Spring Break Fling

Chapter 13

13

HANNAH

T he conference room was straight out of a corporate fever dream. I took in the beautiful glossy mahogany table, chairs that looked like they cost more than my monthly rent, and a view of the Miami skyline that screamed “We own half of this city.” It was the kind of place designed to intimidate, and boy, was it working.

I took a deep breath, smoothing my blouse as the client’s team filed in. The head honcho, Tobias T. Wexler III, was a wiry man in his sixties with wiry hair to match. His glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He had the sort of energy that made you wonder if he ever sat still. Behind him trailed a crew of equally eccentric characters. They ranged in age from looking like they were fresh out of high school to long past retirement age.

“Ms. Coleman,” Tobias said with a friendly smile. “We’re ready to be dazzled. Are you ready to dazzle us?”

“Yes, of course,” I replied, trying to muster the confidence of a TED Talk speaker while my brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton candy.

Maybe staying out late with Nikko hadn’t been my smartest move. Or it might have been the third whiskey sour. After the first couple of sips, they had gone down way too easily.

As I set up my presentation, I couldn’t help but feel a spike of adrenaline. It was a mixture of panic and excitement.

My pitch was good. Clarke thought so. The whole team thought so. I just needed to lean into it. I had sprayed on a shit ton of body spray. I didn’t want to smell like a bar when I got hot and sweaty, which was inevitable. The heat, humidity, and pressure were going to put my deodorant to the test.

As I launched into my pitch, the energy in the room shifted. Tobias leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with interest. The rest of his team seemed equally engaged, scribbling notes and nodding along.

“Your product won’t just be a purchase. It’ll be a lifestyle.”

The first five minutes went smoothly, but then the fog set in.

“…and this campaign will utilize a multi-pronged approach,” I said, pausing as my brain reached for the next word. Prong? Did I really just say prong? “Uh, strategy. A multi-strategy approach.”

Tobias’s eyebrows twitched.

I clicked to the next slide, except—oops—it wasn’t the next slide. It was the one three slides later.

“Whoops!” I chirped, trying to play it off as intentional. “I meant to show you this one. It’s… foreshadowing.”

I was losing it. The fucking night out was catching up with me. I was twenty-nine, not twenty-one anymore. I couldn’t party all night and be totally present and my usual focused self. Especially not for the biggest pitch of my career.

I took a deep breath, trying to center myself. “As you can see from this graph…”

My eyes widened as I realized the graph was upside down. How did that even happen? I’d checked everything a dozen times.

“The, uh, inverted nature of this chart represents the paradigm shift we’re proposing,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. “It’s a visual metaphor for how we’ll turn the industry on its head. ”

I could tell by their expressions I was not pulling it off. They weren’t impressed by my clumsiness. I dug deep, reaching into my very soul and silently praying to the gods of speeches and presentations. This was my chance to make it big. This was a huge run on the ladder to the top. I couldn’t afford to slip and fall.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to slow down. “Let me back up a moment,” I said, clicking back to an earlier slide. “The core of our strategy is about creating an emotional connection with your audience.”

I launched into the meat of the pitch, the part I knew backward and forward. As I spoke, I felt my confidence returning. The fog in my brain started to lift as I hit my stride. It wasn’t quite as polished as I imagined it being, but it didn’t seem like a complete failure.

After what felt like an eternity, I wrapped up my pitch and smiled at the room. “So, any questions?”

They had questions.

Oh, did they have questions.

Tobias leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Ms. Coleman, let me ask you this: How do you intend to maintain brand cohesion across such a diverse demographic spread?”

I blinked. “Great question, Mr. Wexler. We’ll, um, implement a phased approach that?—”

“And what about the color palette?” interrupted the woman who for some reason reminded me of a parrot. “I think chartreuse speaks to the heart of the brand.”

Chartreuse? Really?

Another executive chimed in about budget constraints, and suddenly I was fielding questions from all directions, a one-woman tennis match with the world’s most eccentric doubles team.

But I held my ground. Sort of.

Maybe not.

By the end of the meeting, I felt like I’d gone ten rounds in a boxing ring. And I didn’t win. It wasn’t a TKO, but I was not the one with the ref raising my arm. The best way I could describe this fiasco was a draw .

“Ms. Coleman, your enthusiasm is commendable. We’ll expect the revised materials by week’s end. Monday’s meeting will determine whether this project proceeds.”

I could feel my big opportunity slipping through my fingers. I had to get my shit together.

“I’ll send the documents for your review, and when we meet again on Monday, we can assess the strategy. I’ll be happy to continue addressing any concerns when I’m back in Idaho and you’re back in New York.”

“Sounds like a great plan,” he said with a smile. “Just a little fine-tuning. I think we’re on the right track.”

I nodded, plastering on my best professional smile. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wexler. I won’t let you down.”

As soon as I was out of the conference room, I exhaled so hard I might’ve deflated. I kept my chin high as I walked out of the building and quickly hailed a cab. My mind was spinning. They had asked for a lot of revisions.

These weren’t the type of people who hired us and let us do our thing. Oh no. They wanted to be very involved. They wanted details. They were far more demanding than Clarke suggested. My pitch could have been better, but the concept was good. If I had known more of the details about what they wanted, I could have done better. I couldn’t exactly tell them my boss dropped the ball.

As soon as I was back in my hotel room, I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto the bed. My head was pounding, a combination of stress and lingering effects from last night. I groaned, burying my face in a pillow.

“What the hell was I thinking?” I muttered to myself.

I had let Nikko distract me from what was really important. This account could make or break my career, and I’d nearly blown it because I was too busy playing games with a tattooed bad boy.

I took a few minutes to compose myself. Then, I busted into the minibar. It was on the company. They could afford an eight-dollar water.

Dehydrated from drinking and dancing, I sucked down the water and thought about what I was going to say to my boss. I needed to stay positive. All was not lost. I could make the adjustments and save the pitch.

We had to. I needed to land this account.

I went back to the mini fridge and grabbed a Snickers. It was my weakness. When I was stressed, I needed sugar. Feeling fortified, I called Clarke to give him the rundown.

“The client’s assistant already emailed me,” Clarke said before I could even start. “Looks like there are some hefty adjustments you need to make.”

“I’ll get on it right away,” I promised.

“Hannah,” he said, his tone sharper than I was used to. “Why were there so many missed opportunities in your pitch?”

“Nerves.”

“The assistant asked how you were feeling,” he said. “They made it sound like you were sick. Are you sick?”

I wanted to crawl into a hole. “No. I’m fine.”

“You’re not one to be sloppy, Hannah. What have you been doing to prep?”

I winced. “I’m sorry. It was just a little jet lag. It won’t happen again. I have a better understanding of their expectations now. I’m going to get some sleep and I’ll make sure I’m fresh eyed tomorrow.”

“Good. Because this is no joke.”

“Yes, sir.”

The call ended, leaving me staring at the ceiling. The excitement I’d felt when I landed this pitch was starting to tarnish, replaced by creeping doubt.

Was I capable enough to pull this off? Was I talented enough?

Was this even what I really wanted?

No. I shoved that last thought away. Of course it was. This was my dream job—a huge step in the right direction.

I grabbed my laptop and started reviewing the pitch. I was determined to nail it on Monday. No more distractions. No more late nights at dive bars with sexy tattoo artists. I had to focus.

I was a little disappointed in myself. No, scratch that. I was a lot disappointed. The pitch looked so good on paper. My slides were beautiful. Unfortunately, I was working off what I thought they wanted. I should have reached out to the client myself to ask more specifics. I wanted to blame Clarke, but I should have taken the initiative to reach out.

Lesson learned.

If I was going to play with the big dogs, I needed to get a bigger bite. I couldn’t fall back on excuses. And I sure as hell couldn’t afford to slack off.

A knock at the door interrupted my spiral.

I opened it to find no one there, just an envelope propped against the doorframe. My name was scrawled across it in bold handwriting.

I assumed it was information from Clarke. It was a bit antiquated to send an envelope. He could have just sent me an email. Hell, even a fax.

I closed the door and opened the envelope. To my surprise, it wasn’t a stack of information.

It was a card. I opened it and found an invitation to an art exhibit.

Meet me there. 7 P.M. —Nikko

Well, that was a surprise.

I would say Nikko and an art exhibit go together like peas and carrots, something my grandma used to say, but I realized he truly was an artist.

But was tattooing really art?

Did Nikko actually enjoy looking at art? That was not something I had considered. What an odd man.

But I wasn’t going to go. He was not going to distract me again. This little revenge game was not going to help me win in my career. I would just have to have someone else fix the tattoo.

Game over.

I forfeited.