“Done,” I say.
“And your phone,” he says.
I frown. “What about my phone?”
“I want to be able to track you with it. There are apps that will allow me to do that. I’m going to install one.”
“Just like that? No ‘Mother May I’?”
“No,” he says and holds his hand out for my phone.
I hand it over.
He downloads the app, fiddles with the settings, then gives it back to me.
The he takes his own phone out of his back pocket and repeats the process. A moment later, my phone buzzes. I glance at it, open the new app, and see a red dot indicating that Damien is right there in my apartment. “So you’ll never lose me, either,” he says.
“Oh.” I hold tight to my phone, still warm from his hand, and suddenly I’m speechless. Maybe it’s the stress of the evening, maybe it’s hormonal, but for some reason, adding that tracker to my phone is about the most romantic thing I can think of. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“I’m never letting you go, Nikki,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me close.
“I’d never forgive you if you did.”
The next morning I stand transfixed as Lisa spreads her arms wide to indicate the modest office space. “So?” she asks. She’s petite, but so poised that she seems to fill the room anyway. “What do you think?”
“I love it,” I say. The space comes furnished, and apparently the owner of Granite Investment Strategies has excellent taste. Not only is the desk large enough to spread out half-a-dozen projects, but it’s also sleek and modern with enough whimsy to be fun, but not so much that it lacks professionalism. The walls are bare, but that should be easy enough to fix.
The love seat is a bonus. The space is small enough that it would have made sense to only have the two molded plastic guest chairs. But the original tenant had managed to work the space well, and the small sofa that sits against the far wall seems to pull the room together instead of overwhelming the space.
“It’s available immediately,” Lisa says. “My client’s very eager.”
I run my fingertip over the desktop, tempted. I’ve been on the fence about leasing office space, but now that I’m actually standing in an office that could have my name on the door, I have to admit that it’s pretty heady stuff.
I slide my hand into my pocket and run my fingertip over the edge of one of the business cards that Damien presented to me this morning. Nikki L. Fairchild, CEO, Fairchild Development. I’d laughed when I opened the box, but there had been tears, too. Not just because I’m finally, really doing this, but because of the pride I saw in Damien’s eyes.
It occurs to me that he must have started much the same way; after all, he hardly sprang fully born from Zeus’s head with a tennis racquet in one hand and Stark Tower in the other. No, he started small and worked his way up to gazillionaire status. I smile, oddly comforted by the thought.
“It’s a great opportunity,” Lisa prompts.
“I know,” I say honestly. Because of the circumstances, the terms of the sublease are exceptional. Not only that, but the building has great security—as Damien discovered last night when he made a few calls after the police left. Tenants need a card key to enter the building and clients must be buzzed in by the receptionist who serves as the gatekeeper between the outside world and the building’s twelve tenants.
Even better, it’s walking distance to the Sherman Oaks Galleria. If I have a bad day at work, I can console myself by going shopping. And if I have a good day at work, I can celebrate by going shopping.
I sway a bit on my heels, trying to decide. No, that’s not true. I want this. But it’s scary—like jumping out of a plane without a parachute. Except that I have a parachute. His name is Damien, and I know that he will always catch me.
“I can just work from home,” I say lamely.
“No question,” Lisa says. “I have lots of clients who do that. Most start-ups begin in the home.”
I eye her with surprise; I wasn’t expecting solidarity.
“But what about your roommate?” she asks. “Jamie, right? You said she’s an actress? Does she have a steady job? I mean, is she a regular on a show?”
“No, but what does that—oh. Right.” Jamie is supportive as hell, but she’s also my best friend and a talker. If I’m trying to code and she wants to dish about men or her wardrobe or whether or not to get a tattoo on her ass, then it’s going to be hard to focus on work. And the rent on this place really is low.
“I put together a plan for you,” Lisa says, pulling a leather folio out of her briefcase. It’s monogramed with my initials—NLF—and she moves to stand by my side as I flip it open, a little bit awed by everything she’s done for me.
Inside, I find a plan for networking that focuses on women in tech and entertainment. “There are at least two dozen organizations in town focusing on women in tech-related fields,” she explains. “You can’t ask for a better way to meet potential business partners or clients. As for the entertainment contacts, it’s a bit of a stretch, but you’re on the radar now, like it or not. Might as well use it.”
I’m not sure I want to trade on my rather unwelcome celebrity status, but I can’t help but agree with her assessment.
She flips a few pages in the portfolio and shows me a rough profit and loss statement that factors in the cost of the office space along with income projections based on her research into the app market. I’m happy to see that the few apps I already have on the market are beating the averages.