by Tasha Fawkes
Or do I? A flash of inspiration cuts through the fog of panic and I blurt out, “When’s the last time any of you got a letter in the mail?”
The volume of my voice surprises even me, and heat begins to creep up my neck. Everyone else stops what they’re doing to look at me like I just spoke Greek. I keep going before any of them can shake off their surprise and break the spell.
“Do you remember what it felt like to get a letter? Or even a card?” I focus on good old Gary, emphasis on the word “old.” He’s the one who’ll remember handwritten correspondence best.
“I remember the way my grandmom would send birthday cards in the mail every year,” I bluff. “I wish I had appreciated them more at the time. It meant something, pulling the card from the envelope, seeing her old-fashioned handwriting inside. She had the most beautiful handwriting, too. Does anybody even practice handwriting anymore?”
That gets a few snorts, but the good kind. The kind that tells me I'm on the right track. That these are the sort of men who sit around bemoaning the state of today's youth, so anything that plays to that part of things will keep their attention.
“I wish I had saved those cards,” I continued. “I wish I had something special to look at and hold. Something she picked out just for me and took the time to write a message in with that perfect handwriting of hers. You can’t get that kind of feeling from an email, can you?”
“No, you can’t.” Gary’s attention is firmly on me. I catch a few nodding heads in my peripheral vision, too.
It’s working.
“The public already knows your name. They know you’re the best, and rightly so since you’ve been working all these years to solidify that reputation. You have that logical side of things that tells them you have quality products. Now, what you need is a way to connect with the hearts of the public. You need to show them how important it is to hold onto those old traditions, and your products will make that possible.” What did Jane describe? I search my memory, straining to get past the lustful thoughts I'd been thinking when I'd taken her home. I need to remember the story she told. “Imagine a commercial in which a little boy gets a letter from his grandfather. Then another one, and another as he’s getting older. Then, we see that grandpa has passed. The adult version of that boy is going through boxes, maybe leaving for college or something, and comes across those letters. He reads them. He runs his fingers over the signature and smiles through tears. He takes the box with him. We fade out to your logo.”
I’m sweating bullets as I finish. Huge caliber bullets. Can they see it? I sure hope not. I manage to keep my chin high and flash them a confident smile as they mull over the idea. Finally, after waiting for what feels like forever, I say, “That’s just a basic concept, of course. We can flesh something out, maybe several somethings, to create a series of commercials based on the central theme of getting back to traditional basics.”
The funniest thing happens. A slow, satisfied smile spreads over Gary’s face. I’m almost afraid to hope it means what I think it means. Then, he says one word: “Genius.”
I’ve never felt more relieved, not even that one time when Trinity had a pregnancy scare that turned out to be nothing. This is even better than that because this paints a hopeful picture of my future. The light round of applause from Gary’s team just adds to it.
“We’ll need a full write-up in two weeks, but I think it’s safe to say you’ve got the account.” Gary rounds the table and catches my hand in both of his and grips tight. The sort of firm handshake that businessmen use to gauge the measure of the other man.
The sort of handshake that I always sneer at and secretly covet. The kind that says I've done well.
“Excellent job, young man. Excellent.”
Whew. I have to keep from hugging the old guy. Sure, I have to write up the presentation, but I have two entire weeks to get it done. It’ll be a breeze…once I figure out how to create a write-up.
Chapter 11
Jane
“I don’t need you to do this. I really don’t.”
Doesn’t this girl know English? What can I say that’ll get through to her? This isn’t one of those situations where I say I don’t want her help, but I secretly want her help. I'm not like that. I just don't know how to get her to see it. Not without telling her more, and that isn't an option.
“I won’t hear of it,” Chloe insists, putting her hand on my shoulder. She isn't looking at me, though. She seems like she's lost in whatever plan she's concocting.
“I wish you would at least try to hear it.” I twist my fingers together, my stomach knotting. Much to my frustration, it doesn't seem to phase her.
She sighs, like I'm being purposefully dimwitted or something. “You’re not some little girl living on the farm anymore. You’re a city girl, living your dreams. Right?”
“Chloe, I didn't grow up on—”
She reaches over and grabs my hand. “It’s time to get your feet wet, Jane.” She winks. “Along with other body parts.”
“Chloe!” I hiss. My face is flaming as I look around to see if anyone's listening. No one's even looking at us, but I still duck my head anyway. So far, my second day of work isn't going any better than the first.
At this rate, I'm going to die from humiliation before the week's out.
“Chloe, I'm serious. I'm not comfortable talking about this here—”
She waves her hand. “Come on, Jane. Everyone talks about it. You’ll get over it. Just like you’ll get over blowing your chance with Mr. Dreamy last night.”
She has a point. I might be a virgin, but I'm not sheltered. Everyone does talk about sex like it’s no big deal. I uncover my face. “You think so?”
“Yes! And those kinds of opportunities don’t come around twice.”
I open my mouth to ask her how she knows, but before I can get a word out, the man himself comes striding around the corner and heads straight for us.
Shit.
“Jane, I need you right now!” His voice is strident. No-nonsense.
Chloe glances at me. “Oh. Guess I was wrong.”
I can already imagine how she’ll grill me later. There isn’t much time to think about that, though, with Anthony bearing down on me. There isn't much to think about anything, actually.
“Follow.” He waves me into his office without another word or even looking in my direction.
I grab the first notepad and pen my fingers close around and dash after him into his office. He stops and turns his back to his desk, leaning against it with a sigh. I close the door behind me and try to tell myself that my heart isn't going a mile a minute.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask. I feel like I'm walking on eggshells. I want to ask him about yesterday. About the kiss and what it meant and how he walked me home but we shook hands and now I don't know what...
I feel sick.
He shakes his head, then runs his hand through his hair. “No. Everything’s good. Too good, maybe.”
I frown. “Is there such a thing as too good?”
He cracks a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “You might be surprised.”
Okay, now I'm curious. And grateful for the distraction. “What’s going on? Can I help with something?”
His eyes meet mine for the first time. “Yes. I think you can.”
Oh, boy. Does he have any idea what he does to me? I should send him a bill for new panties.
Damn Chloe and where her mind has me going.
Just those eyes of his and the way his mouth quirks up in a knowing little smile as his gaze dips to my mouth. I want to know what he's thinking. If he's reliving that moment or regretting it. If he's wishing he would've asked me for more.
Shit. I think he's waiting for me to say something.
“Wha—what can I do?” Get it together, girl.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I landed my first account today.” His grin is downright boyish, and it takes me a moment to realize that he's sheepish. Like h
e shouldn't be proud of what he accomplished.
“You did?” A burst of pride goes through me, and not just because he's my boss. Somehow, I know how much this means to him. He’s more than just the boss’ son, riding on his name and DNA.
He nods as he turns fully toward me. “And I have you to thank for it.”
I point to myself. “Me?”
“It’s Chambersmith.”
Everything clicks into place. “Oh...” I don’t know what else to say. He used my idea? He thought it was good?
He holds up a hand like he expects me to argue. “Before you get the wrong idea, believe me when I tell you I didn’t mean for it to turn out that way. I never considered using your ideas—not because they weren’t good, but because they were yours. Not mine. Only…well…” He trails off, and his eyes dart off to the side, away from mine, shame coloring his pride. “I didn’t have anything they wanted to hear. And I needed this. I really, really did. You have no idea how much.”
From anybody else, that would’ve been a line. From him, it's the truth. I remember the way his father looked and sounded when he talked about Anthony. I can only imagine what their relationship is like. Or rather, I don't want to.
He continued, “Anyway, like I said, I have you to thank. You saved my neck.”
I smile and shrug. “It’s the least I can do after you helped me out last night. I'm glad I could help.”
“Do you want to do more?”
I freeze. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I need help. I might have hooked them and even reeled them in, but this write-up they want in two weeks is what’ll get them in the boat.” His eyes are wide, almost pleading. “I don’t know how to do one. I don’t know how to present this. I need your help.”
I'm thinking maybe I'm misunderstanding something here, so I ask, “I’m your assistant, right?”
He shakes his head, but then clarifies, “This is above your pay grade, I think—but not for long, if things go well.”
That gets my attention, but I temper the spark of hope inside me. “What’s that mean?”
He folds his arms and gets serious, showing me the businessman inside him. I have the feeling that if he would only get serious like that more often, he’d be unstoppable. That steely, determined look on top of his charm and charisma? Forget about it.
“Help me with this and I’ll get you an actual job here. Not just a paid internship that’ll end eventually, anyway. And not just a glorified secretary to make it look like I do something. You’re smart, and your first idea was a home run when you weren’t even trying.”
I start shaking my head before he finishes his sentence. I'd come here with the hope of working my way into a real position, but what he's offering...
He takes a step toward me. “I think you're a sure bet, Jane.”
I don’t know what to say. He's putting a lot of faith in me, based on a single idea. Then again, what choice does he have? Who else can he rely on? His father? His cousin? Even in my short time here, I've heard about Jerrod, and none of it is flattering.
If I do this, it’ll mean spending time together, maybe more time than we normally would. That’s not going to get me to turn him down. The idea alone is enough to set my heart racing no matter how many times I tell myself to cool it.
Plus, a real job. One that will get me on the path to success a lot faster than what I'm on now. Who would say no?
“I’d love to.”
A wide, relieved smile takes my breath away. Does he have any idea how gorgeous he is? Of course he does. But I can tell he's not trying to play me now. The man in front of me is the one I'd gotten a glimpse of last night.
“Excellent. Meet me tonight, and we’ll talk about it?”
Why do I need to meet him somewhere tonight? Still, I agree. I'd agree to meet him anywhere, any time. “Sure.”
“Nine o’clock? Same bar as last night?” And there’s that impish gleam in his eye telling me that he's remembering what happened between us.
And not in a negative way.
Somebody set a bunch of butterflies loose in my stomach. “Okay,” I whisper.
And pray that I won't live to regret it.
Chapter 12
Anthony
For once, Dad’s proud of me. Funny how I always told myself I didn’t care whether he was or not, but now it feels sort of good. Especially because Jerrod is sitting to his right, and my cousin is most definitely not proud. In fact, he looks like he just sucked on a lemon slice. It’s the cherry on top of my sundae, and it takes a lot of self-control for me not to brag.
Dad raises a glass in my direction, totally oblivious to the little drama playing out between Jerrod and me. I turn my attention to my father and mirror the smile he’s giving me.
“To your first account and the stellar idea you pitched to earn it. I got a call this afternoon from Gary Chambersmith himself, singing your praises.”
I return his toast and toss back the single malt scotch he ordered just for this occasion. Jerrod, on the other hand, hasn’t touched his glass. I don't know for certain, but I don't think Dad brought him here when he scored his first account, and I know that has to chafe.
“So how’d you come up with the big idea, anyway?” His eyes narrow, and I’m sure he thinks he looks intimidating.
I shrug and finish off my drink. “It’s sort of a long story,” I explain with a grin. “Not the sort of thing I wanna go into while we're celebrating. Boring actually.” Then, I turn to Dad. “So, did Gary confirm a meeting for two weeks from now?”
Dad nods as he finishes his own drink. “Oh, yes. We’re all set. I’m looking forward to seeing what you present.”
“Me, too,” Jerrod sneers.
I take a moment to indulge in a fantasy where my fist is caving in his snide ferret face. Then I smile.
“I look forward to showing it to you.” I check the time. There’s still an hour until I’m supposed to meet with Jane. The thought of seeing her again outside the office is enough to pull at the corners of my mouth, making me smile just a little when I remember that laugh of hers.
I can't remember what Trinity sounds like when she laughs. Hell, I can't even remember if I've ever heard her real laugh. Jane isn't flashy or trendy or anything like that. She's real. Probably the most real person I've ever met.
And even the finest restaurant in New York can't make me want to be here more than with her. I'm planning on enjoying my meal, but I won't be lingering when I know Jane is waiting.
Dad orders a thick steak, baked potato, and side of creamed spinach. How he manages to keep that trim physique of his is a mystery to me. Must be metabolism, because I doubt that when I'm his age, I'll be able to do the same. Jerrod, big surprise, orders the same thing. He’s so pathetic it makes my head hurt. I order grilled salmon and asparagus, with a salad on the side.
And then remind myself to make sure to grab some mouthwash before I get to the bar.
Just in case I have the opportunity to repeat last night.
“You know, Anthony, I can’t stop asking myself just how you managed to wow Gary Chambersmith, one of the toughest nuts in the world. You cracked him on the first try—not just the first try with his company, but the first try ever.” Jerrod’s smile is tight, practically splitting his face in two.
I wish it would. In fact, I wish I could split his fucking face. I don't give a damn that he's kissing my dad's ass, or even that he's more involved in the company than I am. I can handle all that. If he isn't so damn smug all the time.
I shrug. “Some people are just lucky.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he snaps.
Dad clears his throat. “I beg to differ. A lot of our business is sheer luck. Hitting the right nerve on the right day at the right time. You catch a person on a bad day, and even the best pitch will go south, no question about it.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” my cousin immediately backpedals. Dancing on a string, as always, with Dad controlling his
every movement.
I want to tell him to grow some fucking balls, that I might respect him and his ideas more if they're actually his.
I'm the pinnacle of self-control tonight.
He continues, “I just have to wonder at Anthony’s extremely lucky luck, that’s all. Especially since there was nothing in his ledger only hours before the meeting.”
I blink. Twice. What the fuck? I manage to keep from yelling as I ask, “You were in my office? Looking through my things?”
Dad frowns. “Is this true, Jerrod? Why were you going through his office?”
He turns roughly the shade of a tomato. “I went in to see if he needed any help with the pitch, but that was before we met with him in your office.”
“Oh. I see.” Dad digs into the steak that’s just been placed in front of him, and I take the opportunity to glare at my cousin. At least the food’s here, meaning our mouths will be too full for much conversation.
Or so I think.
“So what direction do you think the campaign will take now?” Jerrod asks before taking a big bite of his steak. It’s medium-rare, just like Dad’s, and he makes a face like he isn't enjoying it as much as he should.
“What do you mean?” I ask as I carefully cut my salmon.
Dad wipes his mouth. “That’s a good question. So, Anthony, what shape do you have in mind for the full scope of the campaign?”
I’m at a loss, of course. What can I say when I have no clue what Jane's going to come up with? Vague. “I have a few ideas.”
“Such as?” Jerrod lowers his knife and fork with an expectant smile.
Damn him. I check my watch and see that it’s quarter to nine. “You know what? I have a meeting scheduled for nine o’clock, and I really should get going.”