9. Klein
Paisley’s officeis smack dab in the center of downtown Scottsdale. She’s a stone’s throw from the waterfront area, bracketed by an architectural firm and a luxury art gallery.
Pausing, I double-check the name on the glass door. P Squared Marketing.
I catch my reflection in the door as I reach for the handle. I’m embarrassed to say I spent too much time considering what to wear to this meeting. After all the deliberating, I ended up wearing my typical uniform of jeans and a T-shirt.
A middle-age woman smiles brightly from behind her desk when I walk in. “Hello. You must be Klein.”
“Uh, yeah. Hi. Hello.” Why do I sound nervous? I’m not nervous. Am I?
The woman gestures at the waiting area. “If you’d like to take a seat, I will tell Ms. Royce you’re here.” She takes a step away, then turns back as if she’s remembered something. “Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Water? Kombucha?”
I refrain from rolling my eyes at the third option, then politely pass.
She leaves to tell Ms. Royce I’m here. The waiting area is trendy, modern, with low-slung cream leather chairs, and a glass coffee table with rounded edges and matte gold legs. Abstract art in earthy emeralds and deep blues decorate the walls. On the coffee table is a stack of pamphlets, the outward facing flap reads What can P Squared Marketing do for you?
Thumbing through one, I find the page listing photos and bios of the employees. Paisley is last, below a photo of a woman named Paloma. Paisley wears a red blazer and matching red lipstick, and I would never say this out loud because it’s definitely not the look she’s going for, but she looks like a supermodel.
The woman is drop dead gorgeous on her worst day. Time has done nothing but turn her into a woman with lush curves and a sharp wit.
I happen to be a sucker for both.
To make our deal successful, I’ll have to show up with invisible weapons. The first of which is a promise to myself not to allow any shenanigans to develop with Paisley Royce. The others I’ll figure out as I go.
“Klein,” Paisley calls out.
I whip around and find her smirking, arms crossed. She knows exactly which page of the pamphlet my gaze had been trained on. Today she wears a tight, white skirt, spiked heels, and lavender short-sleeved top that looks soft to the touch. The woman is a masterpiece, a smoke show sent to test my resolve.
An uncomfortable feeling slips over me when I realize it has taken me too long to respond to her. To cover up my unease, I mockingly say, “Hello, Ms. Royce.”
Her tongue runs the length of her upper teeth as she gazes at me just long enough for it to be awkward. For me anyway. I’m pretty sure she’s doing it on purpose. Arching one eyebrow, she asks, “Are you ready to make your entrance online?”
I walk closer, closing the distance, trying not to drown in her ocean eyes. “It’s social media, not a presidential inauguration.”
Paisley laughs derisively. Gone is the red lipstick from her head shot, replaced by a petal pink that might look even prettier on her. She crooks a finger my direction. “Follow me.”
She pivots, walking back the way she came.
I nod politely at the receptionist on my way by, hurrying after Paisley’s confident strides.
Even with all that time we spent not seeing one another, I like to think I know Paisley somewhat. I’ve seen her drunk, I’ve seen her sad, I’ve seen her sassy, and I’ve seen her uncertain. The Paisley walking in front of me now is new to me. She’s a boss, a trailblazer, an expert.
I am an aspiring author with low numbers in my bank account. I ate ramen for dinner last night, and it wasn’t even the good kind.
“Here we are,” Paisley announces, sailing through an open door.
I follow her in. One long table that seats eight takes up the center of the room, a TV hangs on the wall, and a beverage cart lurks in the corner.
Two women are already seated on the same side of the table, and Paisley introduces them as Paloma and Cecily. “This is Klein,” she says, gesturing to me. “My… friend from college.”
Paloma rolls her eyes. “Just call him what he is. Your fake date to your sister’s wedding.”
Cecily laughs behind a cupped hand while Paisley sends a death glare at Paloma. My neck heats as I take a seat opposite the women.
Paloma gazes at me intensely, undeterred. “You’d better do a good job. Make it clear to that stupid ex of hers that not only is she better off without him, but she’s better off with you.”
Oh shit. Paloma is... scary. “I’ll do my best.” I offer her my winningest smile.
She arches an eyebrow. “You’ll do better than that.”
Paisley pulls out a chair beside Cecily and sits. “Paloma, stop scaring him.”
“It’s not my problem if he feels frightened by being called to greatness.” She sends me a long look tinged with dislike.
Ohh. She knows why Paisley dislikes me. And she, in solidarity, dislikes me, too.
Paisley moves the meeting forward. “Klein is a debut author who does not currently have a social media presence.”
“Professionally, you mean?” Cecily asks.
“And personally,” Paisley answers, gaze shooting at me before bouncing back to Cecily.
Satisfaction warms my chest at the brief memory of Paisley admitting she searched for me online.
Cecily’s gaze narrows, eyebrows tugging in the center. “Is there a reason you’re a social ghost?”
Social ghost? What the hell kind of term is that?
I shrug. “I don’t feel like telling people what I do every day. And I really don’t care what other people do every day.”
Cecily starts to roll her eyes, but stops herself.
“Revolucionario,” Paloma mutters.
Paisley presses her lips together to keep from laughing. “Ok, ok.” She presses her palms on the surface of the table. “Klein is a client. No eye-rolling, and no name calling.”
Her gaze locks on me. Damn, but she’s pretty. Wide-eyes, dark lashes, slender neck. How else would I describe her if I wrote a character profile?
“Why don’t you tell me what your goals are for your brand?”
Paisley’s question yanks me from my errant thought. “My brand?” What kind of question is that? I’m a person, not a thing. I’m not Nike.
She leans back in her chair, considering me. “Tell me about your book.”
Here’s the thing about being a writer. You can write an entire book, in my case 110,000 words, and be unable to summarize it in five sentences. It’s like an overflowing sink and you’re using a paper towel to clean up the water. There are too many plot lines and ideas and character struggles and conflicts to capture it all in a paragraph that also sells the concept.
“Well,” I begin, my palms growing clammier by the second. It’s only an audience of three and I’m losing it. I lean forward. The chair creaks. “It’s a romantic suspense/mystery set in the 1920s.”
Paisley motions for me to continue.
“An influential family arranges a marriage for their daughter to a local mafia family, but when she turns up dead they have her twin sister secretly take her place while they scramble to solve the murder.”
Paisley’s eyebrows lift. “That actually sounds good.”
“You sound surprised.”
She shrugs, writing something on her notepad. “Is there on-page intimacy?”
“Why?”
“So we know the tone of the novel. We don’t want to present your book in the wrong light.”
That makes sense. “Yes.”
Paisley makes a checkmark on her page. “Does the murder take place on-page, as well? Is it descriptive?”
“Yes. But, Paisley,” I glance at the other two women as I rest my forearms on the desk. “Is your plan to talk about my book on social media? Because I really don’t see how this is all going to get off the ground and?—”
“Actually,” Cecily speaks up. “I have a different idea for how we should approach all this.” She raises her eyebrows at Paisley, as if she is asking for permission to share.
Paisley nods, urging her to continue.
“I think we should use your situation to gain interest in your book.”
I’m confused. What situation?
“Like, the fake dating situation you are both in,” Cecily says, catching on to the fact that nobody is following her line of thinking.
Paisley raises her eyebrows. “You want me”—she points at her chest—“on Klein’s social?”
“Sort of,” Cecily explains. “It doesn’t have to be your face. It could be your legs stretched out in the sand. It could be a far away shot of you swimming in the ocean. It could be your backs while you ride bikes.”
“This is why I hate social media,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes. “So damn contrived.”
Cecily shakes her head. “I’m not done explaining. You would be honest about what you’re doing. Be upfront about how you’re fake dating.”
I’m already shaking my head. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. This idea is as crazy as it sounded from the beginning. It’s better to put an end to it now. Paisley can tell her family she caught her new boyfriend cheating on her or something similar that I would never do. I’ll be the bad guy so she can save face, and we can both move on. I’ll figure out how to publish my book on my own. Authors do it all the time.
“Paisley—” I cut myself off when I see her smiling. No, beaming.
“I love it,” she says to Cecily. To me, she asks, “Klein, what do you hate about social media?”
“It’s fake.”
“Then don’t be fake. Be authentic. Honest. Be yourself.”
“Be honest about fake dating? That’s called an oxymoron.”
Paisley’s lip twitches, and I imagine she’s fighting the urge to use the word ‘moron’ in a different way.
Excitement glitters in Cecily’s eyes. “The investment in a story like that would be money. Think about it. Don’t you automatically want to know what’s going to happen?”
I already know what’s going to happen. I’m going to take my ass on a trip across the country to an island where there’s going to be a bunch of stuff to do, and out of it I’m going to get professional marketing help that will, in turn, make me more attractive to an interested publisher.
There’s still something tripping me up, though. “How does all this tie into my book, exactly?”
“You’re going to show that you can tell a story.” She waves her hand. “Spin a yarn.”
“Lie?”
“Isn’t that what writing a book is? The world’s longest, most intricate lie?”
I bristle. “No. It’s creativity at its peak.”
“Anyway,” Cecily says forcefully, “the point of all this wouldn’t be to talk about your book yet. We’ll state in your bio that you’ve written a novel, but we’ll save the book push for later, after you get a publishing deal. And how do you get a publishing deal?” Her eyebrows reach for her hairline as she waits for me to answer.
“I show up on social media.” Do I sound as reluctant as I feel? Yep.
“And how do you show up on social media?” She’s using a tone suited for a four-year-old who refuses to relinquish a stolen cookie.
“I exploit my personal life.”
Cecily blows out a hard breath, thumbing at me. “I can’t with this guy.”
“Klein,” Paisley says my name patiently. Too patiently. Once again, I feel like a four-year-old. “This is not exploitation. This is working with what you’ve got. And I have to agree with Cecily, what we’re planning to do is harebrained enough that it’ll pique curiosity.”
“All publicity is good publicity?” My sarcastic tone gives away my opinion.
Cecily looks at me like I’m hopeless. “No, Klein. All publicity is not good publicity. You can’t go running around with your schlong flapping in the wind and call it good publicity. This is strategic publicity. You’re inviting the masses along on your escapade.” She sits back, looking pretty damn pleased with herself.
I drag a hand down my face. “And this is going to help me get a book contract?”
Paisley responds. “It’s going to help you get noticed, Klein the?—”
I cut her off with a warning look before she can say ‘stripper’. She grins, finishing her sentence with ‘writer.’
Cecily claps her hands once, the sound reverberating through the room. “I think we just found your handle.”
“Is that a euphemism for schlong?”
Cecily glances at Paisley. “Did you travel back in time to find this guy?”
Paisley chuckles. “A ‘handle’ is your name on social media. And KleinTheWriter is pretty much perfect.”
Cecily grabs her phone from its face down position on the table, flipping it over and swiping rapidly over the screen. “It’s available,” she announces.
“Perfect,” Paisley responds. Her eyebrows lift as she looks my direction, waiting for me to say something.
“Fine,” I grumble.
“Fine?” she prods. “Or, amazing? Stupendous. How about”—she taps her chin—“thank you?”
“It’s not like you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart,” I remind her.
In my peripheral vision, I see Cecily and Paloma creep out of the conference room. The door shuts softly behind them.
Paisley pushes forward on the conference room table, using her palms for leverage. “You have four weeks to get to know me, and one week in which I expect you to hold up your end of the bargain. I have signed up for the next six months, and my firm will be doing this without compensation. So not only will I not be receiving payment, but I will still be paying my employees. Do you know what that means, Klein?” She leans closer, and it takes just about everything I have not to let my eyes wander down into her blouse that has fallen open. Even now, as I will my gaze to meet hers, at the bottom of my vision I note her nude bra that is anything but boring. It is scalloped lace on the top, delicate and feminine.
Mimicking Paisley, I press my palms to the table and lift myself up, until our noses are less than a foot apart. “What? That dear old mom and dad aren’t going to get paid the same amount this month?”
Fire lights in Paisley’s eyes. “Do you think”—she swirls a lone finger in the air—“my parents pay for all this?”
“Are you trying to tell me they didn’t at least give you the money to start a business?” I cannot imagine in what world Paisley would be so young and have a business like this already. She comes from a wealthy family, isn’t it a safe assumption that they would’ve at least given her the seed money to start this marketing firm?
“My dad blocked my inheritance, and me, because I refused to go to the college he had chosen, and then I doubled down on my refusal and told him what I wanted to major in.”
Oh shit. I do not like where this is headed. Resigned, I ask the question I’m positive I already know the answer to. “And that major was?”
“Creative writing.”
I look down at the table, trying to gather all the thoughts in my head, so I can form a sentence that is worthy of Paisley’s revelation. “Paisley, I?—”
“Don’t,” she says in a low voice. “Don’t be sorry. And don’t feel bad for me. I switched to marketing, and—”she motions out around her—“it seems to have been the right choice for me.”
Though her tone of voice is strong, it wavered once while she spoke. What would she do if I reached out, if I ran my knuckles across her cheek?
The longer I look at her, the more the fire in her demeanor diminishes. Vulnerability softens her eyes, her whole damn face. And what a face it is. Pert nose. Heart-shaped. A triangle of freckles at her temple.
I could be in a crowd of people and still know Paisley’s profile. In our creative writing class, I spent more time memorizing every dip and curve of her profile than I did paying attention to the curriculum. If only I could go back in time and stop myself from going overboard on that critique, or choosing a different one when they were laid out on the teachers desk. Would my life be different today if I had?
We stare at each other, the twelve inches separating us electrified. I want more than anything to erase her memories of my red pen and that one sophomoric kiss in her bathroom.
“My mom would like to know if you’re available for dinner on Wednesday night.”
The spell breaks. Paisley blinks twice. She stands upright, her thighs pressing against the edge of the table. I do the same.
She crosses her arms and bites the corner of her lip. “I guess it’s probably a good idea. I need to get to know you, so I don’t look like an utter fool in front of my family if they ask a question about your upbringing or your parents.”
“Parent,” I correct. “Just my mom.”
She nods, but refrains from asking about my dad. “I’ll be there. Text me the time and address.” She takes her phone from the table and slips it into her pocket. “Would you like a drink for the road? Water, coffee?—”
I raise my eyebrows teasingly. “Kombucha?”
A smile plays on her lips. “Have you ever been to a barbershop that offers beer to its clients?”
“Yes.”
She strides to the conference room door and opens it. “That’s because they know their audience.”
“And you know yours?”
“Precisely.”
I go to pass through the door, but something happens. She doesn’t move aside in time, and I end up brushing against her. She quietly gasps, and I pause to look at her. My nearness awards me an upfront view of her chest, rising and falling in an unnaturally fast rhythm.
As is mine, but add in clammy palms and a lump in my throat. “Paisley?—”
Her head shakes quickly. “I’ll see you on Wednesday. Cecily will be in touch to get the ball rolling on your account.”
I take one last look at her, then leave.
The sun is bright, harsh, ripping me from the haze I felt in Paisley’s presence. It’s probably a good thing. She disarms me.