Is it as soft as it looks?
Her face is expressive, this whirlwind of emotion and bright-eyed gumption.
I can always read her real thoughts in those big brown eyes, and I like it.
A grin spreads across my face. I wonder what her face would show if I ever traced my finger along the edge of the black fabric from the shoulder strap, diving right where it swoops above her cleavage.
Fuck.
Not thoughts I ought to be having about my new EA.
Not fantasies I should ever let myself have about any EA, especially this one.
When I realize I’m grinning, I set my face straight. I don’t need the CEO of Woof Meow Chow to come in and think I’m a pushover because I’m part Cheshire cat.
I’m also well aware I’ve been staring at Sabrina too long. She’s so alluring it’s hard to look away.
I tell my eyes I’m still in control, and as I peel my gaze off her, I notice her sleek black laptop has a sticker on it the size of my hand.
I shake my head.
We’re going to have a talk about office appearances.
She can’t come to an executive-level meeting with her laptop dressed up like it belongs to a damn college kid.
What is that thing anyway? It’s got pink feet and wide yellow eyes, but it’s...a bulb of garlic?
Why would garlic have feet and eyes? Who puts humanoid garlic on their laptop?
Shit. I’m going to be thinking about that all meeting long now.
Not the distraction I need.
There are three empty chairs across from me. I made sure my team left them so when Chester Stedfaust and his people get here, they’ll be right where I want them.
The man’s older, close to my father’s less-than-graceful middle age. In fact, they’re still friends, which doesn’t make this any easier.
He comes in flanked by two guys my age. The younger minions immediately take the leather seats across from me.
Stedfaust scans the table. His eyes linger on my twenty-three-year-old assistant longer than they should.
A biting urge to punch the guy burbles up, but thirty seconds ago I did the same thing.
He’s only human, and apparently, I’m only part jealous caveman.
The difference is, he finds one empty chair at the end of the table and takes it, so Sabrina is right beside him.
An alarm goes off in my head. Executives don’t normally come into this room and automatically plop down beside the youngest, prettiest, most inexperienced new girl.
Not sure what game he’s trying to play, but it’s not happening on my turf.
Client relations be damned.
“Miss Bristol, do you want to come closer?” I motion to the one seat left across from me.
She raises an eyebrow, then nods and begins moving her laptop.
“Easier for you to help with the presentation,” I add, since it’s clear she has no idea what’s going on.
She nods and takes the open seat.
The old man with the bulldog face at the end of the table looks disappointed.
Douchebag. I take care of my employees, even the childish ones with pink garlic stickers on their company laptops.
Sabrina opens the PowerPoint and syncs it to the projector, beaming it on the pull-down screen.
“Thank you all for coming today. I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Stedfaust, so I’ll get right to it,” I say, casting my eyes around the room. “Let’s start with data on the target audience you’re after, and then I’ll show you our concepts and explain how each one corresponds to what the data says.”
Each member of my team is poised at their laptop, ready to take notes. The two guys from Woof Meow Chow across from me nod.
“Sounds like a swell time,” Stedfaust mutters.
I stare at him. He has a hard face to read. Is he using words like “swell” because he’s as old as my father? Or is he being a jerk in my meeting room?
I’ve seen the guy around for most of my life, though casually, and often several years apart. I rack my brain, trying to decide if I’ve heard him use “swell” before.
Either way, I need laser focus, so I dismiss the thought.
HeronComm isn’t losing this account.
I point to the first bar on the graph. “Here’s your current market share. As you can see, Boomers buy Woof Meow Chow like the pet food apocalypse is coming.” I touch the second bar. “Sales with Gen X are evenly distributed among you and your top two competitors, but there’s a major dip when it comes to millennials.” I mark the drop from between the two data points with my finger, drawing attention to how vertical it is.
Then I touch the baseline. The next bar barely reaches over it, and I need to scare the shit out of this old man.
“Now your sales with Gen Z. Virtually nonexistent. That’s a problem because the time will come when those younger buyers grow up and become happy pet owners.”
I nod to Sabrina and she changes the slide. A black slide with cherry-red facts appears.
Too bright. The slide looks like it jumped out of a horror movie.
Who chose this damn color scheme? It had to be someone on the design team. Very doom and gloom. I’ll have a talk with them later.
“One thing we know about millennials and will likely prove true for Z,” I continue, “is that they’re having kids later in life, if at all. To them, it’s a financial risk and they’re often straddled with too much student loan debt to take on the challenge in their early twenties.”
“You’re telling me things I already know. What’s this have to do with selling pet food?” Stedfaust asks, thumping his fingers against the table.
“Great question,” I say. “Because they’re having kids much later, if at all, they tend to view their pets as surrogate babies.” I put finger quotes around babies. “Birthday parties for their dogs and shiny new outfits. They spoil their pets in the wildest ways, making cats and dogs king, and kings need luxury. If you want to grab that market by the horns, that’s the image you have to display.”
“I’m not sure that’s our brand, Magnus.” Stedfaust frowns, again looking too much like a pampered bulldog himself.
I shrug. “It’s what the younger market wants, and the market is judge, jury, and executioner.”
My eyes flick to Miss Bristol.
She taps her computer and the slide shifts to a black-and-white image of a five-star dining scene. An English bulldog in a tux sits at a table, lapping up his food from a crystal goblet.
The words “Woof Meow Chow” appear in the background in pearly white letters.
Mr. Stedfaust looks down at his phone next to him and slides a lazy finger across the screen.
Dammit.
Something’s gone terribly wrong.
He’s becoming disengaged, and I have to wrestle his attention back where it belongs. Letting clients see how their makeover image clinches any sale.
“So—” I slap my hand against the table. Everyone looks up, Stedfaust included, blinking. I point to the pup in the tux. “This adorable, classy pooch screams—or barks, if you will—upscale dog food. Something every dog mom and dad can be proud of feeding their baby.”
At this point, I’m used to questions, concerns that help me pick through their objections or make alterations if needed.
Right now, I’m faced with silence.
Shit.
This is the textbook definition of a crash and burn. It’s been years since I’ve been in a pitch meeting like this with everything misfiring.