Chapter 12
“If it isn’t the barracuda,” a cocky voice called as I exited Jack’s office and sniffed back a tear.
Shit, I forgot he worked here. I turned on my heel to face him. “Steven Fermin. Enjoy your dinner?”
That wiped the smile off his face. “Expensive. Maybe you could gimme some of that Crystal commission to reimburse me?”
“Don’t count on it.”
His nose twitched like a rat sniffing out cheese. “So what’d you do to land it, huh? Did you give David Steel some special treatment? I hear he’s been lonely since his wife died.”
“If you’re implying what I think you are, then you can fuck off.”
“Enough,” Jack barked from his office door.
Steven looked at Jack. “C’mon, Shane. It’s a joke.”
“Get back to work, Steve,” Jack demanded, towering over him. “And if I hear you talking to Scarlett like that again, I’ll be sending your wife some interesting pictures from Memorial Day weekend.”
Steven threw me a dirty look and scurried off down the corridor.
The office resumed its work, pretending they hadn’t been watching the entire thing with bated breath.
“Sorry about him,” Jack told me.
I clicked my tongue. “It’s not his fault he’s still learning to walk upright.”
Jack looked uncomfortable. “Still, it’s not right.”
I eyed him. “I’m more surprised that you stepped in to defend someone you dislike.”
“I dislike him more.”
The awkward silence stretched out between us, making my skin itch. I cleared my throat and said, “I better get going.”
“Or we could sit down again and try something crazy I’ve heard people talk about,” he suggested. “It’s called a compromise?”
I gathered my hair into a pile on top of my head then let it go so it poured like syrup over a pancake onto my bare shoulders. “Never heard of it.”
His pupils expanded. “I don’t like the sound of it either, but they say in ninety percent of rational adults, it works.”
His hand grazed mine as he gestured to his office. It felt rough, like he spent his spare time doing manual labor, certainly not in a manicurist’s chair. What would it be like to thread my fingers through his? I’d always compared handholding to being caught in a bear trap. A constant struggle to break free whenever I wanted to move away from a boyfriend for more than five seconds. A college boyfriend accused me of withholding because I dropped his hand to pick up a rainbow notepad in Walmart. It wasn’t that deep, I told him. Women needed their hands free to touch stuff they had no intention of buying in stores. “I’ve never been the person to fit in with the crowd.”
“Neither have I, but what do we have to lose, except millions in commission?”
“You had me at millions,” I agreed, walking back in.
* * *
Two not completely horrific hours later, we were happy with what we’d managed to put together from each of our plans. Jack would concentrate on pushing the property to the press and media, while I dealt with all the marketing materials.
Our argument over the guest list and theme for the open house had been put on pause, but we agreed on the following Saturday. Both our phones were melting with notifications that we needed to deal with.
“You’ll be at the showing with Brett and Diana at six, right?” he asked as he walked me out to the lobby.
I nodded, running through the to-do list in my head.
“What? No comeback?” He smiled.
I was no longer dreading 6 p.m. “I’ll text you from the car,” I told him, stepping into the revolving door.
On the street, I looked back and caught him watching me through the leaves of a giant artificial Ficus.
Our ceasefire had left me confused. We didn’t like each other, but it hadn’t descended into the Trojan War. And the way he’d stood up for me? He’d sounded like Paris defending me against Menelaus. In the Brad Pitt movie version anyway.
Oh my God, you are not Helen of Troy. Jack Shane would not launch a thousand ships off the Hudson for you. Snap out of it.
I texted Diana as I waited for Viv to pull up.
Hi Diana, Still all good for 6 p.m.?
Three dots, straight away.
Yes, but Jack told us to meet him there at five. Has the time changed?
So that’s how he wanted to play it.
No, my mistake. See you at five.
The ceasefire had ended.
* * *
“I had such high hopes for you two,” Viv teased, pulling down her pink pinafore dress before we walked through the lobby doors—an outfit that would earn me side eye from Lacey and disdain from Clarissa, but Viv would never conform.
On my first day at the agency, Lacey had told me to dress like I could afford the apartments I would be showing and keep it neutral. “People in this town won’t take you seriously if you dress like a hooker,” she repeated often. Easy for her to say since her style was effortlessly chic in tailored pastel blazers and slim-fit trousers with timeless gold jewelry.
Over time, my work wardrobe became a sea of designer beige, grey, black, and navy. The epitome of drudgery.
“Hope you didn’t buy a bridesmaid dress.” I slurped on my latte as walked through the building lobby.
Viv whistled “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen.
“Hilarious. I meant to ask where you got this?” I pointed to her neon-yellow bag—which was shaped like a wet-floor sign with text that read “Catwalk in Progress”—as we approached the elevator bank.
“Online. I’ll send you the link.” Downing the last of her coffee, she moved across me to throw the cup into the trashcan near my side.
“Excuse me,” a tinny voice called from our left.
Viv came to an emergency stop, and my stomach made contact with her studded belt.
“Ow.”
Viv took a step back to find who the voice belonged to, almost puncturing my right foot with her heel.
A sturdy ten-year-old in a scout uniform stood beside a table filled with flyers and a donation box. An adult scout leader and another girl were off to the side, talking to a middle-aged woman with an Anna Wintour bob.
Who let these kids in the building? It’s a workplace.
Viv was a sucker for a kid in a uniform. “Yes, sweetie?”
The girl cast a toothy grin in our direction. “We’re raising money for a new bus so we can go on field trips. Do you have any spare change?” Her blue uniform was pressed underneath a sash covered in an array of badges.
Jimmy, head of building security and father of four, walked past and cocked his hat to the scout.
Guess that answered my question.
I checked my watch. “Viv, we have to go.”
Her fingers, tipped with blue marbled nails, waved me away as she rifled through her purse, too small to hold anything but a credit card and lipstick. “Crap, I don’t have any cash. Do you take Mastercard?”
The scout raised a thick, dark eyebrow. “No.” She turned her chocolate-brown eyes on me. “Do you have any change? We’d appreciate it.”
My phone vibrated through my bag. “No, but I’ll give you some advice.” It stopped after two buzzes and pinged with a voicemail notification. “You need better branding.”
Her tiny heart-shaped face looked perplexed.
Viv grabbed me by the elbow. “Excuse her. She’s having a bad day. I’ll bring down some change for your box.”
I yanked my elbow away. “I’m trying to help, Viv. Look, you want to make money?” I asked her open, hopeful face.
The scout nodded.
I pointed to the fold-up table and pitiful cardboard sign. “Work on your marketing. Invest in a better table display. Get something eye-catching that will make people stop in their tracks. Consider a social-media campaign. You know how to use Instagram, right?”
She jerked her head up and down like a bobble head.
“Post pictures of the cookies and let people know where you’ll be selling them. You can even offer a discount for anyone who mentions the post. And most importantly, focus on your customers. Smile, be friendly, and make them feel like their purchase is appreciated. That’s how you’ll make the big bucks.”
The girl scout looked at me with a mix of confusion and awe. “That sounds like a lot of work.”
I grinned. “You want the reward, you need to work.”
That earned me a sticky high five. “Thanks, miss.”
A fresh wave of people rotated through the doors, and she skipped away with her newfound business knowledge.
Viv shook her head. “You’re crazy.”
“What?” I asked innocently, pulling the travel bottle of hand sanitizer from my bag.
“Giving a ten-year-old girl a lecture on marketing strategies? That’s not normal.”
I squeezed out a huge blob and rubbed my hands together. “She’ll thank me when she’s president.”
Viv rolled her eyes. “Or maybe she’ll just be traumatized and send you her therapy bill.”
As we walked away, I couldn’t help but think about the girl’s innocent yet intelligent expression. And about myself when I’d been that age. I would have made a great scout, given the chance.
“You’re not joining, Scarlett. It’s a dumb hobby for girls with no friends and stuck-up parents,” my foster mom had declared, flicking her cigarette ash out of mine and Hailey’s bedroom window while I watched our neighbors. Her voice had carried enough that Stacey’s mom had turned from where she stood in her driveway and sneered up at the open window.
No wonder I didn’t have friends. I’d watched, sick with envy, as Stacey jumped into her mom’s car to make the weekly drive to the clubhouse. She’d called me weird because I focused more on pointing out the features of her Barbie Dreamhouse than playing with it. Every Wednesday for two years, I’d stood at that window, watching her leave before I gave up hope of ever joining her.
The scout leader walked over, a weird look on her face. She probably thought we were trying to lure the kid into a van outside.
“Time to go.” I pulled Viv backward and speed-walked toward the elevators.