She wasn’t Jonathan’s type romantically, but a dinner out wouldn’t be such a bad thing, since she could impress him during some one-on-one time. Sophie had no illusions about Jonathan. He was not a long-term guy, but he was enormously talented and she wanted the experience of working with him. If it took a couple of dates to get that chance, fine.
“We work in teams,” he told her.
“So I’ve heard.”
“You’re not a team player.”
“Maybe I need a better team.”
Suddenly, he grinned. “Maybe you do.”
A beat passed and Sophie stopped breathing. Please, please, please put me on your team.
His expression turned speculative. “You and Ross bounce off each other pretty good.”
“Ross?” No. No-no-no-no-no. “He likes to work alone.”
“I know. But creatively, he might need some shaking up. You strike me as the sort of person who shakes things up.”
The man was toying with her. She could see it in his eyes. Talk about a disastrous pairing—for Sophie, anyway. Ross had used her ideas before and if she were officially assigned to his team, she knew she’d never get credit for anything. Never build her portfolio.
“Once concrete sets, it doesn’t shake,” she said. “It cracks and breaks.”
“Careful, Sophie.” Jonathan gave her a hard stare. “Ross has been around a long time. He’s made a lot of contacts. And you need more than one good idea to build a career.”
I’ve had lots of ideas. Several are in current ads. But she hadn’t said anything. By that time, she’d said enough.
After he’d left, Sophie had dropped into a chair in the empty conference room and put her head between her knees. Ross? She was going to end up with Ross? It could have been worse. Jonathan could have fired her.
But now, just four days later, here was an invitation to one of his legendary beach parties! Maybe he wasn’t going to assign her to Ross after all.
“You must have a hot date tonight.”
Sophie opened her eyes to find Aire-An, her partner with the stupidly weird name, looking at her from across their desk. As though the affected spelling would make her stand out.
“It’s got possibilities.” Sophie didn’t have a boyfriend. Not that she didn’t want a boyfriend, but right now she didn’t have time.
“New guy?”
“New opportunity.” She set her phone down and closed her laptop. “I’ve got tons to do, so I’m taking off.”
“Early?” Aire-An goggled at her. “You never leave early. I’m not sure you leave at all.”
“That’s what it takes to get ahead.” She tried not to sound self-righteous, but honestly, as a partner, Aire-An had been an anchor. And not in a steadying way, but a holding back way.
“Yeah, well, I want to have a life, too.”
Sophie cleared off her desk. “The way I see it is that we’re always going to be working crazy hours, so I might as well be working crazy hours on a big project for more money.”
“And more stress.” Aire-An waggled her fingers at Sophie. “Go. Take off. Have a normal Friday night for once.”
It had better not be normal, Sophie thought as she took the stairs to the lobby so she wouldn’t attract notice by waiting for the elevator. See, it was the attention to little details that would get her ahead.
As she crossed the glass-enclosed walkway over the street to the parking garage, she noticed another detail, one maybe not so little. Clouds. And not fluffy, white, friendly clouds, but angry, gray clouds brushing past the downtown skyscrapers.
What had happened to the sun? How sad that she hadn’t known the weather had changed. When Sophie got out of the pit and into a room with a window, she’d know what the weather was doing.
Did Jonathan know? Of course he knew. He’d said “hurricane party” as a heads-up for stormy weather, not an actual hurricane. Jonathan had his own office with a lovely window and, currently, Jonathan was in a conference room with an even lovelier window. He’d seen the clouds. Daily afternoon showers were common in the late summer.
The concrete and metal stairs echoed as Sophie descended to the Peck and Davilla employee parking level in the garage.
Listening, she didn’t hear other cars starting up and hadn’t encountered anyone else who might be leaving for a weekend at the beach.
Good. That probably meant a team retreat instead of a big bash. Sophie had heard rumors of a client who might spring for a Super Bowl ad, the Holy Grail of TV advertising. Oh, to be assigned to that creative team. What a career booster, not to mention a jewel in her portfolio. The trick was to stand out and still be considered a team player.
Yeah, yeah. Jonathan said he wanted team players, but he’d invited Sophie to the beach house and Aire-An, the ultimate team player, was stuck drawing toothpaste tubes for mock-ups.
Fifteen minutes later, Sophie parked her car on the street in front of the midtown-area townhouse she shared with a couple of roommates. It was in an excellent location with a short commute, but only two bathrooms and a two-car garage. And not so much communal living space.
Her roommates weren’t home. Inhaling, Sophie paused to enjoy a rare moment of solitude. And then she started packing.
As soon as Sophie had learned of Jonathan’s beach-house parties, she’d shopped for the perfect swimsuit for swimming and the perfect swimsuit for not swimming, as well as appropriate cover-ups. Business beach party—talk about a wardrobe challenge. Now her preparations were going to pay off big-time.
Sophie’s goal was to arrive first, or at least early enough to stake out her territory and establish herself as a hostess. As someone in charge. Someone who had her act together. And looked attractive doing it. Sure, it was a throwback to the fifties, but in a way, so was Jonathan. If Sophie had to be the girl who went for coffee, so to speak, then she’d do it.
Speaking of…he’d assigned her steaks and breakfast. Kind of a lot for one person, but she was the newbie, so she’d have to suck it up this time.
But steaks and breakfast for how many people? Was Jonathan planning to grill outside if the weather cleared, or in the kitchen broiler? Did he need propane or charcoal?
Breakfast—did that mean coffee, too? Was there a grinder at the beach house, or should she buy the coffee already ground? Jonathan loved a good cup of coffee, so maybe Sophie should bring her own grinder. And what kind of breakfast? Doughnuts? Or the full bacon-and-eggs weekend feast?
It was four o’clock. Commuter traffic would already be clogging the streets. Sophie still had to shave her legs—clearly no time to book a wax—and apply self-tanner, something she knew from personal experience should not be rushed.
Taking a deep, centering breath, she opened her laptop and started a new project list, the first ever to include groceries.
By the time Sophie had touched up her pedicure and packed the car, gusts were jostling every annoying set of wind chimes on the block.
Rain started spitting as she drove to the grocery store. According to the gleeful weathercasters, always happy to have something exciting to report, the storm had jogged north and bands of tropical-storm-force wind and rain would lash the upper Texas coast this weekend.
Well, that didn’t sound like any fun. From the parking lot of the grocery store, Sophie checked for a follow-up text from Jonathan. Nothing. In fact, nothing from anyone. The party was still on. Okay, then. She pushed open the car door and the wind caught it. Sophie barely stopped it from slamming into the minivan parked alongside. These were some serious gusts. She pushed down her skirt even though she wore her swimsuit beneath it, and hurried into the crowded grocery store to buy steaks and breakfast.
2
ADRIAN DEAN SCOWLED down at the sand beneath the wooden steps leading from the front door of the elevated beach house to a walkway that stopped right at the beach.
He’d come to stand outside on the porch and enjoy the churning ocean and the roiling black clouds and the gusty wind and then, when a cr
ack of lightning had split the horizon, he’d jumped like a girl and dropped the metal pole he’d been disassembling.
On impact, the special, custom-designed bolt had not retracted into the special, custom-designed storage slot the way it was supposed to, but had ejected onto the porch where, driven by the gritty wind, it had rolled through one of the generous gaps in the porch flooring and fallen to the sand.
Even now, blowing sand was hiding the silver glint from Adrian’s view. Stupid wind.
“Of course.” He exhaled and knew he had to search for the bolt because otherwise, his portable, easy assemble, easy disassemble, prototype home gym would be a useless collection of poles and springs.
Moving quickly, he opened the sliding glass door and put the pole inside with the others, then descended the stairs to ground level. Or rather sand level.
He didn’t dither. Because Adrian Dean was not a ditherer—even though he’d just spent five days dithering at the beach.
Over an ad campaign. Just an ad campaign. Or rather two proposals for ad campaigns. Two good, really good proposals. From two really good agencies, one of which owned this very beach house. But two different proposals and he couldn’t make up his mind which one to select for the launch of his new portable gym.
Maybe he couldn’t pick because he’d decided to go all-out and invest in Super Bowl advertising. It was expensive and he’d never considered it before talking with the Peck and Davilla folks. But they showed him how it made sense to consolidate his advertising budget and go for a big splash. People looked forward to Super Bowl ads, they were discussed and analyzed before and after the game, which resulted in bonus advertising for the companies as well as the ad firms. That’s why P&D offered an incredible deal on their fee and assigned their very best to the project.
Adrian was no expert, but he could see the difference between the small local firm he’d been using in Tulsa, where he lived, and P&D. He would never have been able to afford a campaign like the one they proposed plus the expense of broadcast time without the break they’d given him. Definitely worth it.
What he hadn’t told P&D was that he’d previously approached Mod Media in Dallas. When he’d let them know why he’d decided to go with P&D, they heard the magic words “Super Bowl” and asked for another meeting. Adrian hesitated, but since he’d increased his budget, he thought it was only fair to see their new pitch.
It was great, but a different great. And now, he didn’t know which one to pick.
Adrian stared out at the white caps and the dark clouds moving in. What a metaphor for his state of mind. He could fool himself by thinking he was making a simple marketing choice, but the reality was that if the portable gym took off, his fitness-and-lifestyle company could become huge. Bigger than Adrian could handle by himself. Big enough that Adrian would no longer be able to work personally with clients. So his choice was really whether he wanted to lose the one-on-one interaction he enjoyed in order to grow his business and help more people.
The business was almost to that point now, thanks to his Web site and the regional advertising he’d done the past two years.
On the other hand, this new expensive campaign could be a big bust and cost him his life savings. Yeah. There was that.
P&D figured he was having second thoughts about the Super Bowl-ad cost and had loaned him the beach house so he could take a few days and think. Adrian had been expecting a cottage on stilts, not this…beach mansion.
Did he feel guilty about not telling them they had competition? Mildly. But he also knew this was a psychological move to make him feel obligated to them, so Adrian was calling it even.
Now he scanned the area around his feet, but couldn’t see the bolt. Oh, no. That would have been too easy. It was somewhere, beneath the stairs, hidden in the debris, both human and maritime, blowing in from the beach.
People were pigs. He had a new hatred for plastic bottles. And don’t get him started on six-pack ring tabs. How could there be a soul left in the universe who hadn’t seen pitiful footage of birds and fish caught in the things?
A tumbleweed scratched past his calves. Weren’t tumble weeds supposed to be in the desert?
He looked up at the sky as rain suddenly mixed with the wind. “Oh, yes. Let’s bring on the rain because poking around in sandy beach trash isn’t bad enough.”
Adrian had been watching the local weather on the TV ever since he noticed people at neighboring beach houses either leaving or hammering plywood to the window frames.
The forecasters said it was a tropical storm—not even a hurricane. Yet, they warned ominously. And maybe not ever. It wasn’t supposed to hit Texas—until it bobbled and turned into a big, sloppy storm that might strengthen. Might.
Bobble? Might? Maybe?
No thanks. Adrian had grown up in the Midwest. What he knew were tornadoes which possibly—another wafflely word—could accompany the storm.
So without dithering, he’d called Peck and Davilla and told them he was leaving. He hadn’t told them his decision and they hadn’t asked. Which was good, because he hadn’t decided. Five days and he still couldn’t decide.
Adrian stared at the sand, about to dig for a bolt that he needed, literally, to hold his future together. His future was Adrian Dean’s Lean Machine. Or Dean’s Green Machine, depending on which campaign he chose.
The rain let up and the wind calmed as the cloud band passed. A couple of car doors slammed as yet more surfers whooped and hollered their way to the beach.
In spite of its name, Surfside wasn’t a prime surfing area compared to Hawaii or Australia, and the beach was the typical Gulf-coast brown, flecked with bits of tar from the offshore drilling rigs. But he’d enjoyed the break and the privacy and now it was time to get the heck out of Dodge.
Behind the house, another car slowly made its way down the road running parallel to the ocean. More surfers looking for a place to park. They’d better not block him in.
Adrian crouched down, brushed at the sand and shook a ripped Doritos bag, but still couldn’t find the bolt.
A car door slammed, closer than before. Footsteps muffled by the sand approached and stopped right in front of him.
“I was sure I was going to be the first one here.”
Adrian stared at a pair of hot-pink flip-flops and paler pink toenails, and then lifted his gaze up nicely toned legs. Nicely toned except for those gracilis muscles of the inner thigh. She needed to adjust her workout. He’d start by having her—
“I’d object to you staring up my skirt, except I’m wearing a swimsuit under it.” She batted at said skirt, which blocked all points north, including her face. “So don’t get all excited because you aren’t seeing anything you aren’t going to see later.”
Adrian quickly stood. After an intro like that, who cared about a missing bolt?
She had pale blue-green eyes with an exotic tilt that kept her from looking too “girl next door-ish” in spite of the ponytail, slightly pug nose and a few freckles.
“I’m Sophie.” She thrust out her hand—the one not holding down her skirt. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
And what a pity they hadn’t. “Adrian Dean,” he replied.
Her eyes widened. “The exercise guru?”
She’d actually heard of him. He indulged in a bit of minor preening. “Guru is overstating it a bit, but yes, I run the home-based exercise program.” He waited for her to look down at herself, gesture self-consciously and bashfully point out some flaw—real or imagined—and ask him how to fix it. Perhaps those inner-thigh muscles. As it happened, he knew a lot of exercises that would benefit inner thigh muscles. Some were more fun than others.
“So you’re here for the party?” she asked.
“I don’t know anything about a party.”
“You don’t?” Clearly surprised, she looked up at the beach house and then back the way she’d come.
“Maybe you’re at the wrong beach house?” he suggested and immediately regretted saying it. For a
ll he knew, she was some opportunistic surfer girl looking for an empty place to crash. A sexy opportunist, though.
“This is the Peck and Davilla house?”
He nodded.
“Then I’m at the right place. I work for them.” The wind gusted. A strand of hair escaped from her ponytail and she drew it away from her mouth. “It’s just that Jonathan didn’t mention we were meeting with you.”
“He didn’t mention that I was meeting with you, either. In fact, I’m leaving.”
He couldn’t read her expression. In the first place, the wind kept blowing strands of her hair into her face and in the second, she looked both perplexed and anxious.
“Why?” she asked.
He gestured around them. “The weather? Storm warnings?”
“Have the weather guys said it’s a hurricane yet?”
“No.”
“No biggie, then.” As though responding, a stronger gust filled with rain smacked them. Sophie laughed and something within Adrian lightened. She had a great laugh.
“What are you doing under the stairs?” she asked.
“Looking for a bolt I dropped.”
“A what?” She cupped her ear against the wind.
“Bolt!” he shouted. “A long tube of silver metal with a hole in each end.” He held his fingers three inches apart. “And there should be a cap attached to it.”
She bent down. “You mean like this?” Straightening she dropped the bolt into his palm.
“Exactly like that. Thanks!” Relieved, he gestured up the stairs. “Let’s head inside.”
“I want to get some things out of the car first.” Sophie flip-flopped her way around the stairs to the parking area beneath the house.
He considered offering to help her, but honestly, he just wanted to finish packing and leave. So he went inside, refastened the bolt and started to gather the parts of the Lean Machine—or Green Machine—and stopped. His mother had raised him better than to let a woman carry things without offering to help.
His Little Black Book Page 2