Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
Gianna
“I don’t think I can do it,” I say, reviewing the proposal in my hands. “It’s just … unauthentic.”
Francine slips off her tortoiseshell glasses and withholds a sigh. Instead, she licks her lips to calm herself, I think. “That’s totally understandable, and I commend your integrity. But maybe we could reframe this proposal and see it in a different light.”
“Frame away.”
She lifts her copy of the document and rereads it.
Rain pelts the windows of my small but cozy office at Canoodle Media.
A battery-operated candle flickers on the bookshelf to my right, casting a pretty glow against some of my favorite books.
Biographies of my heroes and coffee-table-style art books are neatly lined up.
Romances, though, far outnumber the others.
A plug-in fragrance booster sends ribbons of floral through the room, scenting the air as if we’re in a rose garden.
It’s the most creative I could get while still staying within corporate guidelines.
Francine shifts her weight, still scanning the paper. I slide back in my chair and fidget with the edge of my newly chipped fingernail.
The week has flown by. Monday was spent engaging with my audience—responding to social media comments and questions, reviewing the endless emails sent to the podcast for content creation, and analyzing platform-specific statistics.
Tuesday was filled with strategy sessions and brainstorming workshops.
I’ve spent the day recording ad spots and approving new deals. I’ve barely had time to think.
I blow a bright pink bubble, and it bursts just as Francine lifts her chin. She nods as if she has just come to an agreement with the proposal in her hands.
“Okay,” she says. “What if we shape the narrative a bit?”
Shape that narrative? I lift a brow and return her smile, although mine’s a touch more facetious. “If you can shape it enough so that it says, I don’t know, the exact opposite thing that it does now, then fine.”
“The final decision is yours,” she says. “But with your download numbers over the past couple of weeks, I think we can get them to agree to a flat-rate deal. For the price range that will command, it’s worth seriously considering.”
She places the paper on the corner of my desk. Her amusement with me is waning—and I get it. This sponsorship would be a feather in our cap and pour more money in one swoop than we’ve ever managed to score so far with Gianna Knows Things. That makes our whole team look good.
But it would make me feel really, really shitty. I’d essentially be a sellout, and every one of my listeners would know it. Even if they didn’t, I’d know it, and I’m the one who has to live with it.
“Look, I know this deal would bring in a lot of money,” I say, dropping my hands to my sides.
“And I’m well aware that there’s a contingent of people this podcast is responsible for financially—don’t think that doesn’t weigh on me.
But this entire pitch centers around the idea that if you send your significant other flowers, it’s a magic wand.
It erases any and all fuckery. And you know as well as I do that’s the antithesis of the entire podcast.”
She nods, the struggle of my argument and the dollar signs swimming in her head apparent.
“I step into the recording booth every week and tell people not to take shit,” I say.
“I’m telling them to listen to their gut.
To hold people accountable for their misdeeds, and to demand more from relationships than being a doormat.
” I glance down at the name on the top of the sheet.
“I’m not against working with Powers Flowers in theory, but they’re going to have to pitch something that aligns with my brand. ”
“Very well.” She gathers her things and slips them into her satchel. “After all, you know best.”
I snort before it turns into a giggle. “Well played, Francine. Well played.”
“I can be clever now and then.” She winks. “I’ll have the audiogram edits that we worked on today ready for your approval tomorrow, and if the Halcyon team gets back to us, we can record their spot, too.”
“Sounds great.”
“What else are you working on today? Or are you about out of here for the afternoon?”
I yawn, the week’s tempo starting to catch up with me. “I think I’m going to go live on Social in a bit and tease Friday’s show with Mercy. Nothing fancy. I’m just going to use my phone and make it a spontaneous I’m bursting at the seams kind of thing.”
“Smart. I love that. The guesses rolling in have been hysterical—everything from Laird Faris of Faris Wheel to that super sexy racecar driver everyone is talking about.”
“Cash Ryatt? A girl can dream.” I laugh. “Why do they think it’s a guy, anyway? That’s an interesting take.”
“Because you said you had a ‘mega crush’ on the person.” She shrugs, grinning. “It’ll just make it even splashier when it’s Mercy.”
I whip my desktop tripod out of my desk and set it up. “You know me. I love to be splashy.”
“You, my dear, are the splashiest.”
She gives me a little wave and leaves while pulling her phone to her ear.
Thunder rumbles through the air, followed by a streak of bright orange lightning that illuminates the sky. I jump, knocking my scuffed calf against my chair. Ouch.
The thought of searching for fresh lip gloss from my godforsaken bag is off-putting. So I find a tube of lip balm in my desk from who knows when and smudge it across my pucker. I reach for the phone, but it buzzes before I can grab it.
Lucia: Hey, sissy! I’ll be close to your house tomorrow evening. Wanna do something?
Her name on my screen makes me smile.
Doing something with Lucia usually involves margaritas and dancing—two things I love almost as much as I love her. But I know her and myself well enough to know that those things on a Thursday evening aren’t conducive to a productive Friday. And Mercy is coming on Friday.
My smile is cheesy as I pick up the phone.
Me: I have a big interview on Friday, so I can’t really go out. Takeout and gossip at my place?
Lucia: Yes! I’m going to try to remember your housewarming present this time.
Me: Gifts are always appreciated.
Lucia: Brat.
I swipe off my text app, immediately noticing a new notification from Social Messaging. The appearance of the little number in the pink bubble is enough to make me toe the edge of rage because the name at the top of my inbox is the one I expected it to be. Pearl Jenkins—extortionist.
Pearl: Okay, you’re playing hardball. I’ll decrease my asking price by another $10, but that’s the least I can do. Take it or leave it. I’m done messing around with you.
My thumbs fly across the screen with purpose, reminding me why my manicure is screwed up.
Me: We’ve been over this a million times. I’m not interested in your price point. Yet you keep coming to me with minuscule reductions that don’t change a thing. Save yourself the trouble.
Pearl: It’s antique mahogany. Don’t you know anything about antiques?
Me: It’s missing two hooks, has a gouge in the base, and the whole thing needs to be refinished. It sat in a barn for how many years?
Pearl: A lady is selling one just like this on Social for $3,000. Mine is $2,000. I’m practically giving it away. Do your homework.
Me: Then I’ll pick it up at the salvation center when they mark it down to $100.
Pearl: Fine. $1,500. Last offer.
Me: $99. Final offer.
Pearl: Complete disrespect!
“What?” I screech, staring at the screen. Is she serious? “I … I can’t.” My finger taps to exit the app, before I all-caps berate a woman with great-grandchildren. That’s the kind of energy that I don’t need returned to me. No matter how cathartic it might be.
I push the coat tree killer out of my mind and do a quick check of my hair and makeup. Then I grab my phone, position it onto the tripod, and test my lighting. It’s surprisingly flattering.
Then I hit the red button.
It takes a few seconds for the connection to link and the viewer count to rise.
“Hi.” I wave to the camera. Hearts and comments begin lifting across the screen faster than I can count them.
“What’s going on?” I laugh as the requests to join the live roll in.
Even I’m not ballsy enough to go that far and allow strangers to pop up on camera with me.
Hard nope. “I’m in my office today, wrapping up a slew of meetings for Friday’s show.
Have I mentioned how freaking amazing it’s going to be? ”
I try to find a comment to respond to, so my fans feel like I’m talking to them, not at them. I narrow my eyes, trying to focus on the messages flowing across the bottom of the screen. Finally, I spot a straightforward inquiry that I can answer.
“I got this shirt at a thrift store on Circle Grove for fifteen dollars,” I say, standing. “See? It has pockets on the side.” Glancing around, I grab the tripod. “Have I ever shown you guys my office?”
The word no in various forms spans across the bottom of the screen.
“We don’t have time for a grand tour today, but I can show you the gist of it.
Hang on.” I gingerly lift the tripod and turn slowly in a circle.
“That’s my one window, but it does look out on a park where guys play basketball on hot afternoons.
Not complaining about that.” I twist a little farther.
“And there’s my fake candle because the day I tried to light a real one, I nearly got fired.
No pun intended. Those are pics of my sister and me, and of my best friends.
I really need to get them to come on the podcast. You guys would love them. And I—”
“Guess who left her keys on the—oh.”
I jump, swinging toward the sound of the very sexy, very male voice.
Drake stops mid-step, my keys dangling from his finger like he’s teasing me. Like he found them somewhere … personal. And my phone? Aimed directly at him. I couldn’t have focused better on him if I’d tried.
He flinches in surprise, not expecting to be thrust into the spotlight.