Chapter 25 Cake, Olive Branches, and Confessions
CAKE, OLIVE brANCHES, AND CONFESSIONS
Before I leave my brownstone office for Piece of Cake, I check my email. A message from my social media manager tells me we’ve had some mentions.
That can’t be good, so I hop over to Twitter. The Carpe Diem feed is stuffed with replies that make my day go pear-shaped.
-What a bunch of elitist garbage.
-Who cares what rich fucks do?
-Not like I was ever gonna buy a fancy watch, or a ridic perfume, since, ya know, I was never gonna score an invite to one of their parties.
Groaning, I drag a hand down my face. Sure, the parties come with a fee, but I’m not asking for country club dues. The price is reasonable.
But I know better than to defend myself online. Everyone knows you can’t argue with Twitter.
Twitter always has the last word.
Trouble is, I’ve built a solid, trustworthy business that I manage personally. My reputation matters, and a couple of errant comments can snowball.
Worse, they can worry business partners.
Like Victoire.
Because Ms. Damon emails, wanting to chat. Dreaded words.
From my office, I call her right away. “Hello, hello, Angeline. What can I do for you?”
“Easton, level with me. Should I be worried that these kinds of negative comments are going to be an ongoing issue?”
Well, I’m worried, but I don’t let on. “I don’t think it will, Ms. Damon. I take the brand and the business quite seriously. There will always be some who don’t like what I do, but our reputation is solid and strong.”
“Then let’s focus on some press that shows the power of the personal touch,” she says. “I’ll put you in touch with my PR team.”
“That would be great, and I’ll come up with something too. This is my issue to solve, and I plan to do just that.”
“Glad to hear.”
We say goodbye, and I exhale sharply.
I’ve got to fix this.
Some romances need a little extra effort to save, just like this deal with Victoire. How to do that, though, is the question.
As I leave and walk to the cake shop to meet Bellamy, an idea starts to form.
It’s only the start of an idea and still leaves me feeling unsettled. If I don’t tamp my emotions before I get to the shop, I’ll come off irritable and frosty. I don’t want to head in guns blazing when I plan to ask Bellamy for something.
When I see her inside, seated at a table, it’s like she’s radiating sunshine and sparkling rainbows.
What the hell? Is she happy about the Twitter reaction?
I can’t get a read on her, and that’s before she stands and draws me in for a hug.
Mmm. That’s unexpected but so very nice. Her honeysuckle scent flirts with my senses, and I forget what had me so annoyed. Who the hell cares when she smells this good? One embrace and she’s disarmed me.
She lets go. “First of all, I wanted to thank you,” she says, and there’s not a shred of ire in her demeanor.
“For what?” We sit, and I try to focus on business and cleaning up the toxic social media spill.
“You know . . . what you said the other day after we were in the studio?” she prompts.
“I said a lot of things on the phone that night.” I’m still unclear where we’re going.
“What you noticed.” She scans the shop and lowers her voice. “About David.”
His name seems difficult for her to say, and my Spidey senses tingle. “I remember.”
She fiddles with a pen on the table, picking it up then setting it down. “I met with Bryn yesterday. She does some consulting for The Dating Pool. And, to make a long story short, I wasn’t the only woman there who was experiencing those . . . issues with him.”
Oh, hell. I sit up straighter, tension whipping through me, but hope too. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“When I spoke to Bryn about what had happened, she said another woman had complained earlier this week too. Well, Bryn took matters into her own hands.” Her eyes are shining, but her voice is strong. “And . . . he resigned this morning.”
She lets out the biggest sigh in Manhattan, her face the picture of relief. “This is such a weight off me. And I don’t think I would have said anything if you hadn’t noticed his behavior.”
Suddenly, my concerns are nothing but smoke in the air, and all I care about is what this woman has done.
She’s brave, and I’m damn proud of her.
“That takes serious guts, Bellamy. And I don’t deserve any thanks. This is all you.” I hold up a hand to high five. She smacks my palm. “Congratulations. That is awesome.”
Her smile is wider than the avenue. “Thank you. But you should accept some credit because I’d been denying what was happening.
I told myself it was just part of being a woman in the workforce.
I was in denial, then you said something.
And I realized it was not normal and I shouldn’t have to feel this way.
Now I don’t have to work with that asshole. ”
I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face if I wanted to. “Good for you. You are seriously a rock star.” This is a good day, no matter what happens with Victoire. “We should celebrate with cake. It’s on me.”
“We should.”
I ask her favorite, and she chooses a chocolate buttercream cake with chocolate frosting. “Decadent,” I observe.
“And we deserve it,” she adds. “But the slices are huge. Want to share?”
“As long as you don’t encroach on my half.”
“I’ll make no promises.”
“I suppose I’ll take my chances.”
I order a slice and we devour the chocolate fiesta, matching each other bite for bite.
With one forkful left, I take no prisoners.
“I’m afraid I have no choice here, Bellamy,” I say, scooping the last bite onto the fork and into my mouth, then going full Giada De Laurentiis as I roll my eyes in pleasure.
“Was it good?” Bellamy asks when I’m done.
“So satisfying.”
Her eyes tour my face. “I’ll say.” Then she sets down her fork on the empty plate—not a crumb is in sight. “But that’s not all I wanted to tell you.”
I keep my hurt out of my voice; it’s not as difficult as it would have been an hour ago. “Hit me. Apparently, I’m your favorite punching bag, but I can handle it.”
She smiles. “Your grandmother helped me too. She told me something at her house about speaking up and speaking your mind. I don’t know if you heard that?”
I nod. “I did.”
“That stuck with me. And that’s why I wanted to apologize to you.”
My head spins all the way around and back. “For what?”
She gives me an apologetic smile. “Look, David pushed me to be hard on you, but I’m still responsible for what I say on my show.”
“He pushed you because of his inappropriate feelings for you?”
“After you left last week—”
“When he kept inviting you to have dinner late in his office?”
She winces. “Yes, and I said no. I told him I had to see my aunt. But not her cat.”
I don’t laugh. She doesn’t either. “I’m glad you didn’t have to have dinner with him,” I say, solemnly.
“Me too. Anyway, after you left, he said . . .” She drops to a masculine tone. “You need to come down really hard on that cocky bastard.”
Ouch. Also, fuck that guy.
“When I showed him my script later, he added some of the harsher details,” Bellamy continues, “about the money and your parties being elitist. He said I had to do it that way or management would pull my show for being too soft,” she says, drawing air quotes.
“I was scared and frustrated. I wasn’t sure what to do.
I didn’t know how much power he had as my producer.
So, I did it his way, but it bothered me so much after. ”
I blow out a long breath, indignant for her and what she’s endured. “That guy is a total fuckwad. I can’t believe he was messing with your podcast. You built that show. You made it successful. The Dating Pool is lucky to have you. You know that, right?”
“I do now. That’s what Bryn said too. She wants me to go back to doing some of the things my audience really loved—special editions before a live audience in a theater.”
“Like a talk show?”
“Yes, exactly. Where audience members can ask questions and I have free rein to answer. We’re going to set up a show in a couple of weeks.
I haven’t done one like that in months, so it’ll be fun.
She said when The Dating Pool licensed my show earlier this year, they’d wanted me to have carte blanche to speak my mind.
But I felt stuck the last few months as David tried to influence it.
I’m only sorry you were caught in the quicksand. ”
“Pfft. Don’t apologize. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” This has reminded me there are more important things at stake than my ego and my squeaky-clean online rep. Things like respect—the respect all women deserve at work.
“Thanks for understanding. I’ve felt a little like a tea kettle about to boil over,” she admits with a sigh that feels months in the making.
Things suddenly add up. “That’s why you said you needed it the other night? At the piano?”
A sheepish shrug is my answer. “Yes. God, yes. Angry sex unlocked me more.”
I smile smugly. “So . . . you don’t think my parties suck?”
She laughs then shakes her head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, cowboy. I don’t agree with your approach at all.”
“C’mon. You truly believe you can meet the love of your life digitally?” I challenge.
“I do. Because we live both IRL and digitally. You can’t put the genie back in the bottle. I want love. Great, fantastic, riotous love.” From anyone else, that would sound pie-in-the-sky. But she’s got a laser focus in her eyes, an intensity etched in her wicked lips that says she’s all business.
“The tell-the-world-on-a-billboard-in-Times-Square kind of love,” I say, quoting her episode about Carpe Diem.
“Yes. That kind. I want that. And to get it, you have to put yourself out there, over and over. Love has the power to change your life. It isn’t supposed to come easily.
I don’t want it to pass me by, so why would I limit myself to a party?
Or a bar? To a single-chance encounter? No one wants a million frogs, but if you only kiss the frogs at the jazz club, you might miss the prince that was next door at the sports lounge. ”
“You’re a real Carrie Bradshaw,” I say, but I’m smiling. Damn, this woman knows what she wants. I might not want that kind of love, but I admire the hell out of her fire.
“And you’re a real capitalist cowboy,” she tosses back, and she’s smiling too.
“Unapologetically.”
“And yes, I meant everything I told you in the warehouse, when it was just you and me,” she continues. “I meant most of what I said on my podcast too. I’m only apologizing for the harsher things.”
“So, we’re still on opposite sides,” I say with a laugh.
“Seems we are,” she says, also laughing.
Opposite sides, but perhaps with a new truce.
In that truce, I see the opportunity to bring up my new idea.
She speaks at the same time, and we say the same thing: “I’d like a second chance.”