heels clicking against the polished stone floor. The short one looks like she's trying to stay out of Tall's spotlight, her sensible footwear moving her along silently like a shadow.

A woman jogs out to greet them, the rush is exaggerated to make the guests feel overly welcome and significant. The self-important look on Tall's face tells me she expects this treatment. They shake hands and the jogger looks like she's addressing royalty. "So nice to meet you, Miss Rolff." Tall looks disinterested and tired and says nothing in response. Bitch.

Short is trailing behind them at a distance like she's trying to blend into the background and not be seen, when her purse slips from her shoulder and spills some of its contents on the floor. I'm already heading her way to help her because she looks humiliated, and before she can drop to her knees to pick it up, I'm there.

"I've got it," I say while picking up her wallet, a package of tissue, keys, a tampon, and a Milky Way candy bar.

Her cheeks explode into a riot of red when she looks up at me. "Thank you. Very much. Thank you. Thank you." She's stumbling nervously over her words, avoiding eye contact.

I don't want to make her more uncomfortable, so I don't push it. Tall is now perched—yes, she's not sitting, she's perched—on a stool talking to the jogger twenty feet away, the glass of champagne in her hand already emptied. It's a showy display to attract attention. I have none to give and turn to look again at Short. "Want one?" I offer her one of the glasses of champagne in my hand and smile so she knows I'm not messing with her. I also smile so I don't look threatening because Gus always tells me I look like I'm about to annihilate someone when I'm not smiling.

She nods, accepts the drink, and whispers, "Thanks. Thanks a lot." My guess is she's a nervous repeater.

Gemma's smiling approvingly at me when I return to her. "Your mum raised a nice lad, you know that?"

"I'll tell her you said so. The poor girl dropped all her shit. I felt bad for her."

Before I can go on, someone is standing next to Gemma with their hand on her shoulder. "Gemma, the museum is phenomenal."

"Thanks, Jeremy. You remember my friend Franco?" It's a cheery introduction.

Jeremy. Her roommate. He looks different sober, not hunched over vomit on the floor, or face-down prone on the couch. He's bashful. "Afraid I made a horrible impression. I'm sorry, Franco. It's nice to officially meet you though."

I shake his hand. "No worries, I'm sorry to hear about your mom."

He nods solemnly. "Thank you."

Gemma segues the sad conversation into happy territory. "Jeremy is a photographer and is shooting the museum opening for a magazine article and for my firm to add to our portfolio."

"A photographer. Awesome. Do you do any portrait photography?"

"I started in this industry working for a fashion magazine. I've since transitioned to architecture and landscape because the subject is a little less high maintenance and easier to work with."

His candid answer draws a knowing huff of laughter from me. "Understood." But I have to ask, "Would you be interested in doing it again? I'm in a band and we need a photographer from time to time for promo."

He nods. "Sure. Yeah, it would be fun to dabble in it again with the right people."

"Do you have a card?" Good photographers are hard to find and if Gem thinks highly of him that's good enough for me.

He pulls one from his wallet and hands it to me with an offer of genuine thanks. I like this dude.

"Thanks, man. I'll pass this on to our management."

With a tip of his head, he says, "Thanks, I appreciate it." And then adds, "It was nice to meet you, Franco. I'd better get back to work. Great job, Gemma. It's a pleasure to shoot—a true work of art."

Her smile is gracious as she accepts the compliment. "Thank you."

Over the next hour we walk all three floors. Gemma is stopped frequently and offered words of praise and compliments. She's in high demand, everyone knows this project is her baby and wants to talk to her. You can tell the difference between the people who worked hands on with her every day versus the money people who are meeting her for the first time. The investors are impressed with her work, but expect to be commended in return for their contribution and overabundance of cash in the bank. I'm not down with that. Gemma isn't either. She's polite but we quickly move on from them in favor of the stone masons, or drywallers, or HVAC dudes, who are more down to earth.

On our way back down to the first floor I stop in the restroom. On my way out, someone has his lips on my little Brit's cheek. Lips that linger a beat too long for my liking and leave her looking beyond uncomfortable. He's drunk.

"Hello, sunshine," I hear him slur as I approach. Judging by what I've seen already, I'd wager he's an investor, but he's talking to her like he's familiar with her.

   
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