by Lila Monroe
“I always come to Friday dinner, Mom,” I said. I tried to say this like a reasonable adult stating a fact, which, technically, I was. Only somehow, it came out as a whine.
Family: it’s fucking magical.
There was a heavy sigh, as if I had just single-handedly brought about the fall of Western civilization. “It is called etiquette, dear. It exists for a reason.”
Is that reason to give you something to nitpick about other people, all of the time? I very nearly said, but avoided voicing out loud since I didn’t want to be the first person to cause spontaneous human nuclear explosion.
“I’m coming, Mom. Put me down for a plate.”
“If you’d simply responded to the letter, dear—”
Yep, that’s right. My mom sends gilt-edged paper invitations through the U.S. Postal Service for the weekly family dinner. And then expects you to respond in kind. Sometimes I stop and think about how much free time she must have, to think of all these tiny, pointless things to fill it. And then I eat an entire carton of ice cream to try to stop being depressed.
The elevator reached our floor, and the Douchebros and I made our way to the conference room as my mom rattled on despite my best efforts to tune her out. “And try to wear something appropriate this time, dear, I know more and more women think slacks are appropriate attire these days, but they’re just so unfeminine, and really a skirt is much more flattering for our body type. Why, I remember when your father first started courting me—”
This was what happened when you made your whole life about a man.
I wasn’t going to let it happen to me.
I took my seat at the conference table, and saw the elevator button light up. That had to be the Knoxes! And I’d barely had time to go over Sandra’s tips!
“Gotta go, Mom!”
“Allison Brierly Beignet Bartlett, is that any way for a proper young lady to—”
“Probably not, love you, bye!”
I jammed my finger down on the power button, killing my cell with only a weak buzz as its death throes, before unceremoniously stuffing it into my purse. I was going to pay for that later, in spades, but there was no point in dwelling on that now.
I took a deep breath, smoothing down my skirt as I stood, ready to greet the new arrivals. I thought about puppies and chocolate and tried to make that translate into a friendly smile on my face.
Meanwhile, Harry puffed out his chest and stretched his neck like a bird doing a mating dance.
The first Knox representative into the room was a small, weedy man with platinum blonde hair and watery blue eyes. He looked like he’d gotten his fashion advice from the same place as the Douchebros, but hadn’t managed to get the sizing quite right. His eyes fastened on me, and a leer began to tug at the corner of his mouth.
I ratcheted up my internal gears in an effort to keep my own smile from disappearing. “Mr. Charles Donahue—” I started.
“Call me Chuck,” he barked in a heavy New York accent.
“Certainly. I’m—” I hadn’t even gotten out the first syllable of my name when Harry practically threw himself between us, like a bodyguard trying to stop a bullet.
“Bro, that tie pin! Nobody said you were a—” He preceded to rattle off more Greek letters than I’d even known were in their alphabet.
Chuck’s grin widened. “Good to see the brotherhood still going strong. What year were you?”
“2009, my man.”
And just like that, they were chatting away like best friends, and I’d lost my big chance to establish a personal connection with the client. I watched with a sinking feeling in my gut as Chuck and Harry gabbed away as if everything were already a done deal, and resisted the urge to grind my teeth. Shut out of the boys’ club again.
Still, Hunter Knox, the CEO and owner, was still chatting with some of his flunkies down the hall by the elevator, and he was the one I really had to convince—
I turned to take a closer look at Mr. Knox, and froze.
Bourbon eyes—
Caramel waves—
Freckles like a sweet dusting of brown sugar—
Hunter Knox was my one-night stand.
Chapter Three
What the actual fuck…
For a terrible second all I could think about was the multitude of insulting things I had said about the brand the night before: had I really called it an old person drink? Done a cringe-worthy impression of an Appalachian miner? Oh God, and I had shot down all of his ideas too, hadn’t I?
I was well and truly screwed, and not in the way I’d wanted to be last night.
I did an abrupt about-face and took my seat, not willing to risk him recognizing me—oh God, please let him have been too smashed last night to recognize me now—and avoiding his eyes as he made his way into the room and we all introduced ourselves. I mumbled my name, pretending to be completely absorbed in the task of setting up for my presentation. Move along everyone, nothing to see here—
“It’s lovely to see you again,” he murmured as he passed me, just low enough for me to hear, and I blushed what I was sure had to be a brilliant crimson.
Thankfully, time was money, and Chuck was determined that none of us waste any of it; we moved quickly into presentations. The Douchebros were going first—I certainly bet not for the first time—and I was actually grateful.
Maybe this’ll give me enough time to compose myself and give a pitch so great it’ll totally blow Hunter Knox away. Or at least make him forget how close I came to blowing him.
He caught my eye and winked.
Yeah, and maybe pigs will fly.
Harry sauntered up to the front of the room like confidence was a market and he had cornered it. He brought images up onscreen; last year’s ads for Knox whiskey, and those of its three biggest competitors. The Knox one featured a rugged prospector knocking back a shot, while the other two featured variations on the theme of ‘whiskey droplets trickling down the photoshopped cleavage of a model in a bikini, licking her lips.’
“Why do people drink?” Harry declared more than asked.
“Great taste?” Hunter said dryly.
Harry scoffed. “Puh-lease. People drink to get drunk, and because of the image they can achieve with the right bottle in their hand, and bro? That grizzly frontiersman image you have going for Knox—well, it’s not the image people fantasize about anymore.”
“Please, enlighten me on your fantasies then,” Hunter said, completely deadpan.
Oh my God, had he cut a look at me when he said that? He had, he totally had.
Heat bloomed across my cheeks and down my chest, settling between my legs. Was it possible to be simultaneously this embarrassed and this turned on? Was I even going to be able to form words when it was my turn to present?
Dead, dead, dead, I was so dead.
I forced myself to focus on Harry’s words to distract myself from my rampaging libido, though they made me so sick I soon wished I hadn’t.
“It’ll be a total rebrand: ‘Girls Gone Wild’ but with a wilder, hotter, more in-your-face vibe! You drink Knox, you get a party—complete with all the whiskey-loving babes you can dream of. We’ll get a hot naked chick on the label, with strategically placed lettering, of course—” he brought up several potential photos on the screen, and I tried not to gag, “and here’s what we’re thinking for TV spots.”
He hit another button, and moans filled the room as women writhed in ecstasy across the screen. For a moment I felt intensely embarrassed for him, accidentally playing us his porn collection like that during an important meeting.
Then I saw the whiskey splashing over their breasts, and I realized that this was actually the ad he wanted Knox whiskey to go with.
Was he insane?
“Sure, there’ll be controversy,” Harry was saying dismissively, “but any publicity is good publicity, and that’s how you get the college crowd. The ones that won’t follow their dicks to us will be following us based on our stand on free speech. There’
s nothing more like catnip to a college freshman than a banner-waving contest about—”
“I hope you’re not implying we’ll be marketing to underage drinkers,” Hunter cut in.
Harry blinked, derailed. “What?”
“College freshmen are eighteen years old,” Hunter Knox said patiently. “Marketing to them would not only be illegal, but downright immoral.”
“Well, obviously we wouldn’t be selling to them,” Harry said in his ‘I-have-to-say-this-for-the-lawyers’ voice. “But if we can get in there as early as possible, establish brand recognition, then we can create a desire in the marketplace for—”
“I’m afraid I’m not terribly interested in customers who—how did you so poetically put it—are led to us by their dicks. For one thing, it’s a terrible mental image that I may never be able to fully scrub from my mind.” Hunter’s voice had been dryly amused, but now it hardened, heated steel underlying his words. “For another, it pisses on everything I hold sacred about this company, which I’ll remind you is a family business, and the trust it has put in me.”
Harry gaped, as if he couldn’t comprehend a universe in which a man hadn’t decided to put a naked woman on his product. Around the table, the rest of the Douchebros sagged, deflating like balloons with day-old helium.
“Now hold up just a minute,” Chuck argued, leaning over to his boss. “We haven’t heard them out yet. Maybe they’re a little gung-ho, but new directions are why we approached this company. No sacred cows, remember? Not if we want the share price to go anywhere anytime soon. What else do you boys have in mind?”
The Douchebros immediately perked up, like Rottweilers who’d heard a dog whistle in the distance.
“You’re the one who said we needed new directions,” Hunter said with a dark look at Chuck. “I agreed because you’ve had good ideas in the past, but I’m the CEO here, and if I think something pisses all over the good work this company has done, then that’s the final word.”
Chuck looked like he wanted to argue, but Hunter didn’t give him a chance, turning to me instead. “What about you?” he asked, a slight smile quirking his lips, bringing a touch of playfulness to his stern face. “I’m guessing you have plenty of opinions.”
Oh, he definitely remembered every word I’d said. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Still, it didn’t seem like he resented it or anything. Maybe…
I stood, trying to project a confidence I didn’t feel.
“You don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater,” I said. “And you don’t throw away a proud history just because today’s market has become disconnected from it.” I clicked the remote, pulling up graphics and statistics. “And today’s market wants to connect with history, any history. Hipsters and millennials, they’re disenfranchised and dying to feel like they’re a part of something bigger. And when these corporations—” I gestured behind me—“played that angle, they saw a thirty-five to fifty-five percent rise in sales to the 21-34 demographic.”
Both Chuck and Hunter sat up visibly higher in their seats, intrigued, but Harry just sneered. “So your big idea is just to copy what other people have done? Guess this is what you get when you ask a woman for something original.”
Next to him, the other Douchebros shifted, clearly uncomfortable. It was one thing to insult me when I was on my own, with no way for me to back up any allegations I might want to make. It was apparently another thing entirely to do it in front of a potential client, who might decide not to go with our company at all if Harry kept this up. Poor Douchebros—they wanted to back up their alpha male, but they also wanted to keep their jobs. It must be so difficult being an asshole.
Meanwhile, Hunter’s glare could have frozen lava. “You’ve had your turn.” He directed his gaze back to me, dismissing Harry completely. “How would you suggest we implement your plan, Miss Bartlett?”
I smiled sweetly, forcing myself not to dwell on my nemeses. “Well, obviously we’d need to do in-depth research of your company, get a look at all the first-hand documentation we can find,” I explained. “This won’t work with just the info we can pull off Wikipedia. Of course, we will need to use the internet—basically, I’m thinking we begin to establish an online presence, reaching out to fans with fun messages while also creating a historical archive that we’ll be updating. Are you familiar with George Takei’s online presence? A good sense of humor mixed with some real feeling, plus a talented PR team that took him from ‘obscure original Star Trek actor’ to ‘Internet celebrity’ overnight. I really think we could take a page from his book.”
“I’m sorry,” Chuck interrupted, “but a historical archive? That’s just not sexy. That’s not going to sell.” The Douchebros murmured in agreement, but I refused to back down.
“With all due respect,” I said, setting my jaw. “If you go with the sex angle, you’ll only be drowning yourself in a sea of identical alcohol ads. You need something that stands out from the pack, something that’s at once both culturally relevant and timeless, something classic, something that says…” I paused, grasping for exactly the right word, every set of eyes in the room glued to me. And then, what Hunter mentioned earlier about Knox being a ‘family business’ came rushing back. “That says legacy,” I finished. The room went silent.
“Legacy. You’re absolutely right,” Hunter said, standing abruptly and holding out his hand. A warm smile spread itself across his face. “I love it. You’ve got the job.”
For a second I could only stare at his hand in shock, as if I expected it to disappear. I had put together the strongest case I could, and I’d hoped I could succeed, but this was so sudden—my heart was suddenly going a million miles a minute, a buzzing filled my ears—
I had the job.
I had the job.
I had the job!
I realized his hand was still hanging there, and I grabbed it. A tingle of electricity shot through me at his firm grasp, and the warmth of his skin. His honey eyes were so warm, so inviting…his thumb brushed lightly over my palm…Oh God, was I blushing?
I pumped his hand heartily to try to distract from my rapidly reddening cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Knox! I won’t let you down!”
Now all I had to do was keep that promise.
“Miss Bartlett!”
I was brought up short by Hunter’s deep, honeyed voice. For a second my mind flashed to an alternate reality where we’d spent the entire evening in bed; there was something incredibly seductive about the idea of him staying entirely formal even as our naked bodies intertwined, whispering ‘Miss Bartlett’ even as his fingers trailed down my back, slid between my—
“Miss Bartlett.”
And suddenly that voice was a lot closer. I almost choked, and fighting down a blush that could have started a forest fire, turned to face him: “Yes, Mr. Knox?”
Oh good, that sounded almost normal. Barely like I wanted to rip his shirt off at all.
He frowned slightly, and pulled me to the side, far enough away from the rest that they couldn’t overhear us while we talked quietly. In a low voice, he said, “I’m really sorry that I—well, if I’d known that you were here for this bid—”
“No, don’t apologize, I mean, I should’ve asked your name—” I smoothed my skirt awkwardly. “I mean, that’s not normally my style, to just—well.”
“No, it’s certainly not mine, either—that is, well, it has been in the past, but I have always believed in treating women with respect, and you certainly deserve respect and I wouldn’t want you to believe for a second that I chose your pitch for anything other than its merit, and—”
He was starting to sound more flustered than a preacher in a whorehouse, and I took pity on him.
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Knox. It was a clearly a one-time thing for both of us. I don’t think it will be an issue. We can be professional and move on, can’t we?”
“Of course,” he said after a pause. “That’s exactly the right course of action.” Yet somehow he didn’t sound
as relieved as I thought he would.
I looked up at him sharply, about to ask if professionalism was really what he wanted, but he was already looking over my shoulder, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Hmmm…what’s the plural noun for a group of vultures?”
I turned, following his gaze to the cluster of Douchebros by the elevator. Chuck was right in among them, looking exceedingly chummy as they pounded him on the back and laughed at something he had said.
“Now there’s some love at first sight,” I said dryly.
A laugh startled itself out of Hunter’s throat, but his eyes stayed worried.
“Not sure about the kids?” I joked. “It’s true, if they get Harry’s brains they’ll all be doomed.”
Hunter chuckled again, but this time it seemed more out of politeness. “Chuck…has a certain tendency to intrigue. I sometimes think he would have been happier working in the CIA than at a liquor company.”
“So send the director his resume,” I said with a grin.
Why did I want so badly to make this man laugh? Was it just that I was remembering his easy smile the night before, the way it had lit up his face and made him look half a decade younger? Or was it something else—those faint lines at the corners of his eyes that I hadn’t seen before now, worn by worry and care, making me want to soothe them away?
“The truth is…Knox shares have been falling, and this is my last chance to turn the company around,” he said, and the way he said those words, his eyes distant, I wasn’t sure if he knew he had spoken them or if he’d just thought them so fervently that his lips had to move. “So if I fail now, the vultures like Chuck move in. I can’t fail.”
My heart lodged in my throat, fluttering, and I gripped his hand impulsively.
“I won’t fail you.”
He looked at me then, in a way that none of my colleagues or even my family had ever looked at me before. He looked at me like he really saw me.
And then he smiled, a slow grin that called up moonlight and moonshine and soft, rumpled sheets. “I’ll hold you to that.”