Damn. I get why Aunt Delilah is into him. He’s giving major George Clooney aging like fine wine vibes.
“Sutton?” he asks.
“Yes, that’s me.” I offer him my hand. He gives it a firm shake. “Thanks for meeting with me, Mr. Romero. I really appreciate this opportunity.”
“I’m happy to do it,” he assures me. “Delilah spoke so highly of you. Said you were brilliant and beautiful. I think she might have undersold you a bit, though.”
I give him what I know is a charming smile and reply, “Well, she had nothing but praise for you, Mr. Romero. I’m quite eager to get to know you and your vision for this project.”
He releases my hand and stands back, looking around us.
“So, what do you think of the place so far?” he asks, getting straight to business.
I take a moment to gaze around the lobby and take in all the details I can. Dust floats through the beams of sunlight slicing down through cracked skylights, and exposed wiring hangs from the ceiling. It’s outdated, neglected, and a little sad.
“There’s a lot of potential,” I say at length. “But it will definitely require a lot of work to bring this place up to date.”
“You have a vision for it?”
Tone confident, I reply, “Absolutely. I’ve looked into the layout of the building already and put together some initial ideas. They’re on my laptop.”
He grins, looking pleased. “Then let’s see the rest of the place and you can describe your vision to me.”
I follow him to another set of large doors that lead into the main hall. It’s enormous, with vaulted ceilings, sweeping balconies, and the giant domed roof overhead. Outdated and dilapidated, but kind of gorgeous in its own way.
“It was state-of-the-art in 1997,” Jackson says, hands clasped behind him as he gazes across the space. “Unfortunately, the rest of the world kept moving forward.”
I pace down the aisle, fingers lightly skimming the worn seat backs. Pulling out my laptop, I flip it into tablet mode and start jotting down notes with my stylus. “Acoustics will need a full overhaul. The rigging too. And those ceiling panels…”
“Yes!” he interrupts, snapping his fingers. “That’s what I like to hear. Most contractors walk in and talk about costs. You walked in and started redesigning.”
I smile, proud of myself.
He leads me onto the stage, stepping carefully around broken light fixtures and dusty cables. “I want this to blow the Sphere in Vegas out of the water. Holographics, immersive soundscapes, dynamic stage transformations. The works.”
“You want a fully interactive environment,” I say, already picturing it. “Reactive lighting. Modular stage frames. Maybe even motion-tracking for performers.”
His head whips toward me. “Exactly. The future of performance. Actors, musicians, dancers…everyone should feel like they’re stepping inside a world that responds to them.”
We move backstage, weaving through narrow tunnels and staircases that smell like old wood and electrical burn. He tells me stories about the building’s early days, including the big names who performed here, the Broadway tours that used to stop through, and the orchestra that once called this place home.
“You know,” he says as we pass a long, dim dressing hallway, “my nephew came here for his first concert. Walked out saying it was ‘life-changing.’” He chuckles. “He was eight at the time.”
I laugh with him. “Are you and your nephew close?”
“He’s the closest thing I have to a son.” He gives me a sidelong look. “You must meet him sometime. Young, successful, handsome. Terrible taste in women, though. Needs someone with both feet on the ground.”
I nearly trip over an extension cord. “Oh…um…thank you, Sir. I’d like that.”
He waves off my awkwardness. “Just planting seeds.”
He continues walking, pointing out underground storage, the orchestra pit, the ventilation system that looks like a relic from another century. “I want all of this redone. Smarter. Faster. Greener.”
“Geothermal cooling is an option,” I say. “Or solar integration, depending on the exterior structure.”
Jackson grins and mutters, “Your aunt was right. You’re brilliant.”
I try not to make it obvious how thrilled I am by his compliment. It’s good to hear someone appreciate my skills and ideas. Mom and Dad only ever seem interested in me when they’re trying to get me married and settled. I don’t really feel like they care about my career sometimes, so having someone like Jackson Romero speaking highly of this aspect of me makes me feel like I’m flying high. However, it also tightens the pressure in my chest. I want this project so badly I can taste it.
