“Hiring someone else is not for the best, Billie. Change or no change. Dad chose a stranger over me, and I got the message loud and clear.”
Billie shook her head. “Oh, honey.”
Tess jogged down the stairs, heading toward her desk which sat with several others in a sectioned-off area of the warehouse. Tess liked to be near the action—the place where the ideas on paper became full-fledged art ready to roll down the parade route carrying the krewes and the thousands of throws revelers begged for. She’d loved the nook she’d carved out, and though the warehouse often grew noisy, she enjoyed feeling like a cog in the machinery that created magic for millions of people during the four-week Mardi Gras season. She focused better in an area she could move around, a place where she could see her visions carried out.
“Hey, Tess,” Dave Wegmann said, spinning in his chair, scratching his balding head. “Reeves Benson called about the Hera bid and wants you to call him back. Thought I’d sneak down here and take a peek at what Petra did with the globe.”
“He left a message with you?” Tess asked, trying like hell to pretend today was any other day. No way would she break down in front of Dave. He’d been here for as long as she remembered, first as a sculptor, then he’d moved to painting. After two back surgeries, he’d taken design courses and started working as the art director. Tess had learned all she knew about float building at Dave’s knee, and when she’d come to the company, they’d split the load of design, meeting regularly to schedule work and solidify the vision for each krewe’s contracted floats.
“Your phone kept ringing and it was driving me crazy. I’m also looking for the specs on the Cleopatra sea creature. Upstart’s trying to schmooze Cary Presley with some crazy hydra with motorized heads, so this float’s gotta be stellar.”
Any other time and Tess would agree, but she could hardly speak, much less bolster Dave on the Cleopatra bid. She sank into the squeaky chair beside the one Dave sat in and looked at the files and sketches scattering the surface of her desk.
Where to even start?
“Tess? You okay? You look weird.”
“Yeah.”
Dave shook his head and hunkered down, his fingers moving deftly over the face of the calculator, his eyes screwed up in concentration. “Okay, I found the file. Just...wanna...see...if...this...matches.”
She probably needed to get a box to put her stuff in. She had funny pictures tacked up on the corkboard beside the huge filing cabinets that held all the past year’s designs and sketches. Those designs would be systematically replaced over the course of the next few months with new designs for 2015, paying special attention to the repurposing of all the props. At Ullo they reused every part of the float, even joking about trading out toilet seats yearly. They begged, bartered and stole from last year’s floats to create the awesomeness of Mardi Gras 2014 for the various krewes around New Orleans and the outlying areas. A flurry of meetings nearly a month ago before this year’s parades had finished rolling had cemented projects for the upcoming season and those of 2016.
Tess picked up the bumblebee with the crazy boppy antennae Jules Roland, the head sculptor, had given her on her birthday. Tess the busy bee.
The clip of hard soles on the concrete floor interrupted her thoughts. Then she saw the wing tips.
“Tess?”
She looked up, meeting Graham’s blue eyes. Damn, they were pretty eyes. Too bad he was a creep.
“What?”
He swallowed and she watched the powerful muscles in his throat convulse. She’d kissed that sweet spot at the base of his neck. He’d smelled so good—sort of citrusy and clean—and he’d tasted salty and warm. Very solid. Very sexy.
“We need to talk.”
Dave looked up, tucking his pencil behind his ear. He raised bushy eyebrows. “What’s going on? Who’s this guy?”
Tess glanced over at her friend and mentor. “You’ll understand soon enough, Dave. But don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
She stood. “I don’t have much to say to you, Mr. Naquin, but what I do have will be better said in private.” Ice hung in her words.... Exactly what she intended. Part of her boiled over with anger, hurt and disappointment. The other part felt frigid and empty.
Graham had caused that particular arctic front when he’d never called...and then hadn’t been man enough to return the call she’d made two weeks ago.
Total asshole.
She stalked toward the exit, wishing she hadn’t worn jeans and sneakers. High heels tapping on the floor would have been much more dramatic. Pushing the bar that would lead to the smokers’ lounge high above the rough waters of the Mississippi, Tess inhaled not smoke, but the brackish, fetid air of the river. No one sat on the porch, but she didn’t want to be interrupted, so she quickly took the worn steps down to the deck several feet below, now glad she’d worn her tennis shoes.
Reaching the smaller landing holding an ancient picnic table and two chained deck chairs, she spun around. “You bastard.”
Graham stopped by the last step, shifting his gaze toward a tugboat pushing a colossal rusted barge. “I deserve that.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“I didn’t call you.”
His words were a day late and a dollar short. Didn’t matter anymore. She’d decided twenty minutes ago when she’d seen him sitting in her father’s office as the heir apparent she was way over the infatuation that had dominated her thoughts and body for weeks after he left her loft. That ship had sailed. Bye-bye.
“You think this is about you not calling?”
“It was rude.”
“It was pretty rude. But what did you think I wanted? Commitment? You were a fun screw, that’s it. So, no, this isn’t about you not calling.”
Something in his eyes wavered and she could tell he hadn’t expected such a casual dismissal. “A fun screw, huh?”
“For you, too, I imagine. If it were anything more you would have called me, right?” She lifted an eyebrow, feeling the righteousness in her anger.
“About that. See, there were some things going on....” He looked away, hiding from her, but she didn’t care. She meant what she said—what she felt—Graham meant nothing to her on that level. He was a used-to-be.
But on a professional level...
“What I have to say to you has nothing to do with that night a month ago. That’s over. This is the here and now, and you are the bastard who slinked into my company and stole my job.”
“Now, wait a minute.” He held up a hand. His was a nice hand—manicured nails, strong blunt fingers, wide palm. Very capable hands that had stroked her, loved her and made her believe in something that wasn’t real. “I didn’t slink into anything. In fact, your father never even mentioned you. I had no idea until today that he had a daughter who worked in the company.”
Knife wound. Tess clasped her chest before she could think better of betraying her emotions.
Her father hadn’t even mentioned her?
“What do you want me to say? Did he mention Dave? Or how about Petra? Jules? Red Jack? Bennie B? Or Scooter O’Neil?”
“No, he went over the departments, but never said he had a daughter who headed up operations. You know I didn’t sneak in here trying to steal anything from you. You can be pissed, but you have to be fair.”
Jabbing a finger at him, Tess said, “I don’t have to be anything. Don’t tell me what to do.”
Graham slid his hands into