This man takes himself far too seriously. He really thinks he’s some gift to the world. The worst part is, in spite of his arrogance, I’d relish peeling that dark suit off his body.
Or maybe I’d just like to hang off him the way his jacket does.
Either way.
“Without this business—my business—so many of those buildings would be empty. They’d go bankrupt and their people would be out of work. Without marketing, a business is nothing more than a stalled engine. HeronComm has worked with two thirds of the companies you’re looking at right now. We’re jet fuel for everything that soars in this city. Even the fastest blip of a mobile ad or Instagram advertising another mindless game to download helps someone accomplish their dream. Advertisement’s the blood of the business world, Miss Bristol, and we’re the lion’s share of that market. It isn’t just a numbers game. We charge what we do because I guarantee conversions. We work sixteen hours a day to make their engines, their dreams, roar.”
Am I supposed to be impressed?
It’s a good speech, but it’s hard not to roll my eyes.
He’s got a high and mighty view of what he does.
Not that I think he’s wrong, exactly. Marketing is important.
If I could convince Mom to believe in it, get her to take a few self-publishing marketing courses, maybe I could quit secretly buying her books. But if HeronComm wasn’t providing the service, wouldn’t some other company just steal their clients?
I glance over, carefully avoiding his eyes.
Is he done? I’ve got too much work to do to stand here listening to big speeches all day.
But bits and pieces of what he said echo Armstrong’s words from this morning.
A driven man with a clear vision fits the crass grump in his glassy tower like a glove.
Maybe he’s not so bad after all.
So I take the olive branch, smile, nod, and turn my foot.
“I appreciate the introduction,” I tell him.
I’m about to walk away when he grabs my arm. It’s not some harsh power move. It’s gentle.
My whole body tingles.
Still, his unexpected touch stops me in my tracks. I take a deep breath, hoping he doesn’t realize I’m already hooked on his smell. My eyes lock on his face, every hard angle and the halo of a beard, which tells the world he’s not afraid of breaking the clean-shaven convention for most big city tycoons richer than Midas.
“Are you enjoying your drink?” he asks, his voice like low, pleasing thunder.
“I am.” I blink, wondering if I’ve unlocked some strange softer side.
“Good. I trust it’s the fuel you need to get your ass in gear,” he snaps, shattering the illusion.
Stupid me.
Forget maybes. He definitely is that bad. And just like that, any kind gesture with the coffee is erased by his acid words.
I’m starting to get why so many people quit this job. If I didn’t have to cover both my expenses and my parents, I’d be gone in a flash.
“What? No smart-ass comeback this time? You’re a quick study, Miss Bristol, and I like it. I’ve sent a new project list, also. You’ll need to go through it the same way you did yesterday’s assignment. Once you’re done with that, you can start making courtesy calls to clients who haven’t rebooked and let them know you’re offering them the chance before our calendar fills up.” He runs a hand through his sandy mane of hair.
“Okay. I’m on it.” I have to physically bite my tongue to restrain said smart-ass comeback.
“After that, there’s plenty of filing to keep you busy. Old records on paper as well as our digital system which desperately needs some TLC. Remember to answer my emails along the way. Finally, you’ll be happy to know there’s something else right up your alley...”
He leaves me in suspense.
“What?” I ask. What now?
“We have a meeting with a large pet brand at one o’clock this afternoon you’re expected at. You won’t be doing any talking, but I will need you to record what’s going on. Having a record makes it easier to keep everyone on the same page. Are you going to remember all of this?”
I nod, biting my tongue extra hard. “I’ll write it down as soon as I get to my desk.”
“Next time I call you to my office, bring a pen and paper, or have a notepad app ready. If you need supplies, ask Ruby. I’ll see you this afternoon. Don’t be late again.”
“Again?” I echo, unable to smother the edge in my voice.
He smiles like he’s caught me and he enjoys it. Prick.
“You weren’t here at five. Don’t pretend you were.”
“How would you know? You weren’t even here when I got in. Don’t pretend.” I fling his own words at him with a cheesy smile.
“Oh, I was here before four. I had a meeting with the creative team lead at five. I’m sure you remember Hugo from the park?”
Damn.
Busted.
Also, knowing he was here earlier than anyone else makes me hate him a sliver less. I can’t be angry at a supervisor who holds himself to the same expectations—even if those expectations are Joe Stalin worthy. “I won’t be late.”
“Good.”
He goes back to his desk, and I start for the door. Thank God.
“Wait, Miss Bristol,” he calls. I cringe. “One more thing I forgot.”
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
Ugh. Does he just want me taking extra steps? I head back to his desk.
He pulls a drawer open and hands me a black card.
“Armstrong said you needed this.”
My face warms. It was one thing for Armstrong to know my desperation, but it bothers me that Heron knows it, too. Not that I’m turning down a chance to use company credit for whatever insane snipe hunt he sends me on next.
“Thank you,” I say, trying hard to be sincere.
And then, before I realize what I’ve done, I curtsy again.
6
Bad Art Project (Magnus)
It’s almost time for the meeting with Woof Meow Chow, so I voice dictate the email I’m working on, press send, close my laptop, and grab my briefcase.
I have to say, things are better.
Before Sabrina Bristol, I couldn’t hold down an assistant to save my life, and the last girl wasn’t nearly as good as her first impression seemed. Finishing everything I dumped on her last night should’ve been impossible.
Somehow, she managed.
For the first time in over a month, my inbox isn’t overflowing. It’s like standing up from a weight machine after an hour at work, taking a deep breath with two hundred pounds of raw power still hanging over your head.
Miss Bristol is air. Room to breathe. And she’s whatever the hell else a man should say about a beautiful woman who does her job while looking like Venus incarnate.
When I arrive at the conference room, the entire C-level team is already there, including my new assistant. The dress she’s wearing today hugs her body the same way the sweater dress did the day I met her in an explosion of cinnamon rage.
But this is no sweater.
The creamy skin of her shoulder rests on either side of her delicate black dress straps.