My Big Fat Fake Wedding(14)

The accents are just right—blues, pinks, and yellows.

It gives the room a gorgeous pop.

It’s young, feminine, and expressive.

And perfect.

Except for the fact that it might not be what my client wants.

“I’m bored,” my client, Lydia Montgomery, said when she hired me for the job. “Surprise me.”

And that’s all she gave me to go on. No theme ideas. No colors she wanted. No direction.

No nothing.

To be clear, a seventy-year-old multi-millionaire heiress is hard to surprise. She’s seen it all, done it all, and from what I can tell, hasn’t liked much of anything in her pampered life.

Usually, I can figure out things about a person using cues they don’t even know they’re sending. Their clothes, their car, or the rest of the spaces in their home says a lot. But Lydia is a blank slate of black designer clothes, architectural but simple, and a chauffeured car that doesn’t speak to her likes at all. Her whole house has been piecemealed, room by room, by different designers.

All together, I had nothing but my own instincts to go on.

Given her attitude and what Archie likes to call ‘permanent resting bitch face,’ I chose to ignore Arch’s suggestion that she needed some dick and instead decided she needed a little warmth and softness in her life to temper her sour disposition. And maybe an update of a generation or two.

I think the ultra-light and colorful design is just what Ms. Montgomery needs, if only she likes it.

“How could she not love this?” I ask myself as much as Arch, staring critically at my creation with pride. I so love it. The room just seems so alive and vibrant, compared to the dull, gold, overly ornate decor Lydia had before. “We did a terrific job.”

Archie dips his chin, his lips pursed. “Let’s be honest. You did a terrific job. I just looked pretty and did what I was told. You know you’re the only one I do that for, right?” His ring-decorated hands on his hips, his tapping boot, and the look of fierceness on his face definitely tell that tale easily.

I laugh, though he’s basically right. Archie has a lot of personality, blunt and big and take no prisoners. Why he deigns to work for me, I’ll never know, but he certainly never defers to anyone else. Ever.

Truth be told, I’m terrified Lydia’s going to trash my design. And maybe I shouldn’t have taken a risk with something chic and modern, but my gut said Darth Vader’s sister needed some colorfulness in her life.

“Normally, I’d say this room is an easy slam-dunk. But that woman is evil incarnate. I mean, all she’s missing is a crapload of Dalmatian puppies and—”

Right then, the giant double doors to the entryway swing open, accompanied by the sound of high-pitched barking.

“Speak of the devil,” Arch mutters under his breath. “Bitch-ella has arrived.” I swat at him, but he’s too quick, moving a step away and shooting daggers at me from under his arched and slashed brows. “Don’t even think about it, Boss Lady.”

Dressed in a black pantsuit, her white hair done up into a fashionable French twist, Lydia Montgomery strolls into the room with a small pup balanced on her arm. It’s a fuzzy white Pomeranian, not a Dalmatian, thankfully, or I probably would’ve lost it and started laughing at the moniker that Arch bestowed upon her. The fluffball isn’t nearly as cute as the movie dogs, either, and it doesn’t know the meaning of be quiet, judging by the chorus of constant yips.

Beside me, Arch visibly rearranges his posture, standing up straight and placing his hands respectfully in front of his crotch, which looks a bit odd for someone in ripped jeans and a t-shirt, even if they are vintage 80s and designer. Unconsciously, I almost do the same as Lydia stops in front of us with a frown that could curdle milk as she strokes the head of her yapping puppy.

Damn, you’d think she’s the Queen of England. I don’t know if I should bow, curtsey, or just roll my eyes.

“Welcome back—” Arch begins to say, and I’m thankful for his attempt at professionalism, but he’s silenced by Lydia’s frosty glare.

Turning her nose up, Lydia moves away to tour the room, inspecting our work, her militant gaze missing nothing. Her low kitten heels click against the ultra-polished marble floors and somehow manage to sound demanding and ominous.

When she’s done, she takes a seat on the gorgeous cream-colored couch I picked out and levels a scowl that could melt lead our way. Meanwhile, pup-inator is growling at us like we stole one of his doggie biscuits.

Arch and I exchange glances, and he mutters under his breath as he begins to slink away. “Okay, you grab all our stuff and I’ll go start the getaway vehicle.”

Ignoring Arch, I begin blurting out details. “The wall color is Chantilly Lace, the couch is custom in a washed cotton that gives the feel of linen but with better longevity, the art is by . . .” I give her the highlights of the room, making sure she sees the details, though I’m sure her eagle-eyed gaze missed nothing. I think that knowing the pedigree of some of these pieces will make a woman like Lydia Montgomery appreciate them more.

She doesn’t so much as look my way as I list out information, though her eyes follow my words around the room.

There’s a lot riding on this design. Lydia told me at the outset that this project was a test to see if she’d like to use me to design several more rooms inside her historic estate. And having her on my reference list would get me other clients automatically. As long as she likes it.