“Just wanted to make sure you were ready for the meeting. Is there anything you need before we start?”
“I think I’ve got it under control, but thank you.”
“Any idea what we can expect from the bookstore’s little social media girl?”
A foreign feeling flickered in my chest. I ignored it, crossing off a few tasks I’d completed. “I don’t.”
She waited for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, she prompted me. “You met her at their party the other night, right?”
“I met all the store’s employees.”
Another pause. “And what did you think of her?”
The memory of what I’d said flashed in my mind. Perfectly tolerable. I didn’t know why I’d chosen those particular words to describe her. I only knew that I’d wanted Georgie to give up the push to get me to dance, and she wouldn’t until I made sure she knew how serious I was. But what did I really think of Laney? Over the last few days, I’d considered the question enough that I should’ve had an answer.
“I only spoke to her for a few minutes, so I really couldn’t say.”
“You are the worst gossiper on the planet, do you know that?”
I closed my planner with a snap and sighed through my nose, annoyed. “Gossip is for the weak and insecure, nothing but speculation and hearsay. It is, by nature, subjective—there’s not truth, only a spewing fountainhead of opinion. I can’t imagine why you’d think I’d want to participate.”
“You’re a robot,” she answered on a laugh, sliding off my desk.
When I stood, she took my arm as she often did—a territorial gesture I’d endured since we were teenagers—but I separated us at the first opportunity. This time, it was at the opening of my office door, which I held so she would pass through first.
Our offices bustled with activity, from a galley of cubicles to glass offices of drafting tables and conference rooms. Three generations of de Bourghs had run the firm, each more powerful than the one before. The Darcys constituted the associates on the placard, joining in with my grandfather, which was how Catherine had met my uncle—our familial ties. When my uncle died years ago, everyone thought she’d pass the mantle to someone else. But they had no children, and I wasn’t old enough to step into her shoes—even now I was in the midst of working my way up. She had also been groomed for this job but chosen the life of leisure once she married my uncle, but when he died, she took his place and had been captaining the ship with success ever since.
Unlike my uncle, Catherine had made no friends in the office—her ways were direct, strict, unbendable. Her word was gospel and her time more valuable than any of ours. Everyone in the office was afraid of her, as she’d been known to fire her employees on the spot for any reason. Questioning her in a meeting was almost certainly fatal. One word of gossip about her, you were out, whether you’d said it or not. Of course, she also cherished those who licked her boots, particularly if they were from the right family, like Caroline.
Just another of the many reasons to abide by her rules.
She lorded over the company with all the humility of a queen, though Georgie and I had insulation. When we had no one, we had Catherine, the last of our family. Cold and humorless though she might be, she made every Christmas special, every birthday unforgettable. She smiled most around Georgie and me, was always there for us, day or night, and would do anything short of murder for those she loved. We had lost our only family within a few years of each other, first her, then us, and loneliness and love bound us. I didn’t know how I’d have survived those first years without her.
Her frigid, unsmiling demeanor aside, she’d shown us love through a time when we needed her most, forging our bond in steel.
Not that I was one to talk—Georgie was the only person on the planet who truly made me laugh. No one else dared get close enough to break that particular barrier. Not even Caroline, and she’d tried harder than just about anyone.
But she had no idea what that entailed. If she did, she wouldn’t care to try.
Caroline talked on about something or another as we made our way to the conference room, where our team waited. But as we approached, my eyes caught the back of an inky cascade of black hair, and I couldn’t look away. Slight shoulders in a tailored shirt of blue so deep, I imagined Laney’s striking eyes shone like gems. Her head turned just enough for me to to see the tip of her nose, and her hand slipped into her hair to touch her neck, as if she sensed my attention. As I entered her periphery, her face turned to mine, and our eyes met with a click, holding for a moment.
I broke the connection to open the door for Caroline, who strutted in like she owned the building and took the seat to the right of the head chair.
My chair.
I stood in front of them as they quieted. Laney’s hands were folded in her lap, fingers fidgeting with a thin-banded watch around her wrist. She was nervous.
That unfamiliar pang in my chest stopped me again, this time with recognition. It was some strange mixture of sympathy and sorrow, a flickering regret.
Her anxiety was my fault.
She was nervous because of my behavior. I had insulted my subordinate and now stood before her with a demand for respect when I hadn’t given her the same courtesy.
Georgie was right. I owed her an apology.
When Georgie and I met gazes from her seat next to Laney, she looked borderline triumphant, recognizing my concession.
I shrugged it off, telling myself any amends made were for the good of my team, nothing more. But that twist in my rib cage tightened at the determined set of Laney’s chin, the brightness of her challenging eyes, all coupled with that little tell of her unease that belied her fearlessness.
“Good morning, everyone. Before we get started today, I’d like to introduce Elaine Bennet, the social marketer for Wasted Words.”
Everyone turned to face her, offering small smiles and nods. The slightest color smudged her cheeks.
“Please, call me Laney. I’m only Elaine when I’m in trouble.”
A chuckle rolled through them.
“Laney is here to advise, so please, do your best to help show her the ropes.”
Laney’s brows clicked together. I’d said something wrong.
“Let’s start with a roundup,” I continued, proceeding to make my way around the table, gathering reports from the heads of our creative team and media teams, running down broad strokes for social media, print, and advertising. Concept design and production. But the most important thing—and our starting point—was tagline and messaging creation. We’d need at least two concepts to pitch to the client—three if we didn’t come up with something spectacular—complete with a graphic presentation. And once decided, we’d move into discussing media buy to propose to the accounting team.
Laney took rapid notes as everyone gave an overview as to their focuses and overall ideas, and once finished, it was my turn to present some ideas of my own. But before I could take over, Laney raised a finger, and I nodded, giving her the floor.
She wore a courteous smile, but her eyes sparked with excitement. “I wanted to bring up something no one mentioned, in terms of messaging. Our biggest market strategy to get people in the door? Our singles mixers.” She flipped back a few pages in her notebook. “We earn sixty percent of our revenue on mixer nights alone, and that brings patrons back during the day for coffee and to shop. No one suggested using this as an angle, but the parties are the easiest and most profitable campaigns we’ve run. I have a lot of ideas—”