by Winters, KB
“Miss Rand?”
I inhaled too fast and sputtered on my attempt to respond. “Yes, ma’am?”
Without a word, Rita pushed a glass of water across the table. My cheeks were burning up and knew I was blushing. My fair skin and freckles could turn practically crimson and thinking about what a sight I must have only made it worse.
“Thank you. I’m sorry,” I said, after I caught my breath. “Please continue.”
I kept my eyes on Rita, not daring to look back over at Mr. Brighton.
“As I was saying,” she started. “Mr. Brighton is one of our top clients. He has been with our firm for a number of years. In that time, he has worked with our brightest and best designers, but now he finds himself looking for a fresh set of eyes to help with his next project. I realize you’re new here, but Mr. Sherman thinks very highly of you and told me that you’re a tiger on website design, so I’d like to get your input. I know it’s not advertising, per say, but we can discuss the new advertising campaign with Mr. Brighton and come up with a plan.”
“Uhhh. Of course. What, uhm… seems to be the—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mr. Brighton interrupted. His voice was not raised but the anger was palpable, nonetheless.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Brighton?” Rita’s voice was dangerously sharp.
“Miss…Rand, was it?”
I nodded and tried my best not to gulp again.
“Tell me something, Miss. Rand. In your experience, would you ever let trash like this…?” He shoved a pile of glossy proof pages across the table at me. “Would you let that see the light of day?”
I took my time examining the pages, as I desperately searched my brain for the next thing to say. The pages were filled with bright, glossy looking images of an array of perfume bottles. They all looked fine to me. Not really my taste—something about the exposure of the pictures seemed off but they certainly weren’t the worst I’d ever seen. I wouldn’t have called them trash. But I knew better than to argue with a client. Two years of customer service experience in a coffee shop had taught me that if the customer says something is trash, it’s trash. I assumed that was even more so with multi-million dollar accounts than vanilla lattes.
When I dared to look up, his eyes instantly locked on mine. His eyebrow was cocked like he was daring me to contradict him. I ran with a pretty rough crowd and had been to some very sketchy bars, but never in my life had I felt this intimidated before. I had the sense that no matter what I said, it wouldn’t matter.
“Sir, I don’t think my opinion counts. I’m actually not an ad designer, I’m an IT person. This is only my second day here. I used to work in a coffee shop.” I smiled, hoping to cut some tension.
He let out a curt laugh. “Of course you did! Rita, really? A barista?” He scoffed. “All right. Well, then, as a consumer, just make your best guess.” He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and waited.
Something inside me snapped at his rebuff. I straightened in my chair and grabbed all the pictures. I might not be an ad designer, but I know what works and what doesn’t and I’d even taken some photography classes in high school. So I decided to play ball and began thrusting the pictures back across the table at him. “Well, for starters, the exposure is all wrong. They look fuzzy in print which isn’t going to translate well, especially online. It’ll pixilate. The set-up on this one is all wrong, confusing to the eye. Naturally, a consumer’s eye is going to travel from left to right, so you want your product’s aligned in a way that will complement that pattern, with your most prominent and eye-catching image.” I paused to consider the last page.
“This one,” I said. I pointed to a purple bottle that looked something like a genie lamp before pushing the final page at him. “Well, this one just looks like something from a campaign for feminine products. Like a douche…perhaps.” I paused and relished in the horrified look on Rita’s face. If you fed me to the wolves, I’d bite right back.
“Does that answer your question, Mr. Brighton?”
He clenched his jaw but his lips curved up and gave the faintest hint of a smile.
“So, Rita, tell me. How is it that a barista who has only been on your work force for two days sees all the flaws? And your design team, which you have assured me is only made up of the best and brightest in the industry, who not only created this garbage in the first place, can’t see it when I explain it to them endlessly, in great detail, over numerous phone calls, emails, and these ever-so-pleasant meetings?”
“I will relay your concerns, Mr. Brighton. I assure you, this will all be taken care of by tomorrow,” Rita answered. Her voice was thin.
“No. That’s not good enough this time. I want her.”
What the…? Before I could even open my mouth to object, Rita answered. “Mr. Brighton, Allison isn’t even a part of our design team. She is part of our IT department. She works with Bryce.”
“IT department? Then why the fuck is she even in this meeting? What are you trying to pull?”
Rita sighed. “I had hoped that she would be able to see the ads with fresh eyes, as you had requested, and that she might be able to provide feedback to lay to rest some of your more pressing concerns.”
Her eyes turned on me as she spoke, looking as though she wanted to reach across the table and throttle me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t…uhm…realize that,” I said, turning my eyes away from her intense stare.
“Well, it doesn’t matter what department she works in. I want her on my account from now on.”
“I—I can’t. I mean—I haven’t even finished my paperwork and I still have a mountain of training—” I tried to rationalize to them both. Everything was moving a little too fast for my liking.
“We can worry about that later, Allison.” Rita’s eyes flashed at me, daring me to say one more word. She turned back to Mr. Brighton and offered a fake smile. “She’s all yours.”
The finality of the words shivered through me as I caught the smile of satisfaction on Mr. Brighton’s face.
“Excellent. We will do great things together.”
Chapter Three
I had barely had two seconds to sink into my chair back at my desk before my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“What the hell happened in there?” It was Bryce.
“Let’s go to lunch. I’ll explain it all once I have a margarita in my hand.”
“Deal. Meet you downstairs in ten.” With that, he hung up.
I grabbed my clutch that held my debit card, driver’s license, keys and a solitary lip gloss and headed for the elevators before any more problems could crop up.
Please don’t let him be in the elevator, I mentally pleaded as I halfway jogged to catch the last one as the doors were shutting. I let out a huge sigh of relief when I stepped inside and it was empty. One floor down, it stopped, and two women stepped inside, not even bothering to smile or stop their conversation as they boarded.
“–but I mean did you see him?” the first woman said.
“No! I’m so jealous. It seems like all the fun happens as soon as I step away from the desk. Why was he even here? Normally we all get bombarded with warning memos before one of his visits,” the second paused to pout.
“Oh, who knows? He always has a stick up his ass about something.”
“Well, I would love to get my hands on that ass and help him remove it.”
They both broke into a fit of giggles. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention to the lights at the top, counting down the floors.
“All I know is he came tearing through reception and demanded to see Ms. Blair immediately. I should have let him know that if he needs some help…unwinding…I would be more than willing.”
They cackled together again, seemingly oblivious to the nauseated woman pressed into the back corner. The fact that any woman would spend their time fawning over that man seemed ridiculous to me. Sure, he was hot, but he was also arrogant, controlling, overbearing,
unreasonable, spoiled, and just plain rude. And those are just the traits I had picked up on within the first few minutes of meeting him. I could only imagine what treasures awaited now that I was to be his personal designer for the rest of my stint at Spotlight. How had that even happened? I asked myself. I wasn’t even a designer. I threw out a little critique based on some high school photographer course, and suddenly I’m the best they have? What kind of company was this?
The doors opened as the elevator reached the lobby. All in a huff again, I pushed past the two gossip queens and raced ahead towards the front doors. I needed fresh air, sunshine, and a whole lot of space.
“Son of a bitch!” I exclaimed, stepping into the sunlight outside the shadow of the towering office building I had just escaped from.
Not twenty feet away, there he was. Mr. Brighton. He was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, speaking into his phone. I looked around and didn’t see Bryce anywhere. I decided to walk past, fast, and hope he was too absorbed in his conversation to notice me and I could sneak away and text Bryce to meet me at my car instead of out front.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with it. That isn’t my job, it’s yours! I don’t have time to deal with the bullshit. Today has already been a complete cluster fuck. Send me a car, have this thing towed to your shop, fix it, and then have it sent back to my house.”
Yikes. Maybe those elevator girls had been right about the stick…
He hung up and shoved the phone back into his pocket. I pivoted and started to walk the other way but it was too late.
“Miss Rand?”
Shitballs.
“Yes, Mr. Brighton.”
“What are you doing down here?”
I bristled at his question. “I’m going to lunch if you must know. I didn’t figure you needed a text alert every time I left the office. But since you’re here, is that all right with you?” I asked, making sure to emphasize my sarcasm with a sickly sweet smile.
He returned the forced smile but his eyes were fierce and he bared his teeth in a way that sent a little chill up my spine.
“There is no need to report the insignificant portions of your day to me. I only care about the job and ensuring that it is done, and done right, in a timely manner. As long as that is done, you can go about your business as you see fit.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
We stood, squared off against each other and let our eyes wander down each other’s frames. It started out like two opponents in a boxing match, my five three against his six foot plus, his sharp angles and muscle in contrast to my soft, plentiful curves. His eyes shifted and darkened as he perused, offering no apology as they seemingly inspected every inch.
“Allie!”
We both snapped to attention at the interruption of Bryce’s cheerful voice.
“Oh! Uh, hello, Mr. Brighton. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, I’ll be on my way soon. My car broke down so I am waiting for another to be delivered. It shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. We were just heading to lunch. Would you care to join us while you wait?” Bryce suggested.
My eyes popped open and flew to Bryce, silently demanding he stop immediately.
Mr. Brighton laughed, this time a hearty laugh. “I don’t think Miss Rand here would really appreciate that. But thank you for the invitation all the same.”
Bryce laughed nervously and gave me a slight elbow.
“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” I said, giving him a sharp elbow in return. “Or, if you would like, I could take a look at the car and see if I could help you out.”
Mr. Brighton arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow in my direction. “Really?”
I mentally face-palmed. Why, oh why did I open my mouth?
“Yeah. I have brothers. I know my way around an engine.”
“This I have to see.” He ushered me forward and directed me to his car.
“How is this thing broken? It barely looks like it has dirt on the tires.”
“It’s only about a month old. And I don’t know—it won’t start.”
“Pop the hood.”
He crossed in front of me and went to the driver’s side, leaned in, and a moment later I heard the hood release. He closed the door and came back to stand side by side with me. Bryce had followed us but was standing back on the curb.
I shrugged out of my jacket, thankful I had worn a long-sleeved blouse underneath, and handed it to Mr. Brighton. “Here, hold this.”
I opened the hood, hooked it on the prop, and looked around, mentally checking things off as I went. Everything seemed in place. Nothing was disconnected or seemed to be loose. I was about to cut my losses and admit defeat, blame foreign engineering, and get back on track for mission margarita, when I saw it. I almost laughed with how easy it was. I popped the spark plug wire back into place. Satisfied, I shut the hood, went around to the driver’s side, and had the engine purring within a fraction of a second.
I shut the door and sauntered back to Mr. Brighton, absolutely loving the shocked look on his face.
“What was wrong?” he asked.
“You had a loose wire. Easy fix.”
“Wow. Well, thank you.” He smiled at me and it was the first authentic smile I had seen on his face. It was surreal how much it changed his face. His harshness melted away and he was even more handsome than the intimidating, barking orders, glaring version of himself.
“Not a problem,” I answered. “My jacket, if you don’t mind.”
“Right, of course,” he said. He held open the coat and waited. It took me a moment to realize what he was doing and I struggled to allow him to help me back into my jacket. I didn’t exactly come from a part of town where men helped women into their coats. His hand lingered on my arm for a moment and it seemed like he wanted to say something else, but suddenly he released me and pulled up his sleeve to check his watch.
“Listen, I’m really late for, uh, something. But thank you again. I will be in touch soon.” He went around me and started to get in his car before adding, “About the ads, I mean.”
I nodded and offered a slight wave before turning back to face Bryce. I heard the car pull out behind me but fought off the urge to turn around and see him one last time. Something in my gut told me that I would be seeing plenty of him soon enough and I had a hunch he would be back to his all-business mode.
“That was awesome!” Bryce exclaimed as we crossed the parking lot to his car.
“He was pretty shocked, huh?” I laughed as I remembered the look of astonishment on his perfectly chiseled face.
“Definitely. So, what the hell happened? You’re his new ad rep?”
I nodded. The picture of his face in my mind was replaced by the one of him as I flung ad pages at him. I briefly recapped the scene for Bryce as we got in his car and he drove us to a nearby café.
“You called him a douche!” Bryce was practically giddy as we sat over lunch, my breakdown of the meeting finally completed.
“Well, not exactly. It was implied, though.” I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Were you trying to get fired? Or is that just how you are?” he asked, but he was smiling at me like he already knew the answer.
“I’m sorry, Bryce. I know that my performance reflects on you, too. I shouldn’t have let my mouth get so carried away. He was just staring at me like I was an idiot or something, completely incompetent. I’m just a coffee girl. What could I possibly know about ads?”
“Or cars,” Bryce added.
“Yes, exactly! Or cars. What a dick.” I took another sip off my drink, loving the way the alcohol hit my system. Yes, a margarita was exactly what I needed.
“I have to say, he certainly wasn’t looking at you like you were an idiot when you were bent over his engine.”
I cocked an eyebrow in his direction. “Fan-fucking-tastic. I’m a piece of meat instead. Ugh.”
“I have a feeling you can take care of yourself. Although
, tomorrow should be pretty interesting.” Bryce held up his glass. “Cheers!”
Chapter Four
A fitful night of sleep led to a zombie-like entrance to work the next morning. I wasn’t hung over but damn it if sleep deprivation mixed with a pack of anxiety riddled nightmares didn’t feel like the exact same thing. I got to my desk and slumped into my chair with my eyes still halfway closed. My coffee was cold but I slurped it down anyway, needing every last milligram of caffeine to get me through the day. As soon as my computer booted up I had a musical alert to indicate new emails. I set aside my cup and started scanning through the messages.
Twelve of them were from Mr. Brighton, the time stamps all scattered starting from 5:00 a.m. this morning. I read through them all. None of them had any personal feel—they were all strictly business, which for some reason I couldn’t explain, felt like a relief. After my conversation with Bryce the day before, I had been worried that things had crossed a line into the personal zone with Mr. Brighton, which is a place I knew I did not want to be. He might be the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, real life or movies, and yet, I already knew he’d be nothing but trouble if I were to ever let myself entertain anything other than a business relationship.
I jotted down some brief notes, closed the email file, and went off in search of a refill. On the way to the company break room I spotted a man with a giant bouquet of flowers on the opposite side of the room, making his way into the cubicle maze. For some reason it stung a little to think about the unsuspecting woman who was about to receive the beautiful arrangement. I had only really been in one serious relationship and in the year plus that we were together I had never received so much as a single rose. I used to tell myself that it didn’t really matter, the flowers were just going to die and then you had to clean it all up. I would rationalize that really, my ex, Marx had been saving me from the headache of it all.
“What an asshole,” I whispered to myself. I shook my head to rid myself of any further temptation to wander down memory lane.