Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1 Page 7

  And I kicked his ass.

  “Not bad for an old man, as the kids would say,” I mutter with a sigh, going into the kitchen for another beer. I grab my phone off the counter and flip through my contacts. I added Chloe in there on a lark, right after her presentation, a number I’d planned to give my admin to set up a next meeting.

  It’s not an Anterdec corporate number that Chloe gave me. Looks like her personal cell phone.

  Huh.

  Chloe

  When my alarm goes off at six a.m., I know it’s time to get up. My meeting with Nick Grafton is today. I’ve been awake since four, when I woke to find Mink covering my face, fur tickling my nose.

  Mink. My living, purring fur coat. My cat.

  I tried so hard to hold on to sleep, blissful unconsciousness. General anesthesia.

  My brain, however, wanted to watch a slideshow:

  The mystery shop report. Who highlighted all those pages?

  Me, at the market, shopping for treats for Joe.

  Me, in the ladies’ room, primping a treat for Joe.

  Joe, getting treated. By someone else.

  I have read that it’s essentially impossible to think of nothing, but I tried. I visualized grey. The O shade.

  Quite right. Impossible. I started running through the alphabet backwards.

  Z Y X… W… not as easy as you would think, right?

  ...P O...

  N... Nick Grafton in my office doorway, somehow familiar. Starched white shirt. The scent of Bay Rhum when he caught me. If masculine has a scent, it’s Bay Rhum.

  …M L K...

  J... Joe, red-faced and drunk, Nick’s arm around his neck. Pathetic. I wish I could un-see this.

  ...D C...

  B... Baby. Baby coming soon. Life will change, forever. Am I ready? I think so. But is anyone ever ready? Maybe I’m too ready—what if Li changes her mind? Should I buy diapers, baby clothes, a crib? Would I be tempting fate? So far I just have an infant car seat. If this doesn’t happen, I can just put it in the closet. Way far back in the closet where I can’t see it.

  Li is so young. Old enough to get pregnant but far too young to be a mother. In so many ways, she’s really still a baby herself. She’s been forced into a situation with no possible happy ending—at least not for her. Her tragedy will make my dream come true. Can I help make some of her dreams come true in return? She wants to be an esthetician, told me the day I met her on the gO Spa. Can I find a scholarship for her? Create one?

  A... Anterdec. Meeting today with Nick Grafton. Okay. This is better. This I can handle. What to wear?

  I am representing O. I visualize grey again. Dove grey suit of raw silk, seamed to fit my body perfectly, never too tight or too loose. High heels, but not too spiky. And most importantly, a necklace of glass Os, linked together with silver.

  And for today’s secret power, rose silk cheeky panties that lace up the back. Matching bustier. Grey thigh highs in fine mesh.

  On the outside, chic and understated. Underneath, intimate pleasure.

  I am O.

  * * *

  Nick’s admin shows me into his office. At least, I guess that’s where I am, but I’m not sure, because this room is all about the view. Who needs artwork when you have a wall of glass above Boston Harbor, bright blue water glittering in the sun? Sailboats are gliding along, and planes are taking off and landing from Logan Airport.

  “How do you get anything done?” I ask, walking straight to the window. “I would just stare outside all day.”

  “I try to focus on what’s right in front of me,” he answers quietly. I turn around.

  He’s looking at me with a small smile. Behind him, on the wall, is a huge silver-leaf painting by Raphael Jaimes-Branger. It must be six feet high.

  “Gorgeous!” I breathe.

  Nick doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Oh, yes.”

  Then he turns to the painting. “I’ve been collecting Raphael for years. I love the way he blends traditional and modern art into something of its own. And he works here in Boston.”

  “The silver-leaf catches the light,” I add.

  “Beauty all around me,” Nick says, and gestures toward a small table. “Let’s see what beautiful ideas you’ve brought for O’s brand.”

  Opening my portfolio cases, I display packaging mock-ups for a limited line of O cosmetics. I describe a line of private-label scents for women, men, and the home—the First Space. I present sketches and samples of French cotton T shirts and embossed Italian leather tote bags, all bearing visually related and recognizable designs based on our simple and elegant O.

  But best of all is the jewelry. The necklace I am wearing, the glass chain of Os, is the centerpiece.

  “This is where we break through our wall, and take O out to the retail world. Each special piece of this high-end jewelry collection is designed to represent our brand subtly but clearly. Club members will want to wear the jewelry, and chic shoppers will want to belong to the club. Here’s how a full-page print ad in Vogue might look.”

  I hand Nick an ad layout, featuring a photograph of my necklace on the curve of a woman’s neck and shoulders, the glass reflecting light and shadow on beautiful matte skin. Our fingers brush against each other, the electricity palpable. He studies the ad, his eyes moving to my neck, then back to the ad again.

  My design team has been working on this presentation non-stop for ten days, including nights and weekends.

  “Chloe, this is much more than I expected. I’m going to see if I can pull Amanda Warrick in to take a look at all this. She’s about to become Anterdec’s assistant marketing director. Our departments work together closely. If she thinks this has merit, we’ll take it to the finance team and see what we’re looking at for start-up costs.”

  He gets up and goes out, leaving the slightest whiff of Bay Rhum behind him. I look around the office for the first time.

  This small, round meeting table and four chairs, two upholstered chairs in front of his desk, your typical big mahogany partners’ desk. All very nice, but other than the paintings on the walls, everything looks pretty standard-issue. A long, low cabinet behind his desk, covered with framed photographs.

  I really, really want to get up and study those photos. From here, across the room, they all appear to be photos of teenagers.

  Someday I’ll have a teenager. Will we share shoes and secrets? Or will she stay out too late and not text me and not answer her phone and frighten me to death and…?

  Stop, Chloe, just stop.

  Nick seems to have a boy and a girl. Or two girls? Twins? A number of mountaintop skiing group shots, action photos of lacrosse players. One of those professionally-posed beach portraits in black and white, all three kids in white polo shirts and khaki shorts.

  If there’s a wife in his life, she’s not on display.

  Please let there be no wife.

  Nick comes back in, with Amanda, and we shake hands. That little bell goes off in my head again. The day I gave the O tour to Amanda and the older blonde woman who was with her, the one who was so enthusiastic about some of the entertainment…

  Amanda’s about to say something, her eyes warm and pleasant, but I speak first.

  “How did your friend’s bachelorette party turn out?” I ask. “Now I remember. You were at O a while ago, weren’t you? I don’t think you booked the party with us?”

  Amanda’s cheeks turn slightly pink. “It got a little out of hand,” she laughs. “Too many people for O. We ended up at a piano bar in Back Bay.”

  Plausible. After all, why would Anterdec send a marketing exec to mystery shop their own property? And the report was from a firm called Consolidated Evalu-Shop. Hmm. But still, she asked some unusual questions. I make a note to have Carrie research the issue.

  Thankfully, Amanda says nothing about Joe’s outburst last time we met.

  I run swiftly through today’s presentation, truncating it. Amanda and Nick are quick studies. I’m relieved; there’s nothing qui
te as fine as realizing you’re in a room with people whose minds can pattern-match and analyze so that you can speak in shorthand.

  Amanda picks up the jewelry ad and studies it. “Is this you?” she asks curiously.

  “Well, yes,” I answer. “We just needed someone for the mock-up shot.”

  “Chloe, you would be perfect to represent O’s image,” Amanda says, looking at me closely now.

  I laugh. “Oh no, no, thank you, but I don’t think so.”

  “I agree with Amanda. You are perfect,” Nick says. “I want to go ahead with this, and I want you to be O.”

  “Really, I’m flattered, but I couldn’t,” I stammer. “We need a professional model for this. And even if I thought it would work, I couldn’t. I’m going to be gone for a while, soon. I’m taking, well, some...personal time.”

  “I’m sending this all to finance,” Nick says. “I want you reassigned to the branding project as soon as you can hand off your retail design responsibilities. Amanda too. Chloe, you’ll report to me.”

  “But I just said no to being the face of O.” I’m calm and clear. No.

  “Then if you won’t be the face of O, you’ll be the brains behind the operation,” Nick says in a voice as firm as mine. His face is blank, those sapphire eyes piercing me.

  “I already am.”

  The placidity cracks, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Touché. You and I will work on the branding. I want you driving the train.”

  He stands up, and Amanda and I follow. She begins gathering up all the materials on the table.

  “Thanks, Chloe. This is going to be so much fun. I’ll call you.” And she’s out the door.

  I’m left looking at Nick.

  And he’s looking back at me.

  “How long do you think it will take to clear your schedule?” he asks.

  “Nick, you can’t just pull me out of daily operations of O like this! I have projects there, and there’s no one who can just take over—and I love my job!” I pause. “Plus, I’m cutting back my hours starting in the next few months.”

  He looks at his watch. “Let’s go to lunch and we can talk about it.”

  That does seem like a good idea.

  I lift my white leather bag off the back of the chair, and as I am slinging it over my shoulder, the bamboo handle comes unhooked. The bag drops, bouncing off the chair and hitting the floor, and of course it lands sideways. Most of what’s inside it spills out, makeup and pens and perfume, aspirin, keys. And—oh please no—my lipstick vibrator rolls under the chair.

  Nick is on one knee, gathering coins. I kneel down too, and reach for the little vibrator but he gets it first.

  “That’s a big lipstick,” he comments, holding it up.

  “Economy size,” I smile brightly, reaching for it.

  “Is this one of the mock-ups of O cosmetic packaging?” he asks, pulling the hot pink cap off.

  “No!” I say, but too late.

  Nick looks down at the USB charger he has just uncapped. Then he looks at me, puzzled.

  “Yes!” I backtrack. “Yes, that’s a mock-up, yes it is. Part of my next presentation. Phase Two.” I hold up my hands like a TV game show announcer. “‘The Power of O’ is what we are calling it.”

  I’m babbling.

  I hold out my hand.

  He smiles.

  “I’ll keep it with the other package ideas,” he says, and drops it in his pocket. “You can tell me your plan for it at lunch.”

  My plan for it was to reduce stress while caught in rush-hour traffic tonight. But maybe it would make a good new product line. Driving accessories! Is that dangerous?

  ‘O’verdrive.

  I love my job.

  * * *

  This new little restaurant in The Fort shopping complex looks completely full, but somehow they find a table for Nick, tucked into a corner.

  “It’s the Anterdec table,” he explains. “As long as James McCormick’s not in town, I can always get in here.”

  “Tell me about Charlie,” I say. “What’s he doing now?”

  He looks at his plate of grilled fish. “Charlie’s trying to figure out what he wants to do when he grows up. He’s on his third career and his second divorce. He’s actually been living with me for a few months, though he’s out of town right now. I have a lot of extra room with my kids all away at college.”

  “I can’t believe that…even as a kid, he always knew he wanted to be a lawyer. He was going to be a public defender, help people who had nowhere else to turn. What happened?”

  “He got into Yale Law School, but the pressure was too much. He took a leave of absence and never went back. Then it was culinary school, and now it’s some website selling surfing equipment for kids.”

  “From Yale to surfer dude,” I say with a smile. “Only Charlie could pull that off. How’s it going?”

  “Not well. Kids don’t have credit cards.” He sighs. “At least culinary school has come in handy. He makes dinner every night. He’s pretty good, too.”

  “And your kids are all in college?” I know I should turn the conversation back to work now, but I’m just so curious. “You don’t look old enough to have—”

  Shut up, Chloe! I scream inside my babbling mind.

  My face must betray my thoughts, because Nick just laughs. “I’m flattered.” He won’t look away. I’m trapped, that electricity between us from earlier arcing, rising up. “My son went to NYU for summer session to get a jumpstart on his freshman year. Couldn’t wait to flee to New York. My daughters both work on campus at their colleges here in Boston. It’s quiet at home.”

  “What’s it like to have an empty nest?” I blurt, back to safer territory, because a quiet home means an empty bed and....

  He thinks for a second, as if dazed. Does he feel it, too?

  “I’m at Anterdec because they acquired my company. I had a branding consultancy called FireBrand. Built it from the ground up. We did about $25 million annually, 37 employees. The McCormicks agreed to keep my whole staff.”

  This is not the answer to my question.

  “It was a great opportunity for everyone,” he continues. “Some of my people have really moved up fast, working for Anterdec subsidiaries all over the world. They learned the business from me, at FireBrand, and now they’re succeeding on a global level. I’m so proud of them.”

  Still waiting to see where this is going.

  “But I used to see everyone every day, and now I don’t. They’re launched. I just get the occasional email when they have a problem, or want to share some good news.”

  I get it. “Two empty nests?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ouch.”

  He laughs, looking up from the rim of his wine glass to meet my eyes. “More like freedom. So close...”

  Funny, though. He doesn’t look very free.

  There’s a little bustle at the door. I look up to see Jessica Coffin headed toward our table, with three apparent clones behind her. It’s like the Neiman Marcus display window mannequins woke up and went to lunch. They are followed by the maître d’. Aren’t they supposed to be following him?

  “Chloe!” Jessica says, looking at Nick. “How are you?” It’s unclear who she is asking.

  He stands and offers his hand. I introduce them, and then hesitate. Jessica helped to make O the success that it’s been. In business, you tap into the thought leaders to get your idea to go viral.

  In the spa business, you find the equivalent, which means Jessica Coffin and her always-for-rent social media accounts.

  Except she deleted her Twitter account a while ago and has been suspiciously silent. Hmm.

  “You work for Andrew McCormick,” she says to Nick, her mouth twisting oddly as she says Andrew’s name. “I met you here, at some charity event.”

  Right. I don’t know why I thought I had to explain the identity of a handsome, successful Boston man to Jessica Coffin. It’s her business to know. Might even be in her DNA.

/>   She turns back to me, a tiny smile on her lips. “Chloe, didn’t I hear you’re about to be a mommy? That’s just so exciting. I guess we won’t be seeing you at restaurants like this anymore. From now on, you’ll only be eating—what are they called?—Happy Meals.”

  She leans forward to kiss my cheek, then moves off, brushing against Nick as she goes, although there is plenty of space between tables.

  He doesn’t seem to notice her. He is staring at my stomach.

  Chapter 8

  Nick

  A giant, overstuffed blue nylon bag masquerading as one of my daughters appears at the door on this fine Saturday morning. Morning-ish. I look at the clock. Noon. Although for her, that’s the crack of dawn.

  “Are you selling dirty laundry? If so, that is a terrible business idea.”

  “Dad!” Elodie whines, the tip of her nose and one wide eye appearing around the large lump. Her long, glossy brown hair is pulled into a ragged top knot and she’s wearing flannel pajama pants that are entirely too long, covering feet in flip flops.

  Very familiar flannel pajama pants.

  “Are those mine?” I grunt, as she thrusts her clothes at me.

  I take the load from her arms and she gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, smelling like the T and cotton candy.

  She also ignores my question.

  “Where’s Uncle Charlie? Is he here?”

  “No. He’s meeting with his business partner. They’re trying to trademark the phrase ‘Surf the Internet.’”

  That gets an eye roll.

  “But how wonderful you’ve come home to visit your dear old dad. What’s on the agenda for our relaxing hours together?”

  “Is the washer empty? I have literally nothing left to wear and it’s ’80s karaoke night at school and Brandon is the emcee.” She’s standing in my doorway, phone in her hands, both thumbs flying. She is not even looking at the screen. How do they do that?

  “’80s karaoke. So you’re Googling the lyrics to ‘With or Without You’? ‘Every Breath You Take’? ‘Born in the USA’?”

  She’s nonplussed. “What are those?”