4. Cameron
My ears were still ringing from the show as I strode into my building.
“Evening, Mr. O’Connor,” Carl said with a head tip as he opened the door for me.
“Carl, when are you going to stop calling me ‘mister’?” I groused at him, only half-serious. “Do I have to start docking your pay or something?”
His face went white. “Oh, no Mr.—I mean, Cameron, I uh, you don’t have to do that…”
I came to a stop in front of him. I hated that Carl was still nervous around me, despite the fact that he’d been opening the door for me every day since I bought the building two years prior.
“Of course I wouldn’t. I’m kidding.”
“It’s just that the former owner?—”
“Randall Fitzgerald,” I said, trying not to frown at the memory of my father’s old golfing buddy. The two men were cut from the same cloth, and it had been particularly satisfying to take the special building out of his portfolio. Fitzgerald had dozens of properties he ignored. I wasn’t that sort of owner.
Carl nodded. “Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald. He insisted we never use his first name. I just figured you’d want?—”
“Trust me, I’m not like him,” I replied quickly.
“Okay…Cameron. I’ll do my best. From now on.”
I clapped him on the shoulder, then headed for the elevators, wondering if the hearing in my left ear was going to come back eventually.
I loved watching Tyler perform, but I preferred his unplugged solo sets—and not just for the sake of my hearing. The guys he’d hooked up with for tonight’s gig were decent musicians, but they didn’t gel as a true band. As usual, Tyler outshined them all. He was still too damaged to admit he was in a different league from anyone else in the bar circuit, which was part of his problem. Until he believed in himself again, he’d just keep treading water and feeling bad about it.
And worse, drinking away his sorrows.
The reminder of Tyler’s struggles, the asshole tendencies of my father and his friends, the Veritique crisis, and my throbbing head all made for the perfect storm of a trash mood. I was worn to the bone. Of course, my phone sounded off with a Google alert right as I got on the elevator, as if I needed one more thing to deal with.
I’d set them for any reporting about Veritique, and seeing as it was after midnight, it could only be bad news. What now?
“Oh my god, are you stalking me tonight?” a voice rang out from behind me. “First The Sty and now in my own home?”
I turned around to see her, the annoyingly gorgeous woman I couldn’t seem to avoid, whether on my sidewalk or in my office. And how did she know I was coming from The Sty?
“Excuse me, Miss Rhodes? You’re in my building. You’re the one who seems to keep popping up everywhere I go.”
I scanned her slowly as the door closed behind me, pausing on her Converse sneakers. She was dressed for a bodega run, but she still looked fucking breathtaking. I was close enough to her that I could see a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, so stupidly adorable that they looked painted on. And her mouth. Frowning, of course frowning, but pouty. Kissable. The sweetness of her face was contradicted by her thin t-shirt and holy jeans, which promised a lush body beneath.
“What?” she demanded. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
I wanted to kick myself for being so obvious about checking her out.
I cleared my throat and grabbed for something to say to cover up for my lapse. “It’s not like someone who dresses like that could afford this place. So why are you following me? Changed your mind and decided you want to beg me for the job, hmm?”
“What?” Her eyes went wide with fury. “Now hold on a minute, I live here!”
A loud thumping noise interrupted what was probably going to be another tirade, and the elevator jerked to a stop. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the wall.
“Shit.”
“Shit!” she echoed, sounding more nervous than angry with just the single word.
Central Park Tower was a flagship structure with a rich history, but in New York that also meant old building problems. It didn’t matter how expensive the place was, an old elevator meant unpredictability. Brian, the building manager, had the Otis Elevator techs on speed dial.
“We need to report—” Felicity began.
“Already done,” I said as I pushed send on the text. “I just messaged the building manager.”
“Oh, let me guess; you’re one of those ‘let me speak to the manager’ types, right? Lots of complaining until everything is exactly the way you like it. That tracks.”
I had to force myself to not grind my teeth. “I own the building. I’m on top of building maintenance issues to ensure my tenants remain happy. Even the ones who don’t deserve to be here.”
Felicity sputtered at me, unable to form words. Good. Maybe she’d finally stop insulting me.
She started pacing from one end of the elevator to the other with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“I don’t like this.”
“You think I do, Fagin?” I countered.
The chimes on my phone kicked up until they started sounding like a snoozed alarm clock.
“Better text your clingy girlfriend back,” Felicity taunted.
I gave her a withering stare, trying to ignore the fact that her face looked pale. Was she nervous being alone with me in close quarters?
“Please,” I scoffed at her, refocusing on the torture device in my hand. “It’s work.”
I scanned the alerts. Our new marketing campaign, “#AskHer” was generating plenty of attention, but my stomach sank as I realized that it was for all the wrong reasons. The campaign was supposed to be playful, a way to encourage fence-sitting boyfriends to finally propose. Obviously, our goal was to generate positive press for a change, but someone in marketing hadn’t done their research.
Fuck. I clenched my hand in a fist as I kept reading.
The #AskHer hashtag belonged to Her Refuge, a charity for victims of domestic abuse. The awareness campaign encouraged people to gently probe for details with friends and family members who appeared to be in dangerous relationships and listed what to look for in domestic violence scenarios.
Veritique not only seemed clueless with our campaign, we looked outright insensitive.
“Aww, is bossman in trouble with his little lady?” Felicity asked in a baby voice.
I glanced up from my phone to scowl at her as I cranked out a scathing email to my team.
“Hold on, is everything okay?”
There was no mocking in her voice.
“No, it’s not,” I answered gruffly. “It’s not at all. Someone in marketing fucked up royally.”
I did a quarter turn to lean against the elevator wall as I tried to begin damage control.
“Marketing? Tell me what happened,” she said as she moved in front of me. “Maybe I can help.”
I was about to insist there was absolutely no way she could help me, but then I remembered the feedback about her from my team. They’d raved about Felicity Rhodes and come close to calling me out for cutting off her interview before it had even begun. Of course, no one dared say anything like that to my face, but the implication was there: I’d fucked up. And Veritique couldn’t afford any more fuck-ups.
I briefly outlined what was going on and tried to ignore the way her face shifted from disdain to disbelief.
“Oh, wow,” she breathed out once I finished. “That’s…that’s not good.”
I scowled at her. “Yeah, thanks. I know.”
She started pacing again, frowning with her eyebrows drawn down. “But it’s salvageable.”
“How? How in the world can we turn this around?”
Felicity held up her hand and ticked off her fingers, “First, acknowledge the mistake, then accept accountability?—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, then say, ‘We deeply regret the oversight,’” I sighed. “I know, that’s standard.”
Felicity’s head jerked back in unconcealed disgust. “Um, no, that’s one hundred percent wrong. ‘We deeply regret’ is not an apology, and calling it an oversight is downright insulting.”
I paused. She was right. “Okay, then what do you suggest?”
She leaned against the wall opposite me, clutching the rail behind her back and accidentally giving me a front row seat to her breasts—which were absolutely worth the price of admission. With an effort of pure will, I managed to pull my eyes away. “You need to offer a real apology, from the heart, then show how Veritique is going to make it right. And my suggestion is to do some sort of partnership with Her Refuge.”
“Go on.”
Her eyes lit up. “Scrap the hashtag, it belongs to them. Start a completely new campaign that shines a light on the prevalence of domestic violence. Center it around a product that isn’t related to marriage, like a simple gold chain.” Felicity paused to look something up on her phone. “Yeah, a chain works, because you can use the hashtag #BreakingtheChain. So, you’ll donate a portion of the proceeds of any gold chains sold during a certain timeframe to Her Refuge, then offer a matching contribution at the end of the campaign.”
It made a lot of sense. My father had always insisted that admitting wrongdoing was weak, but I knew better. The problem was that I was so steeped in his way of thinking that sometimes I didn’t stop to question what I was doing, or why. The faux apologies—or worse, no apologies—needed to become a thing of the past.
“I like it,” I said simply. “Direct, actionable…yeah. It works.”
“High praise,” Felicity smirked. “Thanks.”
“No, the high praise is me telling Sandrine to put your plan into action ASAP,” I replied as I quickly typed instructions to my employee.
It struck me as I hit send that my team had been right about her. Felicity was a standout. I’d been too stubborn to get past my first impression. Maybe I was more like my father than I was willing to admit. And if so, that was something that needed to change. The old “my way or the highway” perspective had gotten us in the crisis we were currently facing, thanks to my father. It was up to me to get us back out.
“Consider my help a freebie.” Her eyebrow arched up. “Which is all you’ll ever get from me.”
“I don’t accept freebies,” I replied as the idea quickly took shape. I didn’t want to second guess myself, so I kept talking. “Which is why I want you to reconsider working for Veritique.”
She’d gone back to the relentless pacing, but my offer made her stop in her tracks. “Excuse me?”
“You’re good, Felicity. You came up with a make-right plan within seconds, and crisis management wasn’t even on your resume.”
She snorted out a laugh. “Oh, you mean you actually read it? I’m shocked.”
“I did, before I knew it was you,” I admitted.
“Yeah, but I am me, and we already know that you and I,” she gestured between us, “do not work. So, thank you for the offer, but it’s a no, Mr. O’Connor.”
That wouldn’t do at all. People didn’t say no to me.
“Did you talk compensation with Andre Thibault during your interviews?”
“Yeah, shocker,” she laughed at me. “Your HR rep did mention the compensation package. Crazy, right? And I’m still saying no.”
I ignored the sarcasm in her voice. When I made up my mind, I didn’t stop until I won. And this scenario in particular was one in which I was determined to come out on top.
I coughed. Wrong word choice, given the way I watched her ass every time she started pacing.
“I’ll double it.”
Her pink lips dropped open, which seemed to be her go-to expression when she was struck speechless.
I sort of liked that I could do that to her.
“I…I…” she stuttered.
“Say yes,” I shrugged, confident I’d won her over. “It’s as simple as that.”
“No.”
It was my turn for my mouth to fall open in shock. “Excuse me? No?”
“No,” she said in a firmer voice.
“Are you not hearing me, Miss Rhodes? I’m taking an already generous package and offering to double it. Are you so flush you can walk away from an offer of that size? Because that really would surprise me.” I gestured up and down her body.
She stomped her foot, her face bright red.
“And that’s exactly why my answer is no,” she fumed at me. “You’re insufferable. And rude. Do you really think more money will make it easier for me to deal with you?”
“A lot more money,” I reminded her.
“Whatever,” she shouted back at me. “It doesn’t matter! My answer is still no!”
“I’ll triple the initial offer.”
The air in the elevator went still while Felicity slowly turned to me.
“You can’t be serious,” she said in a soft voice.
“Try me.”
“But…” she mouthed some quick calculations to herself. “No way. That would be enough for…”
“Enough for what?” I asked, taking note of the tiny smile she was trying to hide.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, arranging her face back into the tense, annoyed expression I was used to.
She returned to pacing.
“Why are you always in motion?” I demanded. “Stop already, it’s really annoying.”
“I hate enclosed spaces, okay?” She shook her hands like they’d fallen asleep and felt prickly. “This is stressing me out, and I’m doing everything I can to avoid losing my shit. You being in here too definitely isn’t helping.”
I wanted to backtrack immediately because Tyler felt the same way. I’d seen him have a full-blown panic attack the time his label had forced him to make his entrance on stage in a coffin-sized box, and it wasn’t pretty.
“Okay, okay, I understand,” I said calmly, backing up as much as I could to give her more space. “Take a minute to center yourself while I check to see if Brian has any updates. We’ll be fine, I promise you.”
Felicity bent over at the waist and placed her hands on her knees, letting out long breaths. She was worse off than I’d realized.
Brian texted me back within seconds to let me know the techs were working remotely and were close to figuring out what had gone wrong.
“Almost there,” I reassured her.
She craned her neck to look up at me. “It’s not just my claustrophobia that’s making me freak out right now.”
I tilted my head at her, waiting for her to continue.
“It’s that I’m saying yes to your offer.”
And with that, the elevator cranked back into service.
Life was about to get very interesting.