Declan is still laughing to himself as we take the booth he’s set aside for us. “You know you should be an analyst with the way you polled the crowd like that.”
“What? That? I’ve never been here, how am I supposed to know what’s good?”
“I don’t know,” he says as he unfolds his napkin and sets it across his lap, “you pick one that has stuff you like.”
It’s not like I can tell him I don’t really know what stuff I like, so I say, “But this was faster.”
His teeth are straight and white as he smiles. “Nothing about that was fast, Indigo.”
Her name bothers me. I don’t want him to call me that.
“Maybe not, but I’m happy with what I’ve got, and now I can test how it went.”
“Again,” he says, “analyst.”
I stick my tongue out at him then take a big bite of my sandwich. He’s still laughing when a soft hum escapes my lips because it’s perfect. Creamy avocado, delicate turkey, robust bacon, everything melding together in a symphony of comfort and happiness.
“And the focus group says yes.” Declan’s eyes twinkle with mischief. It’s oddly comforting to be teased a little.
I hold up a finger to stop him and pull my file from my bag as I’m still chewing. “Speaking of focus groups and analysts, I have these ideas for Devil’s Harp Ale I want to run by you. You said in your report that they were looking to tap into a female market, right?”
“Yes, that was a big part of our meeting. They’ve had this macho persona. They want to break out of the purely southern following they’ve created. I think that’s why they’ve reached out to our firm on the west coast. They want a whole new viewpoint.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. Devil’s Harp executives went looking for someone who hadn’t been raised in their backyard, and instead found the one person who’d lived and breathed it her whole life.
“I hope this idea fits in that viewpoint.” I take a deep breath and launch into my plan. He listens carefully, never interrupting, barely even taking a bite as I go over the details. I focus on the feel of the ads, the idea that the woman is in charge, that it’s her plan all along, the tagline, “you’ve got the story all wrong” and of course, “the devil’s in the details”. A smirk eases onto his cheeks.
“It’s really riding a line, Indigo, but I’m sure you know that,” Declan says when I finish.
“But will it work?” I ask with a twinge of hope in my voice.
“I’ll assemble a focus group for Tuesday. Monday, we need to work with your photographer to get some preliminary ideas in motion.” He stops and thinks for a moment before he adds, “I think it’s brilliant.”
“Really?” My voice tips up on the end because it’s my first creative idea, and I can’t believe it’s going to work.
“Yeah, I mean, honest opinion here, but it’s a lot more complex than what you typically put out.”
I’m not sure how to respond. “I’ve been trying to become more intuitive, better-rounded in my thinking.”
“Well it’s not bikinis on a dinner table so…” he lets his voice trail off. He’s teasing me about the Napa idea.
“Not my best work, no,” I admit because it wasn’t my work at all.
“If you’d collaborate a little bit, Indigo, these things wouldn’t happen.” There’s a condescending note to his voice as if I’m a child and he’s the parent. I haven’t earned this lecture. Coupled with the use of her name, I’m close to breaking character.
“I know and like I said, I’m trying to change.”
“Some say it’s a little too late,” Declan says with a defensive cross of his arms.
“Call it my come to Jesus moment. I feel like—” I start, but the rest of my sentence is cut short by his laughter.
“Your what now?”
“Oh you know,” I have to realize that these people don’t talk like I do, “the last ditch effort, that death bed wish—”
“My grandma was from Georgia,” Declan says, “I know what it means, but I didn’t expect it from you.”
I let my southern drawl roll loose. “Clearly you don’t know that we all have a little southern in us, Mr. Thorpe.”
“That’s the worst southern accent I’ve ever heard,” he says.
I try not to take it personally.
It doesn’t work very well.
“All I’m saying is that I want this job and I’m willing to do what it takes to keep it.”
Declan finally stops laughing at me, and I can see that he knows I’m serious.
“Well this is a good start,” he says. “Work at this pace with this caliber of ideas and you might stick around awhile.
I cross my fingers and smile as if it’s good enough to get me through. My heart rushes as he smiles back and bashfully looks down at his sandwich.
“How old is your daughter?” I ask as we start eating.
My words take him back a bit. He has to clear his throat before he can start speaking again. “Almost two,” he finally chokes out. “About twenty months.”
“Is that a fun age?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Declan says without looking up. “She’s walking and talking a lot, but I’m the only one who understands her.”
“Your wife doesn’t understand her?”
His mouth parts slightly before his lips clam together. “Ex-wife,” he says. I can taste the regret as clear as I can taste my bacon.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.
“I’m not,” he says before he takes a bite and lets his eyes travel over the rest of the restaurant. It’s nearly at capacity with a line still out the door.
“How long has it been?” I ask, hoping it’s not overstepping.
It is.
The tension in his face tells me I shouldn’t have asked.
“About a year. We were only married a year before that though. We share joint custody of Rory.”
Everything he said lights me up with questions, but I can’t get past the name.
“Rory, what an adorable name for a girl!”
The edge of his mouth tips up in a crooked grin that fades. “Her name is Aurora, that’s what her mom wanted, but I’ve always like Rory, so that’s what I call her. That and Squirt.”
I cover my mouth as I giggle at the thought of this brilliant man chasing after the little girl who clearly has a death grip on his heart. I doubt my father has ever had a nickname for me or talked about me with that level of adoration.
“She sounds amazing.”
“She is,” he agrees. “What about you, Indigo, I mean your fling with Fynn is off. Anyone else in the picture?”
Fynn. The pig from the supply closet.
“That was never a thing,” I say as I polish off the last of my sandwich.
His laughter isn’t nearly as jovial this time. “Give me a break, I found you two last time. Sue me for going to the supply closet for, I don’t know, supplies.”
I hate the way he stresses the word, and I hate that this is his impression of me. I want to scream, “I’m not her!” but that would get me nowhere.
“Well like I said, I’m trying to—”
“Change,” he finishes for me, and now we’re staring at each other and for once he’s not looking away. How are his eyes that blue? I want to pull off his glasses and stare until I know all the different flecks and shades that make up his jeweled eyes.
It’s stupid. Didn’t I just get out of a relationship? Shouldn’t I be pining away from my husband that never was?
But that’s the thing. I never loved Reg. Never. I didn’t even have feelings for him, I mean I didn’t hate him, but I didn’t hate the lamp in my bedroom and that’s about as much as I ever felt for Reg. But Declan makes me feel like a kid again, giggly and stupid and okay with it. My eyes drop before his, and I hear his nervous chuckle under his breath.
“You’re not like I thought you would be,” he says after a minute. “Shallow, talking over me, I figured this lunch would be spent w
ith you telling me I have to go along with your plan so Garnet doesn’t fire you.”
“No,” I reach out and lay my hand over his arm, “quite the opposite. I want your opinions. You’re brilliant. Those notes you took from the consultant meeting, I never would have gotten to this point without all your hard work.” The hair on his arm is thick, but soft and it takes most of my willpower not to stroke it like a good dog. Instead, I pull my hand away and remind myself that people shouldn’t pet other people, and certainly not on a business date.
But he doesn’t seem to mind, at least not too much.
“I’m glad you think so. I’m looking forward to finally getting to work with you on a project.”
It’s a sigh of relief. He’s never worked with Indigo. Other than some bad first impressions, I have a blank slate and I can use that.
“Me too. But one thing,” I say before he ducks out of the booth to leave, “can you call me Max?”
The skin between his eyebrows wrinkle a little before he asks, “What? Like Maxwell?”
“Yeah,” I say, grateful Indigo and I have that in common, “all part of this new leaf thing, ya know?”
“Sure, Max,” Declan says before he waves and heads for the door.
I’m not too proud to admit that I watched him walk away, and it wasn’t a bad view at all.
Chapter 11
I spend Sunday on Indigo’s couch watching television. My mother told me it would rot my mind, and she’s right.
And it’s amazing.
And I don’t care.
I round out the day by visiting the grocery store and picking up personal items I don’t want to borrow from Indigo. It’s not long before I figure out that money doesn’t last in this city. I’ve got to sell that dress if I’m going to stay here.
∞ ∞ ∞
Monday morning I wake up in time for boot camp. Tank is in rare form and when only half the class shows up, it’s up to the rest of us to do their work. He still spends most of the class calling me ‘I can’t’ and sees it as his personal mission to show me it isn’t true, that I can. I’d planned on stuffing my feet into a pair of Indigo’s heels, but after class my calves are on fire and I opt for sensible flats and a pencil skirt after my shower.
∞ ∞ ∞
I drop my purse by my desk and kick it under again. My computer chirps as I press the button to wake it up.
“You ready?” a deep voice to my left asks, and I’m not sure what I should be ready for. His hair is long and greasy, tied back in a ponytail, but he’s missed a few strands around his face. If not for the camera slung around his neck, I would have been totally lost.
“Shutter,” I say as I point at him.
“Indigo,” he says back as if I’ve lost my mind. “Come on, models are in the shooting space. Declan sent over his notes last night. I’m pumped about this one.”
He’s gone before I can even roll my chair back. I jog to catch him because I don’t know where I’m going, but obviously he thinks I do.
“I’m thinking we can do a few preliminary shots with the chick and the dude, maybe an apple with fog. I’ve got Larry on video if you really want to do a quick video promo.”
“Sure.” It doesn’t sound strong enough so I say, “It sounds like you’ve got the idea.”
The lever to the door clunks and squeaks as he slams his hands against it and barely breaks stride. “Your vision, we’re all getting it done.”
I spot Declan on the other side of the room. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, eyes darting as though he’s nervous. Then I see my models. There’s not much on them but leaves, strategically placed leaves. No wonder he’s trying to avert his eyes. Any good ol’ boy would.
Shutter is not like Declan. He’s more than happy to stare.
“Oh gorgeous,” he says as he sees my two models that are cast as Adam and Eve. “Okay let’s get you together, make some sparks, see what happens.”
I move to Declan because it feels safer near him than near the nowhere near g-rated show I’ve created.
“What do you think?” I ask as I near him.
“Edgy,” he replies. I hear his exhale through his nose. “But I think it’ll work.”
The male model has the female’s leg wrapped around his waist, hands moving all over her body. Her back is arched and the wind is blows through her hair. Yes, it’s sensual, but it’s not what I had pictured, not exactly.
“This is wrong,” I say and Shutter spins to face me.
“Are you kidding? This is gold.”
“No, I mean, the rhythm is wrong. She’s supposed to be in charge.”
“Yeah,” he says, “she is, but in a subdued, feminine way.”
“No,” I say again. I turn to speak to my Eve model, “I want you to take control, overpower him. Can you do that?”
She nods and brushes her blonde hair off her barren shoulders. She’s a good five inches taller than me, at least four shades tanner. Working in this industry could leave me feeling like an ugly duckling in no time.
“Action,” Shutter calls out and the models begin again. I’m barely back to where Declan is standing before my frustration rises once more because the male model takes charge and the female relents.
“No!” I shout and I feel Declan tense by my side. “Power. Eve, you’re supposed to feed on the power.”
They continue to ignore me, and I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth fighting for. Maybe my idea won’t work. Maybe I’m totally off base and I should give in. But I won’t because I know I’m right and I’m sick of giving in.
“Stop!” I shout as I wave my arms and move toward the models. “You’re not getting this.”
“Indigo,” Shutter starts to talk, but I stop him.
“It’s Max now.”
One of his overgrown hippy dippy eyebrows lifts slightly before he says, “Fine, Max, I don’t understand what the problem is. I’m getting gorgeous shots. You rarely stick around anyway, so maybe you should trust me and get out.”
I’ve been told that I have a temper. It doesn’t surface that often, not like I’ve ever had an audience that cared to listen to a tirade. And I know that ladies are supposed to keep their tempers in check, but I’m sick and tired of being told what to do.
“Declan,” I shout over my shoulder, “can you come help me?”
As he’s moving across the shooting floor to join me, I turn to the models. “Okay, monkey see, monkey do, you got it?”
“What do you ne—” Declan starts to ask me, but I don’t let him finish. I inhale some courage and wrap my hand tight in his shirt to pull him closer.
“See the power in my arm, the muscles, the way I’m taking what I want?”
I stare into those deep blue eyes of his and let my mind wander to all the places a lady’s thoughts should never go.
“See how I’m staring into him like he’s on the menu and he has no choice in the matter?”
My arm jerks him closer and he gives in to the pull until we’re tight against each other and my hand curves up in his hair until I can clench down.
“See the strength there, see how he gives into it and he’s under my spell?”
I run my leg up the length of his and instinctively Declan takes hold below my knee. His lips are parted, and he’s breathing through his mouth because it chills my sweaty skin. Why am I so clammy? Every part of him is making me aware of every square of my body, especially my lips. They’re on fire, and Declan is the only water I can see for days.
“This is what I want to see,” I say as we’re hovering a few inches apart and I’m lost in his gaze. “I want to see you in control, Eve. I want you power hungry. Adam, you’re willing to give everything for one taste of her.”
My lip is trembling, and I can’t stop it. I’ve never felt this before, a fire in my gut, a pulsing need to collapse the distance between us. Declan’s lips are full, and too close. The need to see for the first time what anyone other than Reg tastes like is commanding.
“O
kay, yeah,” Shutter says, “I feel the difference. Let’s reset.”
I clear my throat as Declan drops my leg.
“That should work,” he says as he straightens his clothes. “I think that’ll test well if we can get some shots like that.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” I agree as I smooth my skirt, because I don’t trust my voice yet.
We spend the next hour getting shots, working the video camera, switching out models, and playing with ideas. Every time Declan moves close to me I feel the heat from his frame and I have to move away. What’s wrong with me? Is it years of pent up, unexpressed hormones? Or is it something more? Is he something more?
“Okay,” Shutter says as he pulls the memory card from his camera, “I’ll get this to you tomorrow.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” I rattle off. “Focus group is tomorrow. I need them tonight.”
“You expect me to sort and edit six hundred pictures in one afternoon?”
“Yes,” I say. “I only need a couple shots. Get me the best ones you’ve got by three.”
“You normally give me two days, Indigo.”
“It’s Max,” I correct before I turn to leave. “I need these ASAP, Shutter.”
∞ ∞ ∞
It’s obviously possible because my email chirps with his pictures at 1 and I have the rough video Larry shot by 3. I work with the graphic designers adding the text work and layering in the bottle of Devil’s Harp Ale at the base. I want to show Garnet the second the rough ad is in my hand, but I hold off.
At 4 my email chirps again. The message is from Shutter, which feels odd because he’s only a few feet away from me at his desk. The subject line says, for your own archives. Shutter’s snickers are poorly muffled by the back of his hand.
I open the attachment, and my eyes go wide. It’s a picture of Declan and me at the photoshoot, my leg in his grasp, his hair in mine, eyes locked, tension as thick as grandma’s buttermilk. Caught somewhere between wanting to cover my monitor with both hands, and wanting to dissect the picture for pure art, I stare open-mouthed instead.
“Wow,” Declan says behind me, “not a bad shot.”
My hands fumble across my desk in a mad dash to make the image disappear. I knock over my lamp, an empty bottle of water, and land my keyboard in my lap before I manage to click the X above the picture. Meanwhile, Shutter has fallen out of his chair in a fit of laughter.
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