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The old Peyton would’ve smiled, thanked him for the encouragement, and walked away before anyone had the chance to tell her no. She would’ve convinced herself she wasn’t qualified enough or experienced enough to even try. But the woman standing here now doesn’t let hesitation and self-doubt make every decision for her anymore.
I look back at Ollie, hope blooming inside. “Will you wait here with Tilly?”
“As long as you need, sweetheart.”
Taking one steadying breath, I turn around and walk back toward the yellow door.
My confidence wavers somewhere between stepping inside and walking down the hallway, but I keep going before I can talk myself out of it. The studio is quieter now, the earlier chaos replaced by the faint sound of running water and supplies being packed away. I find Emilie in her office at the end of the hall.
She stands up from her desk when I knock softly against the open door.
“Peyton?” She blinks in surprise before asking, “Did you forget Tilly’s masterpiece?”
I shake my head with a nervous laugh. “No…Do you have a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
She gestures toward the chair opposite her desk. The office is small but cozy, much like the rest of the studio. Children's drawings are pinned to a corkboard beside the calendar and supply orders. Shelves overflow with jars and paintbrushes waiting to be sorted. A framed photograph of a beaming woman holding up a paint canvas sits beside Emilie’s laptop. My gaze lingers on it.
“That’s my mom,” Emilie says, following my eyes. “She started Tiny Hands when I was twelve. That’s her on the opening day.”
“I can see where you get your love for art from.”
She smiles fondly before settling into her chair. “So, what can I do for you?”
I sit down and smooth my palms against my jean shorts, my heart beating faster every passing second. “I overheard part of your conversation earlier.”
A flicker of embarrassment crosses her face. “I was hoping nobody had—”
“I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to listen. We were just leaving and—”
She waves it away with a tired smile. “The walls in here aren't exactly soundproof and I like to keep the door ajar.”
I wonder if I've made a terrible mistake coming back inside. I almost convince myself to stand up and leave. Then I think about the woman I used to be—the one who talked herself out of opportunities before anyone else had the chance to. I truly don't want to be her anymore.
“I was thinking…” I begin carefully, but decide to rip the Band-Aid off with one sentence. “I'd like to be considered for the manager position.”
Instead of looking surprised, Emilie leans back in her chair and lets out a relieved breath. “I was hoping you'd say that.”
“You were?” I ask, blinking in surprise.
“I couldn't offer you a job without knowing whether you even wanted one.”
A confused laugh slips out of me. “You've thought about me for the position?”
“For weeks, but I also knew you’ve an important job of taking care of Tilly.”
“But I thought you'd be interviewing candidates with more experience than me.”
She smiles ruefully. “I have, don’t get me wrong. They were all very lovely, qualified people with impressive resumes.”
“But…?”
“They kept talking about lesson plans and scheduling software, not how places like this help the community.”
I frown slightly. “Those things matter when running a business.”
“Sure, they do, but that’s not what makes Tiny Hands the place it is.” Emilie folds her hands on the desk, her expression softening. “Do you know the first thing I remember noticing about you?”
