In The City by PersianFreak
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Charlaine Harris, I'm just taking her toys out to play with.
Rating: M
A/N: So I really really enjoy AU/AH/OOC, apparently. I love to hear your thoughts, especially on the first chapter of a brand-new story, so please don't hold back if you enjoyed it. And now, on to the show!
"Good morning!"
"Good morning, Miss Stackhouse," my assistant Arlene smiles up at me from her desk, eyes still not quite awake at eight in the morning.
"Coffee?" I set down the Tim Horton's cup on her desk, knowing full well that I've just become her favourite person. Arlene is not a morning person and rarely gets up early enough to grab herself a cup of coffee on her way to work, so occasionally I grab an extra cup and an all-bran muffin for her. Sometimes the muffin is a donut.
She thanks me and, after exchanging the usual pleasantries, I head past the free-standing divider that separates the studio into a makeshift waiting room and my work area. Setting down my own breakfast on my desk and dropping my purse into one of its drawers, I hang up my coat and look around my office, one of my favourite places in the world. The eclectic furniture I have and the large books and folders filled with design ideas and decor elements feel more like home to me than the townhouse I share with Amelia, which is in no way my roommate's fault; I just genuinely love what I do, love my new flourishing business and the old hardwood flooring of my office and the easy professional relationship I have with my assistant, and spend most of my time at home contemplating more design ideas for the "sheer joy of it", as Amelia would say. I have fabric swatches on the walls, heavier pieces for upholstery and lighter drapes and cushion patterns framed and hanging over the brick, my favourite colours of purple and yellow present in the patterned armchairs in front of my desk and my own drapes. Sighing contentedly, I settle down behind my desk and turn on my laptop, catching up on the emails that have piled up in my inbox over the weekend before my first appointment with a client.
I know interior designers that require their clients to come to their office. While mine are more than welcome to, if they please, I definitely prefer meeting them in their environments, seeing the way they've set up their own offices and homes even if that particular location is not the one I will be working on. It helps to see that, I think; see the colours and patterns they pick out, the time period they prefer their furniture to be modeled on, how cluttered they like their surroundings. It bewilders me how you can design someone's apartment without seeing how they liked to have it done themselves. Seeing how someone set up a single room can tell loads more about what they like than an entire conversation; a picture is worth a thousand words and all that.
To each their own, my Gran used to say. I call out to Arlene, asking her to get me my client's address, an Eric Northman. Arlene had told me he had made his appointment through his own assistant, which was an instant turn-off for me. People who left their non-business related chores to their assistants irritated me because Gran had always taught both me and my brother Jason to do our own work and the sole reason I had hired Arlene at all was because I needed her, from a professional perspective. I would never get her to do something trivial like book me a personal appointment or pick up my dry cleaning, though; she isn't my bitch.
Arlene appears, handing me the pad of sticky notes marked with her precise handwriting. I glance down at the address and frown.
"Where is this?"
"Yaletown, I think." A crinkle appears in her forehead and she pushes her red hair out of her eyes.
"I should get going then," I mutter, the address sounding familiar to me for some reason. I'm in my car not fifteen minutes later, typing in the address into my GPS and pulling out of the parking lot of the building my office is located in to merge into the ever-present Vancouver traffic. I'm set to meet my client at eleven, which is the earliest I'm available (assuming I have to meet my client as opposed to them coming to see me) but apparently this Northman guy really insisted on the earliest he could get me. Something about working in the afternoon. Regardless, I flick on the radio in my Yaris and let the GPS guide me through the sprawling metropolis.
I love Vancouver, I really do. I love the weather, how it rains instead of snow, how you can't walk down the street without picking up at least five different languages being spoken, how there's never a lack of good restaurants or cafes or ice cream parlours. The only thing that gets to me occasionally is the traffic, especially downtown, but that I can deal with, too. I was born and raised in Victoria - just a ferry ride away – by my Gran who had taken custody of me and my brother ever since my parents died when we were both young. Jason was five and I was barely three, which means that I lack the brief flashes Jason has of our parents. Our Gran did the best she could, and I had a good childhood. I love Victoria almost as much as I love Vancouver, but I always found it too small and quaint, which is why I hopped across the Strait of Georgia and over to UBC in Vancouver for my post-secondary. Jason still lives in our Gran's old house ever since she left it to us when she passed a few years ago. He pays me some rent, even though I told him he didn't have to, because he feels obligated as my big brother to take care of me, though he only does it when it takes next-to-nothing away from him, I'm sad to say. I'm not ungrateful though, no. Far from it. I have nothing to complain about, honestly. The money from my brother is enough to cover my own rent and like I said, my business is taking off.
Though not as much as some, I observe as I reach my destination; 1111 Marinaside Crescent. Christ, I think to myself as I find a parking spot through sheer luck. The building in question isn't a high-rise like its neighbours, but there is no question as to its class or, I smile, its price tag. I head into the beige lobby where I'm stopped by the security guard. Christ, I think again, when the middle-aged man tells me he has to call up and make sure Mr Northman is expecting my arrival. He is, evidently, because the next minute I'm riding the elevator up to the eighth floor, absently noting that the elevator car is fancier than my entire house. There are only two doors in the landing when the elevator doors slide open, and the space between them is occupied by a painting that is undoubtedly an expensive and original piece. I knock on the right door and wait, adjusting my bag on my shoulder when I hear footsteps approaching me from the other side. The door swings inwards and I suddenly find myself desperately wishing that I had bothered to style my hair to perfection this morning instead of push it back from my face with a bandanna, or that I had at least put on something nicer. Something that would make me look at least on par with the man standing in front of me; a ball gown maybe.
I suppose this would be a good time to mention that after the assistant thing, I had been expecting a balding middle-aged man who sweat too much and wore an ill-fitting suit.
It would also be a good time to mention that I haven't had sex in something like six months. And right now, for the life of me, I couldn't remember who it had been with.
88888888
Definitely not balding, I remark to myself hazily. Nope. Or middle-aged. Or donning a bad suit.
In fact, Eric Northman is at the most in his early-thirties, with blonde hair that falls into his face and jeans that are tested wonderfully in all the right places. Especially when he bends down to, say, pick up the pen I dropped. Oh boy.
"Your latte," he smiles ironically for a reason I can't discern as he sets down a steaming mug in front of me. It smells wonderful and I tell him so, watching his eyes warm in pleasure at the compliment, though he only nods in acknowledgement. He really is surreally handsome; his nose perfectly symmetrical, his eyes deep blue, his lips sculpted. So is the rest of him, if the outline of his body under his fitted shirt is any indication. Work, Sookie, I have to remind myself. The apartment is simply breath-taking: all the windows are floor-length ones with views of the marina or the park, not to mention the fact that it's enormous, as I discover three bedrooms and three bathrooms later. I spend the next hour on Eric's (He told me to call him that. It wasn't a personal decision. I'm a professional.) couch, finishing two of the fantastic lattes he can serve up as casually as I do instant coffee and discussing what he likes, what he dislikes, what he wants his home to say about him, blah blah blah. I say blah blah because it's unbelievably difficult to focus, especially when he makes a remark about his place needing a feminine touch and I find myself blurting that it's what I'm here for. He grins this time, and I interpret it as a million different things, all of which come down to the fact that at the age of twenty eight, I'm acting like a love-struck fifteen-year-old.
By the time we're done, it's half past noon and I have more than enough ideas written down as well as quick sketches, and he appears pleased with all of them. I'm gathering all my sheets and tucking them into the folder I brought with me to protect them from the horror that is my bag when he wanders out of the kitchen, having put our mugs in the sink.
"So do you interior decorators get a lunch break or what?" He asks, perched on the armchair of the sofa he tells me he hated the moment he realized it only looked good in the showroom. I check my watch again for no reason at all and tell him that I do, and if I happen to flirt a little bit, it's not my fault because he is flirting right back. "Would you care to join me for lunch? There's a pretty great sushi place right around the corner and if you'd like..." The sentence hangs in the air, his tone making it a question.
"Thank you, but I should get back to my office," I say because I can't. I want to, but I just can't. He gives no indication that he's disappointed and it only strengthens my resolve as I finish gathering up my things and head to the door, thanking him for the coffee and letting him know that I'll keep him posted on my designs.
Reality sets in the moment I step foot inside of my office to find Bill Compton lounging on one of my visitors' armchairs.
If you're interested in seeing Eric's apartment, just search up "1111 Marinaside Crescent, Vancouver" and search results tend to come up.