Page 19 of Love, Lies and Mistletoe
“Parties aren’t my thing at all.” She almost smacked her forehead after the comment. Referencing parties with present company was a decidedly bad idea lest it trigger a certain memory.
Brant didn’t blink though. He kept talking.
“I get it. I used to hate them myself. But now I go to so many during the course of a year, I’ve learned how to navigate them.”
She crossed her arms. He had no clue how close he was to venturing into dangerous territory. She bet Brant was the type who, once he got talking about himself, put up an impenetrable bubble so all sights and sounds and, most unfortunately of all, empathy for his audience didn’t get in his way.
When she didn’t say anything, Brant continued.
“It’s really an art, using those types of events to grow your business.”
She nodded. “But that’s not my gift.”
“How do you market yourself?”
Her face went hot. Marketing was the worst part of being in business for herself. She wasn’t a businessperson. She knew how ridiculous that was, not having a plan. Her design business carried the shop; if it weren’t for her clients, her little shop window would be pathetically empty. What she’d learned came from classes she’d signed up for through the small business association in the Twin Cities, and she’d never admit this to him—the internet.
“Oh, my clientele is pretty good at spreading the word.” She’d leave it at that and hope he’d take her word for it.
He hugged his arms across his chest, waiting. When she clamped her lips together, he nodded. “Recommendations are huge. There’s nothing like a happy customer to bring in more.”
Brant glanced again at the painting. “One thing I learned from this guy—well, relearned—is that if you treat customers like family, and not like a potential sale, it does a lot more for business than any full-page ad or radio spot.”
“I understand that. But I don’t think I’m…genuine enough.”
“That’s crazy.”
She huffed. “You don’t know me well enough to judge.”
He stayed silent, chewing on his bottom lip. She expected some glib answer because he always liked the last word, or heseemedlike the type that would thrive on it. But without looking at her, he gave a decisive nod.
“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t.”
He stepped closer to the painting, getting a closer look at the artist’s signature before he turned toward her. Brant held her gaze for a moment too long. Was he waiting for her to say something about his text message last week? She’d stewed about his invite during the weekend and then forgot about it as another busy week kicked off. Now that he was here, it dawned on her that she’d never answered him.
He opened his mouth to say something at the same time she did.
“You know, I—” he started.
“If you… Sorry, go ahead.”
“No, you spoke first. It’s not that important.” He raked a hand through his hair, looking at her in earnest.
“I just wanted to say thanks again for pointing Darcy and Sean my way.”
He blinked. “I didn’t expect them to tell you, but you’re welcome.”
“I like to thank those who recommend me. But I didn’t think you were that familiar with my work.” She should really let it go. Thanking him was enough, though she wondered if there was a motive behind the recommendation. Suppressed guilt maybe. “But it was my favorite job yet, so I appreciate it.”
“Happy to help.” He gave her a tentative smile.
“I was also going to say I’m sorry for not getting back to you about going to the Holly Days dinner.”
His dimple flashed for a second before he looked down. “Not a big deal. I know your schedule is full. Like mine.” He glanced at her again, waiting.
“It’s, well, I got distracted and—” She shrugged.
“It’s not like it’s so pressing. Darcy said she didn’t need RSVPs for a while anyway.”
