Chapter 21
DREW
Sophie and I are sitting at either end of her dining table, the only sounds the clack of laptop keys and the occasional crunch of a cracker.
I’m supposed to be scoping out logistics, but my brain keeps jumping back to the kiss, making it tricky to focus – even with a deadline looming.
The last time I kissed someone like that, I was about to marry her.
I sneak another glance down the table and Sophie’s chewing on her lower lip, her eyes trained on her laptop screen – concentration personified.
She releases her lip and starts mouthing words, as if she’s acting out the script in her head, then squeezes her eyes shut, rocking her head from side to side.
‘Time for a break?’ I ask and her eyes snap open.
‘Maybe the wine was a bad idea,’ she says.
Because of the kiss? I wonder. I’m guessing it’s been on her mind too.
‘It’s made me sleepy,’ she adds, stifling a yawn.
So, we’re ignoring the kiss then – probably a good idea.
‘Coffee?’ I suggest.
‘On it,’ she says, jumping up. ‘And we have cinnamon scrolls, remember?’
I didn’t, no – I totally forgot.
Because straight after we kissed, we did some serious freaking out – stumbling over our words, lots of throat clearing and avoiding eye contact. Then, by unspoken agreement, we put our heads down and haven’t stopped working for the past few hours.
‘Love a good cinnamon scroll,’ I say like I’m in a Cinnabon commercial. Idiot.
Sophie boils the kettle and grinds some beans to make a French press, and I look over what we’ve got so far.
I’ve always been decent at scripting commercials – like the one that was shortlisted for a Golden Arrow – but Sophie’s work is next-level. It’s relatable without relying on clichés, and way snappier than I could have written.
I especially love the exchange in the first commercial where Stevie’s wife sweeps his hair off his forehead and says, ‘Not quite what I meant when I said you need a break,’ and he replies, ‘Maybe next year we go somewhere tropical – less chance of being taken out by toddlers.’ Then his daughter hangs a Christmas ornament on the traction frame – they all look at her and she says, ‘What?’ Gold.
‘Drew?’
I look up and Sophie’s leaning against the counter, her head to one side. Maybe we are going to talk about it.
‘What’s up?’ I ask, my gut tightening.
‘Do you think Hargreaves will go for it?’ Oh right. ‘I mean, we only just switched gears on them, and now we’re doing it again…’
‘Well yeah, but this time it’s out of necessity. And this is still in line with what we sent them last week. We’re not shifting gears, we’re… we’re in the same gear, just driving down a different street.’
She crinkles her nose.
‘You don’t like my analogy?’ I ask with a soft chuckle.
Hand over her mouth, she stifles another yawn, ignoring my question.
‘Sorry,’ she says with a shake of her head. She plunges the coffee and pours two large mugs. ‘Milk? Sugar?’ she asks.
‘Just milk, thanks,’ I reply.
She splashes some in and brings the mugs over to the table, going back for the cinnamon scrolls. I take one and bite into it. It’s frigging delicious and, without thinking, I moan.
‘Good, huh?’ she says with a proud smile. ‘They were Daniel’s—’
Her words dry up and the smile drops from her face.
‘Sorry,’ she says again.
‘Hey, no, it’s all good.’
Her lips stretch to a tight line, then she sips her coffee, staring off into the darkness outside. It’s hard to say if she’s thinking about her husband or the campaign.
It’s doubtful I’m on her mind – until recently, she barely tolerated me. I’m half-expecting her to say that the kiss was a mistake. I mean, it was – that strict no-colleagues policy I have – but it didn’t feel like a mistake at the time.
One eye on Sophie, who’s deep in thought, and one on my laptop, I finish the cinnamon scroll in four bites. Do I go for a second one? They are good brain food.
‘I’ve just thought of something,’ says Sophie as I reach for another one. She picks up her phone.
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m seeing if it’s hit the news yet – Max’s accident. If someone from Hargreaves sees it before tomorrow morning—’
‘This morning, you mean,’ I say, nodding towards the clock. It’s 12.47 a.m.
Sophie looks at it and groans, puffing out her cheeks and letting the air slowly release, her lips pursed. I’m sure it’s the furthest thing from her mind, but it makes them look super kissable.
‘Drew,’ she says, looking straight at me. ‘I really need to go to bed.’
It takes two-point-one seconds for my brain to catch up.
‘Oh, sure, yeah,’ I say, getting up.
‘Sorry,’ she says – the third apology in as many minutes.
‘No, it’s cool. We’re in good shape and we can finish tomorrow after we talk to Hargreaves.’
I start gathering my stuff – laptop, notes, my phone – and shove them into my messenger bag. ‘Hey, can I take one of those for the road?’ I ask, pointing at the scrolls.
‘Yeah, sure.’
She goes into the pantry and comes back with a large baggie and loads it up.
‘Uh, just one’s fine,’ I say, when she gets to three.
She looks at me like I’m about to be schooled.
‘You’re saving me from stuffing myself till I’m sick.’
She adds one more, seals the baggie, and hands it over. With a chuckle, I accept.
‘Thank you – and not just for the baked goods,’ I say, realising too late she might think I mean the kiss. ‘I mean the scripts and stuff,’ I add hastily.
‘No worries,’ she replies, her eyes darting away. Yep, her mind went there too.
A dense silence fills the air, becoming stifling as the seconds tick over.
‘Okay. See you in the office,’ I say, leaving before I talk myself out of it.
Because if kissing Sophie taught me one thing, it’s that I’d like to do it again. Even if it’s a bad idea.
No, scratch that – it is a bad idea.
Because if I let myself, I could seriously fall for Sophie Reid.
The news of Max’s accident did break overnight, picked up by news outlets across the world and plastered all over social media. When I woke up, my feed was crammed with ‘get well soon, Max’ messages – to be expected, I guess. The guy does have a hundred million followers.
Not wanting the hassle of public transit, I took a cab into the office, messaging Lorraine on the way.
She called me straight away – the first time I’ve heard anything close to panic in her voice – and is heading in now.
While I wait, I boot up my laptop and go over everything Sophie and I worked on last night.
We may have been under the pump, but this is good.
My leg starts bouncing – probably because I’m hopped up on a double espresso and one of Sophie’s cinnamon scrolls. I figure I can ride this caffeine/sugar high for a few hours – long enough to update Lorraine, meet with Hargreaves, and douse this fire before it becomes an inferno.
That’s if they like the idea. There’s a small chance they’ll hate it, putting us back at square one.
My jaw clenches and I press my thumbs into the joints, the muscles protesting.
‘Hey.’
I jump out of my skin – Sophie’s standing in the opening to my cube, smiling and holding two takeout coffees – extra-large.
‘Here,’ she says, handing one over.
‘I didn’t expect— You didn’t need to get here so early.’
She angles her head and stares at me, her mouth bunched to one side – if come on, Drew was a facial expression.
‘I’m a mum, remember? Five hours of solid sleep beats eight hours of Harlow snoring like a warthog. I swear, the astronauts in the ISS can probably hear her. Maybe she should sleep at Connie’s more often.’
Our eyes meet and we start laughing.
‘And if you ever tell her I said anything, I will deny, deny, den—’
‘Drew, Sophie, good morning. My office, please.’
Sophie and I snap to attention and follow Lorraine, sharing a furtive glance on the way.
Lorraine goes around to her side of the desk and sits, steepling her fingers and looking at us expectantly. ‘Please tell me we’ve got a solution. I’ve already heard from Hargreaves – they’re quite nervous.’
Translated from British understatement, they’re shitting themselves. Understandable.
I glance at Sophie again and she gives me a slight nod. Then I turn to Lorraine and explain how we pivot to save the account. As I walk her through the changes, the strain around her eyes eases and eventually she sits back in her chair.
‘And production costs should be similar to what we proposed last week,’ I say, wrapping up.
‘Possibly less with two of the ads set in the hospital room,’ adds Sophie.
‘Yeah, good point,’ I say to her.
Lorraine looks between us, then breaks into a smile. ‘This is a solid workaround, you two. I’m hopeful we can sell it to the client.’
‘That’s great,’ I say, the tension in my jaw easing.
‘And strangely, Max Stirling’s accident might drive even more engagement with the campaign,’ says Lorraine. ‘Morbid curiosity and all that.’ She checks her watch. ‘Right. Drew, you and I will get on a call with Hargreaves at eight. Can you pop back in then?’
‘Uh, sure,’ I reply, getting up.
Sophie gives me a reassuring look as she leaves, but I hang back.
‘Was there something else?’ Lorraine asks.
‘Yeah.’
I look over my shoulder to make sure Sophie’s gone, lowering my voice just in case.
‘You should know that this was mostly Sophie’s doing.’
‘The workaround?’
‘Yep. I even suggested we go to Hargreaves with her campaign – Sophie’s. She was the one who figured out how to make this work.’
‘Sophie’s incredibly creative – we’ll be sure to give her credit when we speak to the client.’
‘Great – I was thinking that too, but I was also wondering about the bonus… It should really go to Sophie.’
Lorraine’s expression clouds. ‘It’s still your campaign, Drew. You earned that bonus.’
‘Sure, but Sophie elevated it with the plot twist and now she’s figured out how to make it work with our A-lister in traction. That’s gotta be worth something.’
I can’t tell if Lorraine thinks I’m doing the decent thing or I’ve completely lost my mind.
‘Okay, if you’re sure,’ she says eventually.
‘I’m sure – but can I be the one to tell her?’
She sighs – I’m testing her patience. ‘Fine.’
‘Thanks.’
I leave before she can change her mind and I’m nearly at my cube when Jane stands in front of me, blocking my path.
‘Good morning, Notso.’
‘Please tell me it’s bollocks – that the whole internet has gone mad and he’s fine.’
I suck in a breath through my teeth. ‘Yeah, can’t do that, I’m afraid. My mom taught me not to lie.’
‘Bloody bum poo shit. How do you break your leg in three places? What the bloody hell was he doing?’
‘You must be talking about the idiotic movie star who went heli-skiing with no regard for his prior commitments,’ Sophie interjects, coming up behind me.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ says Jane. ‘So, now what?’
‘Come on,’ says Sophie, linking her arm through Jane’s, ‘I’ll fill you in.’ She steers Jane towards the Lounge, looking back at me over her shoulder.
I mouth, ‘Thank you,’ and she nods, giving me a tight-lipped smile.
An hour later, after the call with Hargreaves, I stop by Sophie’s cube.
‘How’d it go?’ she asks, her eyes hopeful.
‘They went for it.’
She sighs loudly. ‘Oh, thank god for that.’ She shakes out her hands and expels another breath with a loud phoof.
‘Wait, were you worried?’ I ask, inching into her cube.
‘Well, yeah,’ she says, leaving the ‘duh’ implied.
‘Wow, I would never have gotten that. Pissed at Max – pretty obvious – but worried? You’re like Iceman.’
‘Iceman? From Top Gun?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, you know… cool under pressure.’
‘You mean ice cold.’
I step closer and her eyes challenge me, the air between us charging. And I don’t care that we’re at work or that this is probably a stupid thing to do. I lean down and whisper, ‘Cold is the last word I’d use to describe you, Sophie Reid.’
She draws in a short sharp breath and I bolt upright. That really was stupid, especially considering the other thing I came to tell her.
‘Um, and Hargreaves wants us in Switzerland.’
‘Wait, us as in…?’
‘You and me. They agreed to continue with the campaign but only if senior creatives are there to oversee the shoot.’
She leans back in her chair, confusion plastered across her face.
‘But you’re the senior creative on this – why do they want me there?’
‘Because we’re sharing the credit.’
‘That’s— Are you sure?’
‘We would’ve lost the client without you.’
She stares right into my eyes and this time there’s no doubt – this is something.
Well, shit.