Hard Pass by Sara Ney Page 0,32

just business, but I had fun talking about things other than this deal? Clearly this is just business, but now that I’ve met you, I think you’re cute?

A few moments drift by before he reaches down to the waistband of his pants at a glacial pace and pulls back the elastic, revealing an envelope wedged inside. It’s as thick as the last one was, though it contains less money.

It gets slid across the table.

He takes the Jenkins card, its small plexiglass box dwarfed in the palm of his giant hand. Pinches it between his thumb and forefinger before spinning it a few times, still watching me from behind those dark lenses.

“Well. You have your money.”

Indeed I do, twenty grand of it. “Thank you.”

“No.” He flashes the card in my direction before sliding it into his waistband. “Thank you.”

There is so much more I want to say to this man, who seems more like a complete stranger than ever before. A man who gave me butterflies only a few days ago, but really wants nothing from me but my card collection.

Well he can’t have it. I will find a new buyer. Noah whatshisface can stuff it.

“…and there’s the build out allowance we discussed, but only for this main space and the large office, which could be partitioned off into two.”

I nod at the woman who is going to be my new landlord, the property owner of several storefronts in an old school downtown neighborhood. She’s been converting brownstones into business spaces for lots of tech startups, dot-coms, and in some cases, bloggers.

The building is whitewashed with black shutters and a black lacquered door, the vintage house modern and up to date, its interior an ideal environment for a design center.

Simply perfect.

And within my budget, now that I have actual, liquid capital.

We’re on the last lap of my walk-through before I sign my life away, i.e. sign the rental agreement. I’m about to give her more money than I’ve ever given anyone—not including tuition payments to the university. Those were student loans; this here is my money.

“And I can paint?” The walls are gray and I think painting them stark white would make the space that much more impactful.

“You can, once we approve the colors.”

“White?”

She glances over at me as she walks through another doorway, into what would be my office. “White? Yes, absolutely.”

Excellent.

We go over a few more details, the contract laid out on a portable table, one chair pushed in, pen resting on top.

I sit, having read the contract over and over. My father read it too, and my Uncle Mark, who is an attorney—family law, but still able to bullet point a few changes I had to make, specifically regarding the grounds and maintenance.

A cashier’s check for the deposit amount sits at the bottom of my document holder, fresh from the bank.

I sign, having been ready for this moment since the day I moved that graduation tassel from one side of my cap to the other.

Francesca Graziano watches over my shoulder as I add one last flourish to my signature. Sign. Date.

Done.

“Well!” She claps her hands. “Congratulations.” There’s a laptop briefcase on the floor and she reaches for it, the sleek bag matching her brown leather belt and high-heeled pumps.

Francesca would fit in perfectly at Rent, even dressed for a business meeting.

I pull the deposit out of my clutch and hold it out.

She takes the check with a satisfied nod. “Alright then! Here are the keys. Please let me know if you need anything by contacting the property manager.”

And then…

I’m alone.

Alone with my thoughts and alone with my new space.

Mine, mine, mine.

Okay—not technically mine, but mine for an entire year, as long as I don’t default on my rent. Ha ha.

My phone begins buzzing and I fish it out of my bag. Claire’s face smiles back at me—she wants to video chat.

“How did it go?”

“Great!” I enthuse, taking the keys from the table where I laid them and jingling them in front of my face for her to see. “Look! The building is all mine. Well, the first floor anyway.” The floor above me is another business space, but will probably remain unoccupied for a few more months.

“How does it feel?” She’s chomping on a celery stick and I can see a Bloody Mary on the counter. What the hell is she drinking that for so early? It’s barely five o’clock.

“It feels good. I also want to throw up.”

“Aww, you’re a bitty baby business owner now.” She hesitates to