Chapter Eighteen Adam #2
I sort of wish I’d kept that Elvis stress ball for myself. I could use it right about now. “You could have told me sooner how much you had riding on this.”
She casts me a sardonic look. I get it. This is why she made me promise not to try to fix it, because the most obvious solution is for me to pull my offer.
Not something I would even consider, if I were up against anyone else.
It’s Eleanor, though, so yeah, I do want to snap my fingers and fix this.
But I told her I wouldn’t, and I don’t break my promises.
Besides, I’m not entirely convinced it’s the right solution. It doesn’t add up. If her increased business expenses were part of the problem, then how is spending all this money chasing after Dempsey supposed to save her job?
“You look constipated,” Eleanor comments, drawing a snort-laugh out of me. “Say what you want to say.”
“Well.” I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t know Josie personally, but I’ve always heard good things about her. You like working for her?”
“Yeah. She’s supportive, and collaborative, and listens to my ideas. She’s great to work for,” Eleanor says, sounding almost sad about it. Like she’s already resigned herself to getting let go.
“I’m just wondering what she meant, when she said you needed to be more of a team player.”
“I mean, my numbers are the worst out of any of the managers.”
“Okay, but she was also unhappy with you spending your own money. Seems to me like it was less about the funds, and more about you skirting the rules.”
“Well… sure, that was part of it—”
“Because you know damn well expense limits exist so we can evaluate profit and loss, not for you to bypass when you feel like it. They help us be objective, and they maintain boundaries, so we don’t throw good money after bad leads.”
“I didn’t tell you so you could lecture me too,” Eleanor says hotly.
I hold a hand up, placating. “I get you’re passionate about your work and I sincerely respect it.
I’m not trying to lecture you. But I think this is what Josie is really trying to get across.
You have this whole lone wolf way of operating, and I understand why, after the shit you went through at Exeter.
But you said yourself, Josie is supportive and collaborative.
So why haven’t you called to strategize with her? ”
“Because, I told you—things obviously haven’t gone according to plan—”
“Did you strategize with her before the trip?”
Eleanor’s mouth shuts with a click. Which means no, she did not. “You should call her,” I say simply. “It can’t hurt. But it will at least show her you’re open to feedback, and that you value her input.”
Eleanor’s gaze flicks down to the duvet. She seems to be considering it, at least.
“Maybe leave out the part about marrying the competition,” I tack on.
She reaches behind her and grabs a pillow, then whacks me with it before pushing to her feet again. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I ask, now hugging the pillow she hit me with.
“You’re a good listener.”
I preen at this. “So you’re going to call her?”
“Yes. But.” She glances at the bedside clock and winces. “I need to get ready for the show first.” Eleanor takes her clothes into the bathroom, leaving the door open as she heads to the sink to do her makeup. As she rifles through her cosmetic bag she calls out: “You want to put some music on?”
“Sure. What are you in the mood for?”
“You choose.”
I pull out my phone. It feels like an honor to be asked to pick what we listen to. Honestly, it’s a little bit nerve-racking. I scroll through my playlists looking for something that feels right, and then remember the demo sitting in my inbox.
I glance up at Eleanor, watching as she lifts onto her tiptoes and leans closer to the mirror while she curls her eyelashes. I connect my phone to the speaker on the bedside table and hit play.
While the music plays and Eleanor does her thing, I busy myself by tidying up the room—depositing the room service tray in the hall for housekeeping to pick up, and remaking the bed.
Then I’m out of things to do and venture into the bathroom to perch next to Eleanor, who is using her fingers to blend some makeup under her eyes.
“You want some concealer for that shiner?” she asks, and I’m half-certain she’s joking, so I shake my head.
“No,” I say, and reach for a travel bottle of mouthwash. “But I’ll borrow some of this if that’s okay.”
She nods and moves on to her own dental hygiene. In the middle of brushing her teeth, she pauses to ask: “Who is this?”
I’m still swishing mouthwash, so I spit into the sink and say: “A band one of my reps sent me.”
She finishes up and rinses her toothbrush, then wipes her mouth on a towel. “They’re really good. Are you going to sign them?”
“I want to.” I turn to rest my hip against the marble counter and watch as she considers two shades of lipstick, both of which look identical to me.
“But I’m not sure what kind of budget my boss would give me for a band like this.
Or whether it’s worth signing them if I don’t think I can break them out, you know? ”
Eleanor puts one of the lipstick tubes back in her bag.
“I get that… but it’s always a risk, isn’t it?
Sometimes even the bands that get the biggest marketing push don’t meet their targets.
But if you can figure out a way to break out the band that no one else will take a chance on, that’s the sweetest win. ”
For so long I’ve been chasing the next big thing, telling myself these high-profile artists are my ticket to a promotion, which will afford me more freedom in who I sign. But I’ve gotten a promotion, and I still haven’t made any changes to the kinds of bands I bring to the label.
Eleanor’s right. Seeing a band succeed because of my efforts—not just because the label threw enough money at the album to ensure its success—is what I take the most pride in. The kind of thing that might make someone like Eleanor proud too. And I want that. I want to be worthy of her.
“I think I’ve been too chickenshit to take that kind of risk.”
Eleanor hums. “And you’ve got a perfect track record going for you. Wouldn’t want a flop now.”
It’s a jab, sure, but she doesn’t say it harshly. Besides, she hit the nail on the head.
“Guess I’ll have to make sure they don’t flop.”
Eleanor swipes her lipstick on, turning her mouth crimson. “Cocky,” she says, before grabbing a tissue from the box on the counter and blotting her lips.
“If you like them, I’d say they have a pretty good shot.”
Her gaze flicks across the mirror to meet mine, and she arches a brow. “I do have an impeccable ear.”
I smile and tip my head in acknowledgment. She does.
She starts packing away all of her makeup, and it hits me how different Eleanor is from the idea I had of her before this trip.
She’s not effortlessly cool, at least not in the superficial ways I’d assumed.
She’s drawn the curtain back and allowed me to see her fix her makeup and scrape at the rogue drip of maple syrup that’s dried on her robe—all these things that make her so fucking real.
The fact that she trusts me enough to let me in might be the greatest privilege of my entire life.
She pulls me out of my own head with a loud huff. “I have sex hair.”
I stand behind her, smirking as I look her over the mirror.
She’s not entirely wrong. I reach out and twist an unruly wave around my finger.
It blows my mind that she allows it. And that it feels so natural—that all of this does.
Brushing teeth together and watching Eleanor get ready, like we’re already in that place.
“You look great, baby.”
Her cheeks go ruddy, and I knew she’d give me a good reaction to that pet name. Makes me wonder what other terms of endearment might make her blush.
She reaches across the sink to plug in a curling iron. “You’re obligated to say that. You gave me the sex hair.”
I break out into a grin. “I did, didn’t I?”
Another huff, and she needles an elbow into my rib cage. “Go away. I have to fix this and we need to get going.”
I drop a kiss on her shoulder blade, right over her hummingbird tattoo, before giving her space. I flop back down onto the bed and grab my phone, opening the email from my rep about this band.
I smile as I imagine how psyched he’ll be as I type out my response:
Let’s set up a meeting.