by Aven Ellis
I push down that thought. I’m being paranoid. Surely she wouldn’t be that bitchy on my first day, would she?
“But I want you to go down and get my breakfast first,” she says, slipping behind her desk. “I want a banana. One black coffee, size venti. Bring it back ASAP, then go down and collect the rest of the order. You can ask Helena at the receptionist desk to direct you to the conference room and then you can set it up.”
“Absolutely. Do you have a corporate card you want me to put this order on?” I ask.
Mallory is swiping things on her phone, and doesn’t even look at me to answer. “No. Expense it and use your credit card.”
Seriously? She wants me to put this on my personal card, when I’m almost a hundred percent sure she has a corporate card in her wallet?
Okay. Team player and willing to roll with it this time.
“Sure,” I say, thankful that I do have room on my credit card to actually do this. “I’ll be right back with your breakfast.”
I head back out of the office, not even having time to take my coat off or to even ask where I’m sitting. I get down to Starbucks, place the order I’ll return for, and then run upstairs to bring Mallory her breakfast.
When I approach her office, I see her computer screen is pulled up to Nordstrom.com and she’s viewing shoes.
I hesitate in the doorway. I know everyone goofs at work a little bit each day, but right before an important meeting she’s studying shoes?
More warning flags go flying in my head.
No. Try not to judge. Be positive. First day. I put the warning flags away as part of this effort.
I clear my head and rap on the doorframe. “Mallory, I have your breakfast.”
Mallory swivels in her chair. “Come in.”
I step inside and place the banana, the coffee, and a napkin on her desk.
“I’m going to go back down and get the rest of the breakfast,” I say.
“Wait,” Mallory says, picking up her banana and peering at it. “I don’t approve of this one.”
Okay, red flags back in play.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Too many brown speckles. I take them un-speckled.” Mallory dumps the banana in the trash. “Please get me another one.”
I force myself to keep my mouth closed. I can’t believe what Mallory just did. She threw away a perfectly good banana!
“Um, sure,” I say, thinking I don’t like the first impression I’m getting of my new boss.
So I head back downstairs, sift through the bananas to find the least speckled one, pick up my order, juggle it all in my hands and come back up. I give Mallory her banana. Next I see Helena, the receptionist, and she directs me to the conference room, as I can’t quite remember how I got there last week when I had my interview.
As I enter it for a second time, I once again think it’s unlike any I’ve ever seen. You enter through glass doors, and there’s a huge, wooden conference table. It’s rustic, like old barn floor planks were used for the top. Retro sixties-style chairs in red are all around it for a relaxed feeling.
I set everything on the large table and shimmy out of my coat. I hurry and arrange the assortment of breakfast treats onto a platter I found in the cupboard and place it in the center. Then I set up the coffee on a side table and realize the meeting will begin shortly. I pick up my coat and purse and head back to Mallory’s office.
And I find Mallory is still studying shoes.
I think I’m going to run out of red flags before noon.
I clear my throat. “Mallory?”
“Hmmm?” She doesn’t even turn around, but instead clicks on a pump.
“Everything is ready in the conference room.”
“Okay.”
“Um, is there somewhere I can put my coat and purse?” I ask.
Mallory doesn’t even move. “There’s a desk right outside my door. That’s yours. Be in the conference room right before nine-thirty.” Then she swivels around. “Greet the guests and offer them drinks. But don’t say anything else in the meeting. You’re there to observe.”
Hmmm. According to the ChicagoConnect website, free thinking is encouraged on all levels and everyone is to participate, at least according to their mission statement.
So either the philosophy is bullshit, or Mallory is going to treat me like a personal assistant who needs to sit down, shut up, and check bananas for spots because she doesn’t want the low woman on the totem pole to speak up and possibly show intelligence.
Oh, crap, what have I gotten myself into?
“Of course,” I say, but I secretly vow I won’t keep my mouth shut forever. If she thinks she can push me around—well, she hired the wrong woman if that’s what she intends to do.
I head out and find a vacant desk right in front of her office. Apparently it’s mine. There’s nothing on it, except for a computer and a phone. I drape my coat over the back of the chair. Then I locate a locked drawer and put my purse and phone in it. Inside of it I find a tablet and a pencil, and I decide to take those with me to the conference room.
Funny, you think Mallory would introduce me to the other staff members before the meeting.
Then again, that would require leaving Nordstrom.com.
I enter the conference room. I don’t know where they’d want me to sit, so I position myself next to the coffee. I figure I can serve drinks, and then once everyone has a seat, I can take mine.
I eagerly peer through the glass doors toward the hallway. This is so cool. I’m actually sitting in on an important client pitch! I can’t wait to see the presentation, how they present ChicagoConnect, what kind of questions the client asks. What an incredible opportunity to have on my first day.
Finally I see people headed my way. One is Mallory, of course. Then I recognize Tom Hung, the CEO, and Alyssa Brighton, who is the head of Graphic Design.
Behind them is a man in a suit, who must be one of the clients. But I barely notice him as soon as I see the man behind him.
As soon as I do, I can’t breathe. My heart jumps wildly inside my chest. No, no, this can’t be him. How can it be? What is he even doing here?
Because right now I find myself staring right into the familiar brown eyes of the potential client.
Beckett Riley.
Chapter 6
The Aubrey Rules To Live By, Rule #6: Always keep your business life and your personal life separate.
**Amendment** Due to no fault of my own, my personal life imploded into my brand new job that I have been at for, oh, an hour and fifteen minutes? The potential client is a man who has stepped on my tampon. And I’ve accused him of having serial killer potential. Told him I was bloated. Oh, and he said one of my interview answers was pure bullshit.
**Note** I’m so screwed.
My brain goes into complete panic mode. Everyone is doing the pre-meeting chatter, happily discussing the snow forecast, and I’m paralyzed with mortification.
Will Beckett say he knows me? Could this blow the account for ChicagoConnect? I mean, why would Beckett in his right mind want me to have anything to do with his account? Sure, laughing at my stories might be one thing, but it’s another to entrust his social media image to an account that I’m working on.
Then again, I’ll probably never touch this account.
I’ll be busy counting brown spots on bananas.
“Good morning, Aubrey,” Tom says brightly. He reaches for a Starbucks cup and smiles. “Gentlemen, this is Aubrey Paige, the newest member of our team. Aubrey, I’d like you to meet Evan Grayson, of the Evan Grayson Agency, and you might already know his client, Chicago Buffaloes Captain Beckett Riley.”
I shift my eyes nervously back to Beckett. His brown eyes register nothing but surprise at seeing me.
; “Um,” I say nervously, “good morning. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, extending my hand to Evan.
“Likewise,” Evan says, gripping my hand firmly.
Then I turn to Beckett. I’m about to speak when he offers me his hand.
“Aubrey, pleasure to meet you,” he says softly. “Congratulations on the new job.”
I grip his hand and the second I do, butterflies shift manically in my stomach. His hand is huge, and his skin feels deliciously warm against mine.
I keep my eyes on his. And then he smiles at me, that crooked smile, and I know he’s going to keep the fact that he knows me a secret.
“Thank you,” I say, willing him to understand I’m thanking him for so much more. I reluctantly remove my hand from his. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I would,” Evan says. “With one cream, two raw sugars please.”
I direct my attention to Evan. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll get my own, thank you,” Beckett says.
“We have plenty of muffins, bagels, and pastries,” Mallory says brightly. “So don’t be shy.”
While people are selecting baked goods, it’s just me and Beckett at the table with the coffee. I grab a cup so I can pour some for Evan.
And as I do, Beckett leans down close to me. “I told you they’d hire you,” he murmurs quietly.
His scent wraps around me, that sexy combination of pine and spice and citrus, and my nerves leap in response.
“I hear my bullshit answers are pretty good,” I say quietly, so only Beckett can hear me.
I shift out of the way, and while I’m getting some sugar for Evan’s coffee, Beckett pours his.
“They are,” he teases back.
I glance up at him. He’s smiling at me, and I find myself returning his smile.
I then clear my throat and finish making the coffee for Evan. I bring the cup to the table, placing it in front of him.
Beckett moves past me and takes the seat next to his agent. I pick up my notebook and pencil, along with a cup of coffee for myself, and place them at the vacant seat next to Mallory. There are plenty of left over bread items, so I help myself to a muffin and sit down. I feel Mallory’s eyes on me, and I wonder if she is repulsed by the fact that I eat bread products.
Then I realize she’s not looking at me. She is staring at my muffin. As if she’s about to pounce on it and swallow it whole.
I move my plate. She blinks and shifts her eyes away from my food.
“Well, why don’t we get started,” Tom says. “And I have to say it’s an honor to be one of only three agencies that will be presenting to you, Beckett.”
I watch as Beckett rubs his hand against the side of his face. The lightness is gone from his dark-brown eyes that was there when he teased me a few minutes ago. In fact, he appears miserable. As if he’d rather be doing anything but sitting in a board room listening to people give him a bunch of bullshit about running a top flight social media campaign for him.
“As you know,” Evan says slowly, and I can tell he’s used to speaking on Beckett’s behalf, “my agency does have an in house social media arm, but Beckett wanted someone outside of the agency to handle these affairs on his behalf.”
“Not that I don’t think Evan can,” Beckett explains softly. In fact, it’s almost hard to hear him. “But I want a different approach to this. If I’m being forced to do this, I want a new angle, people who can throw non-hockey perspectives at me for the bigger picture. From people who don’t know me.”
Then his eyes shift to me for a moment, and once again I see a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. But then Beckett represses it and directs his attention to Tom.
“Well, we would love the opportunity,” Tom says, standing up. “We’ll start with a presentation, including a concept for your website, one that we can tie into all social media fronts for you.”
His assistant, a beautiful blond named Neilson, dims the lights and lowers the video screen. A slick, glossy video promo comes on, one showing all the elements of a successful social media campaign, from assembling a capable team to choosing effective platforms. Words such as “real” and “consistency” are repeated throughout the presentation. And, of course, the point is continually hammered home as to why ChicagoConnect is the only firm that can bring the level of expertise and refreshing realism to a campaign for one of hockey’s rising stars, one who could transcend the sport with the right media coaching and campaign.
I cut off a piece of my muffin while designs for a sick “Beckett Riley” website are revealed. As soon as I pick up my muffin, Mallory’s head swivels to my hand, her eyes wide as she stares at my blueberry piece of evil bread indulgence.
I wrinkle my brow. I half-expect her to swoop in like an eagle and snatch it with her perfectly polished nude talons.
Then I feel eyes on me. I glance across the table and Beckett is watching me with a look of amusement on his gorgeous face. He must have seen my creeped-out expression, as I have a crap poker face at hiding what I’m feeling.
As soon as my eyes meet his, it’s all I can do not to laugh. But since that would get me fired, I avert my eyes away from his and pop the muffin piece into my mouth before Mallory pins my hand to the table and snatches it from me.
“We also have ideas for a logo, to develop Beckett Riley as a brand,” Alyssa says, standing up and taking over the presentation. She presents several different logos, including several with the initials BR. Alyssa goes on to show potential product lines for BR T-shirts and baseball caps.
Hmmm. So far they haven’t presented one item of women’s clothing, and from my sleuthing this week, women are a huge part of Beckett’s fan base. They need to present that to Beckett and tap into that market to expand his brand. After all, I can’t even tell you how many pictures I saw of Beckett on Tumblr with the caption ‘ovaries exploded’ underneath it.
Beckett would die if he saw those. He’s so shy and soft-spoken and the idea of women talking about him exploding their ovaries . . .
I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing. I steal another look at him, and he’s watching the presentation, but I have no doubt in his head he’s in a different place.
Like the hockey rink.
But all the same, I jot that idea down on my notepad. They need to tap the female fan base as part of his new branding campaign.
I lift my head and study Beckett once again. He’s so handsome, with the dark-brown hair and deep eyes. And he’s all athlete, all muscle, and his physical dominance on the ice is sexy as hell. From what I could tell from my Net research, he’s a top scorer, but isn’t afraid to mix it up and protect his teammates.
While he’s a beast on the ice, off it he’s not. When he speaks he’s soft-spoken. Shy. Gentle. The exact opposite of who he is on the ice.
And it’s easy to see why so many girls are crazy about him.
“Beckett, we know you have to leave for practice and we want to be sure you’re on time,” Tom says, standing back up while Neilson turns on the lights. “Do you have any questions for us?”
Beckett turns his attention to Tom. “I do. Who would be handling my Twitter and Instagram accounts? Will I have a dedicated person for it?”
“Mallory?” Tom says, deferring to her.
“Yes,” Mallory says. “Beckett, you would have a dedicated team to handle and monitor your accounts. We would provide responses and address issues, and of course, monitor posts to see what achieves the greatest reach, things like that.”
“I want one person,” Beckett says, his soft-spoken voice growing more firm. “Aubrey.”
Chapter 7
The Aubrey Rules To Live By, Rule #7: If faced with an awkward situation at work, always keep up the appearance of being calm and in control.
**Amendment** If said situ
ation is on the first day of work, and the client is Beckett Riley, and he wants you to be in charge of his account even though you are obviously not qualified for it, REMAINING CALM AND IN CONTROL WHILE YOUR FACE IS A RAGING INFERNO AND YOU NEARLY SPIT OUT YOUR STARBUCKS IN SHOCK is freaking impossible.
As soon as the words escape Beckett’s lips, I begin choking on my coffee.
Wait. What? What did he say?
Beckett wants me to be in charge of his social media accounts?
I’m praying I misunderstood him.
But since the conference room has gone silent, and everyone is staring at me with a mixture of stunned and confused expressions on their faces, I apparently didn’t.
Blood rushes to my head. Damn it. Damn it. I know it matches my hair, as my face burns red hot.
“Um,” Mallory begins, “why Aubrey? Not that I don’t think she’s incredibly talented, otherwise we wouldn’t have hired her, but this is her first day. That’s asking quite a lot of her to take this on at this point in her career.”
This is humiliating. Mallory made my position at ChicagoConnect very clear, that I didn’t know shit, basically, and had to work my way up to her level of expertise, and now the client is challenging that. I’ve only known her for, oh, less than three hours but I know she’s fuming over this.
My new coworkers look utterly mystified, and to be honest, I am, too. I mean, Beckett’s seen me at my worst. He has no clue about my qualifications. I don’t have to worry about an ulterior motive, as I’m not the kind of girl he would date, I’m sure, so that’s off the table as well.