Chapter 2
“Every time!I swear, every time I come to this city I get into a fight with a cab driver!”
Mickey slams her purse down on the coffee table of our suite. She crosses her arms, flips her long black hair over her shoulder, and stares me down with sparkling green eyes, almost like it’s my fault she keeps duking it out with cabbies.
I stare back nonplussed. I have my toothbrush sticking out of the side of my mouth and am in the middle of making the bajillionth adjustment to my presentation. Mickey had gone out for bagels over an hour ago and is just getting back now. Without bagels.
“Why were you getting a cab?” I ask, not entirely sure if I want to know the answer or not.
Mickey is my intern. She’s twenty-three, about to finish her MBA, and as open about her personal life as she is intelligent. That is to say, very. She arrived yesterday and I’ve already heard about her last hookup’s Daffy Duck tattoo, what happens to her stomach when she eats too many olives, and about the weird rash she’s developing “just south of the border”.
She’d called me into the bathroom last night to ask my opinion on the latter. I’d politely declined.
Mickey is a ball of energy with zero filter to speak of, the polar opposite of Cheryl who was constantly upping her Xanax dose. I’m finding her presence to be a helpful distraction from worries about my pitch and from thoughts of that arrogant, sexy guy from the train.
After he’d stormed from the compartment, I’d assumed that my Fortune Teller would be relegated to a semi-erotic (and greatly irritating) pit stop on the overall trip. Two days later, I still can’t push him from my mind.
That rumbling laugh. Those deep haughty eyes. His lips, curling both in a smile and a grimace. He’s haunted my dreams, the smell of cinnamon and whiskey wafting about my bedroom even after awakening.
Day One had been torturous. I’d spent a very distracted and sexually frustrated Saturday in the suite my firm had booked for Mickey and me, trying and failing to refine my presentation and replaying our argument again and again in my head.
I always returned to the same conclusion: Nick is a fine specimen of a man but I only would have hooked up with him if he had never opened his mouth. And if I were the type of girl who slept with strangers on trains.
Although now that I’m single for the first time in six years, maybe I could be the type of girl who sleeps around. Why not? Maybe I’ll even have a hookup while I’m here in the city.
That would show Nick!
Why would that show him? And why do you even care about showing him? He’s just a jerk who you’ll never see again! A very sexy jerk who smells like heaven in an oak cask…
So basically my thoughts were a mess for twenty-four hours until Mickey showed up and started entertaining me with her never-ending stream of distracting stories.
While I was getting my master’s, a fun night out consisted of going to parties hosted by Brent’s friends in their multi-million dollar houses in Beacon Hill that would inevitably end with me walking his drunk ass home. Mickey, meanwhile, is living a very different, very single existence, that is equal parts titillating and terrifying.
Last night, at the bar down the street, I’d finally confessed that I’d just gotten dumped mere weeks before my wedding. I almost hadn’t told her, afraid of hearing the pity and judgment that I’d heard so often from acquaintances. Mickey only managed to surprise me yet again.
“Man, that’s a relief,” she’d said, sipping her beer and lounging back in her chair.
“A relief?” I’d repeated. I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or offended by her reaction.
“Yeah, you almost got married to that asshole. Oh for sure it sucks you were with him so long. And BFF Cheryl sounds like a bag of soggy dicks. But think about it — you were about to settle into the marriage doldrums with a complete piece of shit. Not to mention that from the sound of it, you haven’t even lived yet!”
“I don’t know about that,” I said defensively.
“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” Mickey challenged. “Name a time you’ve closed your eyes and leaped.”
I couldn’t. I tried, but the highlights of my life up until this point have all been professional and academic achievements. My personal life has always dragged along a fairly predictable path. Brent was successful and handsome and from a good family. I’d supposedly had it all. There’d never been any reason to get wild.
Mickey listed off things on her fingers to further prove her point. “You’ve never had a one-night stand. You’ve never run from the cops. Hell, you’ve never even been to a music festival. And no,” she said over me, “Warped Tour 2009 absolutely does not count. So not only did you dodge a major backwards-ball-cap-wearing bullet, but now you get to try all that stuff you might have regretted missing out on!”
She had a point.
So, as unlikely as it had seemed in Boston, between Mickey’s enthusiasm about my future and hot memories of Nick, I’m starting to feel a bit better about losing Brent. I’m still far from fine, but I’m definitely not checking Instagram as much as I was before. There’s just too much else to think about.
Like our current bagel conundrum.
“Why was I getting a cab?” Mickey repeats my question. “I wasn’t getting a cab. An old lady was. I was helping her into it because the stupid cabbie was rushing her. And then he got mad at me. And then I flipped him off. And then he left and I had to help the lady get another cab which is surprisingly difficult at this time of day. Oh and she was mad at me too.” She considers and says, “You know what? I think your sexy mystery man might actually be right about this city. People are wound way too tightly here.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “Don’t even mention him. I’m still annoyed.”
“And I’m still trying to find him on Facebook,” she says. “I need to see if he’s as hot as you’re describing because I’m a little doubtful.”
“It’s true!” I insist. “Like if Pierce Brosnan and Tom Selleck had a baby.”
Mickey’s eyes widen. “And, in this baby scenario, which one of them is, ya know, the carrier?”
I throw a pillow at her but she gracefully dodges around it and flees into our attached kitchen.
“You didn’t get the bagels!” I call after her.
“Room service is bringing them up,” she says, reappearing with a couple coffees and setting one down by my computer. “I guess we’ll take them to go.”
I pull a face. “I’m not sure Dan is going to be happy about us charging the room,” I say.
Dan is our middle-aged boss. An energetic and cheerful man, he’s been in advertising for decades. He’s notoriously tight-fisted though, the side effect of running a shoestring operation.
“Just blame me,” Mickey says. “How was I supposed to know? I’m just a stupid intern. Besides,” she adds, flopping down on the couch next to me, “once you get this pitch in the bag Dan is going to be kowtowing at your feet. How’s it going, anyway?”
My stomach shifts unpleasantly as I picture going up in front of the CEO of Madison Enterprises and trying to sell him on why a small, Boston-based advertising agency is the right choice for making the Seafarer’s maiden voyage a successful one.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s done at least. Or as close to done as it’s going to get.”
I know the pitch inside and out but I still can’t shake my nerves. After everything that’s happened recently, I just want this one thing to go well. A successful deal would do wonders for me getting my mojo back, not to mention the four months I’d have to spend in New York would be a welcome break from all the reminders of Brent and Cheryl that are scattered around Boston.
“Evie.” Mickey actually sounds serious for once. She can hear the worry in my tone and she may be irreverent but she’s certainly not unfeeling.
“Hey,” she says so that I look her in the eye. “Did you know that I jumped at the chance to go on this trip with you? And believe me, it’s not because I love fighting with cab drivers. It’s because Evie Davis is a legend at the firm.”
“Oh, come on,” I mumble.
“No. This is not the time to be humble! Who made the reopening of the South Bay Mall the social event of the year? Who’s the reason Stockington Pies are practically synonymous with Boston? And when tourists come to our city, which bar do they go to first?”
“Uh, the Cheers bar?”
“Okay, second.”
“The Sam Adamsbrewery at Dock Square.”
She rolls her green eyes. “Girl, work with me here!”
“Just being honest.”
“Fine. What bar do tourists go to third then?”
“Sean O’Callaghan’s,” I finally admit, naming the successful bar I’d run an ad campaign for last spring and smiling in spite of myself. That one had gone quite well.
“Exactly! You’re fucking great at your job, and I’m pretty damn stoked to get to be here to watch you in action. I have no regrets about threatening Diane’s iguana if she dared put her name forward.”
“Wait—”
“The point,” Mickey says, putting a hand on each of my shoulders, “is that if you don’t get the account, nobody else in the office could have. That’s why Dan sent you. So just do your best, as you always do, and if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. But I do think you’re going to get it.”
Mickey’s pep talk is actually working. I grin at her and playfully push her hands off me. “Okay, fine. You got me. Consider me hyped.” Then I put on a stern face. “But I call bullshit on one thing at least — I know you actually do kinda like fighting with cab drivers.”
Mickey grins. “I’ll never admit it!”
The rest of the morning descends into last minute preparations. We dress and get ready, eat our bagels, and go over final notes for the game plan I’ve devised. Then, just before ten, we head out the door and uptown — in an Uber to ensure the smoothest sailing.
Mickey’s speech helped me, and, driving downtown toward the towers of Lower Manhattan, I feel calmer than I have all week. The pitch will go well. And even if I don’t get the account, I won’t embarrass myself. Everything is going to be all right.
But still, for some reason, despite the importance of the meeting at the other end of this car ride, I can’t seem to keep my thoughts from returning to Nick. I wonder where he’s at right now, what he’s doing. If he’s also thinking of me.
And if the surprise he foretold will come true.
As much asI’d defended the business sector of Boston to Nick, there really is nothing in the United States that compares to the Financial District of Manhattan.
It’s almost 11 on a Monday morning. Thousands of people rush to and fro in a congealed mass. Cabs and cars and limos honk and fight for every inch of space they can get on the congested roads. And above? Above are the stern, towering skyscrapers that house thousands of the brightest, richest, and most arrogant minds in the country, if not the world.
It’s hard to not be a little intimidated.
I’d wanted to work in New York after college, but Brent’s family and friends were all in Boston and he hadn’t wanted to leave them. I’d been disappointed, but I loved Boston too and it was a small hill to die on. Now I’m living my dream at last: click, click, clicking across the plaza outside One Wall Street, briefcase in my hand, Mickey as my backup.
I catch a glimpse of our reflection in the mirrored glass of the tower, and, I have to admit, we look good. We’re strutting our stuff, dressed to kill, confidence oozing from our pores.
I whip off my sunglasses with a toss of my hair as we approach the entrance. I feel sexy. I feel powerful. I feel?—
I almost run face-first into the glass door of the lobby when it fails to open automatically.
Mickey, the ultimate wing-woman, is on it in a flash, pulling the door open for me, and stepping aside so that I can stride in like a queen (or maybe Beyoncé), and I recover enough to convince myself that surely nobody saw that embarrassing move.
Mickey and I are greeted warmly at the reception desk, given our passes, and directed to the correct elevator. And before long we’re shooting up sixty-five stories in a shining gold elevator toward our fate.
I’ve been to some pretty swanky offices in my day, but none of them prepare me for the absolute event that is the Madison Enterprises office. I mean, there’s a freakin’ waterfall in the lobby. It splashes down thirty feet from the lofted ceilings, pouring over cool, gray granite. Directly in front of it is the receptionist’s desk which is helmed by one of the most stylish women I’ve seen outside of a magazine ad for Louboutins.
The entire office drips with modern, masculine style. Everything is in cool grays and silvers, from the floor to the light fixtures. The windows boast floor-to-ceiling views so expansive I can practically see Central Park all the way uptown. It’s like being on top of the world, and it takes all my professionalism not to gawk.
“Evelyn Davis. I have an 8 o’clock with Mr. Madison,” I tell the runway model receptionist.
She nods pleasantly, shoulders her desk phone and confirms, “Ms. Davis for Mr. Madison.” We’re obviously given the stamp of approval because another woman, somehow more beautiful and stylish than the first, appears out of nowhere like a fashionista boogeyman and indicates that we should follow her.
Mickey and I continue to click, I continue to hold my head high, but my power moves definitely gave me more confidence on the street. Up here in Mr. Madison’s kingdom, everyone looks good. It’s not enough to be put together. You need to be operating on your A-game mentally as well as physically.
I swallow and clutch my briefcase containing my presentation tighter.
Fashionista Boogeyman (as her name shall henceforth be) leads us down a black-carpeted aisle that runs down the center of the open plan office. The room is huge. Every wall on the floor has been torn down leaving us in a massive vault surrounded by glass and breathtaking views.
But just as I’m about to wonder where the heck they have private meetings in this place, I realize that I’m wrong. There is a wall.
At the far end of the floor, taking up the entire north end of the office, is a glass wall. That wall divides the main floor from the boss’s office, while ensuring that he can see everything that goes on in his domain. I shiver slightly at the thought of working out here, directly under the all-seeing eye of the boss.
We stop at the secretary guarding Mr. Madison’s glass door, and I can’t keep my eyes from curiously flicking toward the office.
The black carpet runs from the doors to the boss’s desk, past dark leather office furniture and a long boardroom table made of some type of black stone. His desk is too far away to see clearly, but there appears to be someone sitting in a tall-backed chair, facing away from me and looking out over the city’s expanse.
Fashionista Boogeyman returns to us. “Mr. Madison will see you now,” she says.
“Great,” I say, reaching for the door.
“But just you.”
I stop, my hand dropping back to my side.
“Mickey is here to set up my presentation,” I explain. I’m useless with an AUX cord. An unpleasant vision of me red-faced and sweating, trying to get technology to work under Mr. Madison’s impatient eye dances through my head. “She doesn’t have to stay.”
Fashionista Boogeyman is coolly uninterested in the face of my panic. I’m sure she sees a dozen people, sputtering and bug-eyed, outside this office door every day.
“That won’t be a concern. Mr. Madison is not a fan of video presentations.”
My panic-stricken mind struggles to comprehend her words. Not a fan? Not a fan!? Fear and confusion don’t take long to turn into indignation. If Mr. Madison isn’t a “fan” of video presentations, then I would have appreciated a memo before I busted my ass for weeks making one. What’s the point of me coming all the way down here just to crash and burn because I have no presentation? Does my time not matter?
It occurs to me that maybe Nick wasn’t wrong about New York businessmen. This wouldn’t fly in Boston, maybe because people there still have some common decency left.
Well fuck it. I can wing it. And if this ends up being the worst presentation of my career, so be it. An extended vacation in New York isn’t worth the aggravation that’d come from working under someone so damn frustrating.
“I guess wish me luck,” I say to Mickey, whose sunny demeanor is definitely shaken by this surprise turn of events.
“You got this,” she says, but she says it a little less assuredly than she had in the hotel room.
Fashionista Boogeyman opens the glass door for me and, without a moment of hesitation, I stride purposefully into the office. I won’t be deterred by this sneaky strategy meant to throw me off my game. After I inevitably fail, I’ll end the meeting by giving this jerk a piece of my mind.
The walk to the desk didn’t look as long as it’s turning out to be. It feels like I’m walking for ages as I advance down the office. It also feels like I’m approaching a throne, which I suppose is how it’s meant to.
The desk itself is made from the same shiny black material as the rest of the office’s furnishings and is the length of a small car. Mr. Madison still hasn’t turned around; he’s still looking out across the Hudson, the city blanketed by stormy gray clouds.
I’m halfway to the desk when the lighting changes. At first I think it’s just an even darker cloud moving across the shrouded sun outside, but then I realize that the change is coming from behind me. I risk a glance around and see that the glass wall that separates the boss’s office from the rest of the floor is tinting black, obscuring the outside world. Leaving the two of us alone in the room together.
Yet another power move. I won’t be cowed. I quicken my stride until I’m standing before the desk and plant my feet solidly. I’m wearing five-inch heels that boost me to a height of six feet. I’ve noticed that being at eye level tends to get men to respect my opinions more. The additional confidence gained by towering over the world compared to my normal, average stature is an added plus.
As the seconds drag, it’s hard to keep my confidence up, though I give it my best effort. Mr. Madison is still facing away from me, the tall back of his black leather chair obscuring his face, but not his suited legs. They’re clothed in the very finest of charcoal-gray fabrics. His shoes are patent leather and freshly shined.
He knows I’m here, but the power moves are continuing. I’m not sure why I expected them to stop.
I roll my eyes at the back of his chair and inhale sharply in annoyance.
And freeze.
I’ve spent the past weekend enveloped in the memory of Nick’s distinctive scent. There’s no doubt about it. Right now, it’s more than a memory. I’m actually smelling it. Cinnamon and whiskey wafts tantalizingly from that black leather chair. From those suited, muscular legs. Holy shit.
“Nick?” The word bursts out of my mouth unexamined and definitely unplanned. Because a second of thought would have told me that acknowledging my surprise, of appearing thrown off by this unbelievable, wild turn of events could only be taken as a sign of weakness.
Thankfully, I’m not the only one who’s surprised. All pretenses drop, all power moves are forgotten. Mr. Madison, billionaire developer, CEO superstar, scourge of advertising agencies from coast-to-coast, whips his chair around in a flash.
Immediately I’m plunged back into deep pools of chocolate brown, and my second thought — that he must have known, how the hell could he not have known? — is immediately put to rest as my own surprise is mirrored back at me in them.
But only for an instant. For one second, Nick Madison allows his guard to drop. And then, just like the glass wall separating him from his employees, a dark shade is drawn and I’m back in the office of a merciless CEO.
His recovery is astounding; I’m still trying to confirm that I’m not hallucinating or dreaming. His rigid form relaxes back into his chair. His mouth curves into a soft frown. And he cocks his head to the side, examining me like I’m a sexless business entity and not like he’d seduced me mere days ago in a boozy train car.
We stare at each other for a long, extended moment that could last ten minutes or ten seconds. Everything seems to be going in slow motion. I’m torn between so many different things that I want to say — apologies, accusations, questions — that each struggle for control and result in speechlessness.
I work myself back around to some semblance of self-control. Okay, pitch meeting. Seafarer. Cruise ships. Don’t think about long, thick fingers tickling my palm. Don’t remember those lips inches from my ear, whispering tantalizing words. Definitely don’t think about the way he looked at me right before he stormed out of the car.
At last, Nick speaks, and of all the things I expect him to say this isn’t on the list: “So you have a pitch for me?”
His voice is low and relaxed. He’s fully in control. I almost sputter indignantly, but a distant alarm bell in the back of my brain tells me that I’m already blowing this big time.
So he doesn’t want to acknowledge our history? Fine. I can roll with that. I can pretend like this is the first time I’m laying eyes on his stupid, arrogant, perfect face.
“I did,” I say. I’m impressed by how nonchalant I sound. “But you made me leave it in the lobby.”
His face is impassive. “I don’t like video presentations,” he remarks.
“You would have liked mine.”
“You sound confident in that fact.”
“You seem pretty confident you would have hated it.”
A beat.
Then Nick steeples his fingers and leans forward in his chair. He’s seated and I’m six feet tall and yet it still feels like I’m looking up at him. I suddenly wish there was a chair to sit in. Standing I feel like a child before a principal.
“I almost didn’t take this meeting,” he says finally. “I’m sure you know that I just fired Alan Kimball.”
Kimball is the head of one of the largest ad agencies in New York. I do know this and I also had heard the rumor that the partnership ended when “Mr. Madison” used a butane cigar lighter to set fire to a draft of an ad in the middle of a meeting.
“I was under the impression that he quit,” I reply.
“That’s what he wants people to think.”
“The alternative isn’t any better,” I say.
“I’d disagree.”
I cross my arms. “Tell me. How many agencies have quit — sorry, been fired — over the last six months?”
“Five,” he says slowly, waiting for my angle.
“And after five agencies out the door, I believe the finger starts to point at the common denominator.”
Nick’s eyes harden, but they relax almost as quickly. “And yet you’re here all the same. If I’m so demanding, so difficult, why try to throw your hat into the ring?”
“Why don’t we call it a limitless belief in my own abilities,” I say.
For the first time Nick smiles. It’s wolfish and teasing, self-satisfied at catching me in a lie. “That’s not what you said on the train,” he says. “I believe I remember quite a few nerves then.”
I clench my jaw. So we are going to bring up the train then.
“A lot of things were said on the train,” I say.
“Of course. You also called me a whiny rich boy.” For the first time I hear something other than cool nonchalance in his tone. He sounds a little annoyed.
I leap on it, grasping for the upper hand in a conversation I’ve so far only floundered in. I take an exaggerated look around his black steel office. “I’ve yet to be contradicted,” I say.
“If you could see where this company started,” he says, “you’d be singing a very different tune.”
I nod at the degree displayed nearby. “Ah yes. I’m sure Yale really hindered your options in the beginning. I’m honestly impressed by how far you’ve climbed.”
Nick grinds his jaw.
I raise my eyebrows. “Would it be too forward to call you an inspiration?”
Nick stands. It’s sudden and I instantly want to step backward. Somehow I manage to hold my ground. He really is huge, and my heels aren’t helping nearly as much as I wish they would.
“Sarcasm doesn’t look good on you, Ms. Davis,” he says in a deep, growly tone.
I allow myself a small smile. “I guess we have different tastes,” I reply. “Because I think it looks fantastic.”
“What happened to seeing the best in everyone?”
“I only said I try to.”
Our eyes are locked, in a standoff yet again. When he’d stood, he’d sent that intoxicating smell washing over me and the intensity of it is making me a little dizzy. Not a good thing when teetering on five-inch heels, but I manage to keep my stability.
It’s no wonder that Nick had practically rendered me speechless on the train. A man like him looks out of place somewhere so normal, even if said place is a luxury train car. Only here, in this penthouse office with Manhattan spreading out in all directions, does Nick look like he’s where he belongs.
I can only guess at what’s racing through his mind. I hope that he’s not deciding whether or not to call security to drag me out of here.
Again, he makes the first move, but this time he doesn’t speak. Instead he pushes his chair back and walks all the way around the side of that titanic desk until he’s standing directly in front of me.
In an instant, I’m back on the train, the weightiness of his presence pressing on me, the scent of him invading my nostrils with every inhale.
He fixes me in that steel trap of a stare and says again, slowly, “Do you have a pitch for me?”
I tilt my chin up and say, in the same tone, “You made me leave it in the lobby.”
His jaw tightens and his gaze drops; I feel it travel my body. Then he steps backward, sinking so that he’s sitting on the desk, and crosses one ankle over his knee.
I exhale and I feel a bead of sweat drip down my back. Jesus Christ.
“That’s not a valid excuse,” he says. “You’re not the first one I’ve disarmed at the door.”
“Is that what you call it? I’d call it unprofessional.”
“And you’d be wrong. It’s a simple strategy. If a person can’t tell me why I should hire them off the cuff, then they’re not going to do a very good job. Believe me. I’ve tested the theory. Take away the crutch of a presentation and you get to see the real substance behind the flash and glitter.”
He crosses his thick arms. “So tell me, Ms. Davis, is there substance here?” He cocks his head and once again allows his eyes to travel up and down my body. “Or just flash and glitter?”
Substance? My hot and flustered brain flashes with equal parts arousal and annoyance. I can fucking give him some substance. I may not have my laser pointer, graphs, or mock-ups, but I can spout facts all the livelong day.
“Okay, Mr. Madison,” I say, crossing my own arms. “I’ll bite. You’ve had a very illustrious career building office space and apartment buildings. I’ll give you that. But you stand to lose upwards of a billion dollars on a cruise liner that, quite frankly, nobody wants to go on. Your marketing up until this point has been a disaster because there isn’t a single thing about the Seafarer that lifts it out of the pack.”
I pause, “Here would be where I’d be pulling up schematics of the ship, and a list of what you’re offering. But since you’d rather use your imagination, I’ll spell it out for you.” I list off on my fingers. “Seven pools with slides and hot tubs. A buffet with All-American fare. A theater showing Marvel movies and Disney animation. Comedians doing what I can only assume will be the same tired set night after night. Do you see the problem here?”
Nick’s face is expressionless.
“What exactly is drawing anyone to this ship? How are you competing with the big established names?” I put my hands on my hips. “You know what kind of people go on those types of cruises? People who don’t like to plan vacations. They want to be ferried around the highlights of the Caribbean, drink in hand, and doing as little as possible until they have to go back to their soul-sucking jobs and hellish bosses. Those types of people aren’t shopping around for a new cruise liner. They book the same ship year in and year out. And why shouldn’t they? They know what they like.
“Now I’ll give it to you — you don’t dip your toes into anything. Jumping into the vacation industry with zero experience isn’t something most people would dare to do. Unfortunately, there’s a reason for that. There isn’t any room for growing pains. You need a successful first launch or your ship is dead in the water, no pun intended. If people don’t sign up for it — and as we’ve just established, there’s really no good reason they would — then investors are going to jump the proverbial ship and, by this time next year, the Seafarer is going to be sold for a fraction of her value and be sailing the seas with Mickey Mouse tattooed on her ass as a part of the Disney fleet. Now is that a pretty ‘substantial’ depiction of the problem you have in front of you?”
Nick has barely twitched a muscle as I spout off a slightly more antagonistic version of my original introduction. I hold my breath as I wait for his verdict. Going too hard will end with him tossing me out of the building. But I have a feeling that a guy like Nick Madison appreciates directness.
My prediction isn’t wrong. Nick’s eyes finally narrow at my dour assessment, but he doesn’t get angry. Probably because I’m not saying anything that his financial advisers haven’t been telling him for months.
At last, he says, “And how would your ad campaign save this venture, Ms. Davis?”
The way he says my name sends a shiver up my spine. It’s velvety smooth on his deep bass, the audio equivalent of slipping into a sauna.
“A rebrand,” I say. “What can you offer that no other company can without having to do major, expensive renovations to the ship?”
He shrugs, once and very deliberately.
I lean forward. “Make it adults only.”
Nick blinks. He cocks his head. “I’ll admit I’m rather disappointed,” he says. “This is hardly a revolutionary idea. There are plenty of adults only cruise lines.”
“That’s true. But what kind of adults?” I ask. “We’ll market the Seafarer as a cruise ship for young adults, for college-aged people and young professionals. Madison Enterprises can make cruise ships cool again, prove they’re not just a place for your aunt and uncle to get wasted on the high seas but a hip, exciting alternative to somewhere like Ibiza.”
I’ve hooked him now. He’s thinking hard, his brown eyes shifting past me for the first time to stare out into the distance, calculating. “We could make the upper deck into a club every night,” he muses.
“Fire the comedians, or, better yet, get someone raunchy and irreverent. Buy Fireball by the gallon. Do themed raves. Make a port list of the hottest island parties you can find. The options are endless.
“And the biggest attraction? Bands, singers, DJs. We could get a hot artist to come and play a cruise for two weeks, then switch them out for someone new the next trip. Everyone’s dreamed of going on vacation with their favorite singers. Now they can. And, because the Seafarer will be docked in the harbor for the rest of the summer, we can do a big event on board to promote it. Throw a Fourth of July party. Get people interested and signing up for the maiden voyage. And, as an added bonus, a big event will bring in cash and free publicity before the ship is even officially launched.”
I get the feeling that Nick never allows himself to show much enthusiasm in meetings, so I get a thrill when he allows the slightest of smiles to slip over his features. “Okay, Ms. Davis. I’ll admit, I don’t hate it. It’s a decent idea, and definitely more imaginative than anything the New York firms brought to me.”
I brace myself, feeling a “but” coming.
Sure enough, he continues, “But I have a question. How old are you?”
I frown. I already know where he’s going with this and I fight my rising irritation. “I’m twenty-seven,” I say and add, before he can continue, “and I’ve been working in the industry for almost a decade, starting as an intern at eighteen. Now not to belabor the point but, if I had my presentation, I could show you some of the successful campaigns I’ve pulled off. Lacking that, let’s just assume my boss would have sent one of the older people at the firm to this meeting if any of them were better than me.”
That slight smile grows a centimeter. “That’s quite a bit of confidence.”
“It’s not confidence,” I state. “Those are just the facts. If I may, how old were you when you started in real estate?”
His gaze is even. “Twenty,” he says.
“And I’m sure quite a few people underestimated you as well?”
“All the time.”
“So maybe we should stick to issues that actually matter here,” I say testily. This isn’t the first time my age has come up as a negative in pitches, and I’ve always suspected that if I were a guy, it wouldn’t be brought up at all. But people see blonde hair and a pretty, young face and equate it to incompetence. It’s always been hard for me to wrap my brain around this outdated thinking. Did these people just manage to miss Legally Blonde?
In the past, this rundown of my ability has made the conversation move on to more important matters, but Nick doesn’t let it go.
“I believe it is an issue,” he says. “Yes, I’m sure you’ve run some successful campaigns in Boston. But this is New York. This is a project over which a billion dollars is at stake. How do you expect me to tell my board that I hired a twenty-seven-year-old from a small Boston firm to helm it?”
I flush and hate that it happens automatically. Nick’s casualness as he questions my ability only makes me want to rip his head off even more.
“Your board?” I ask, raising one frosty eyebrow. “And here I was thinking that you were the one who made decisions in this company. If I’d had known otherwise I would have made sure to give this presentation to them.”
I get a vicious thrill out of seeing annoyance run across his face. The laziness in his tone drops. “I do make the decisions,” he says.
“Did that sound less defensive in your head?” I ask.
His mouth opens with the promise of a cutting rebuttal, but then he pauses and collects himself once again. “Are you really trying to use reverse psychology on me?” he asks.
“I shouldn’t need to,” I snap back. “You like my idea. I have plenty of experience. That should be enough. And actually my age helps when it comes to this campaign. Have you seen ads aimed at my generation that were written by people in their fifties and sixties? They always come off as out-of-touch and cringe-worthy. So sure, if you want to risk the height of the Seafarer’s popularity being a sarcastic Reddit post then be my guest, hire someone whose idea of ‘what the kids like’ is still Katy fucking Perry.”
Oops. My free-form pitch was bordering on unprofessional already. I’ve turned a corner toward belligerence and it doesn’t sound great.
“You’re not entirely wrong, Ms. Davis,” he says. “But the profanity isn’t exactly helping the case for your maturity.”
I resist the urge to (childishly) roll my eyes. “My apologies,” I say through gritted teeth. “I can assure you there was no profanity in my planned presentation. But that doesn’t change the truth of what I’m saying. I mean, come on. Do you even know who the top charting artists are these days?”
“I’m not that old,” Nick says.
“So then who?”
He hesitates and then grinds his jaw at his inability to come up with a name. “I’m not that into music,” he finally admits.
“Well Kara Kon is a DJ based in New York who’s the next hottest thing,” I say. “And because I actually have some contacts in the music industry, I might be able to get her to play the Seafarer’s maiden voyage.”
Nick snorts. “Kara Kon? What is she, a Mortal Kombat character?”
“And those are the relevant references that will endear you to the trendy demographic,” I say sarcastically.
Nick scoffs. It’s almost a laugh. I risk a teasing smirk. He has to see that I’m right. Nick Madison might be a billionaire jerk with a gold coin where his heart should be, but he’s not stupid.
I raise my eyebrow as he taps his foot, thinking. “Come on,” I prompt, flashing what I hope is a charming smile. “Just give me a chance. What do you have to lose?”
Nick glances at me sharply. I can’t read his expression, but I have a good feeling about it. I’ve just started to feel elation rising in my heart when he suddenly shakes his head and stands, turning away from me.
“No. No, I’m sorry, but it’s not going to work,” he says.
My heart drops ten stories. The whiplash threatens to send me reeling. But I manage to keep my indignation under control this time and say with an almost eerie calm, “Can you give me one good reason why not?”
Nick meets my gaze. “You,” he says. “I don’t think we’d work well together.”
“So it’s not my age. It’s my personality?” I ask, barely believing what I’m hearing.
Nick looks like he’s second-guessing his choice of words, but then fully commits. “Pretty much,” he says.
My mouth drops open. Instantly I’m back in my old apartment, staring in all-consuming shock at Brent as he tells me that it’s not him, it’s me. There’s just something about me. I’d cried then.
But now?
Now I glare right into Nick Madison’s eyes and say, “Fuck you.”
Then, without another word, I storm back down that long red carpet and out of his office, desperate to escape his glass kingdom before the tears come.