Chapter 3
Georgia smoothed the edge of her notes for the fifth time, though she knew she wouldn’t look at them once she started talking.
Only, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to speak at all when she entered the conference room.
Odd for someone who never had a problem filling the silence or selling someone on a dream.
The office, which was warm and welcoming, painted in a Magic really does exist shade of yellow.
But the boardroom, that was like stepping into a high-powered fishbowl—glass walls, sleek furniture, and a boss who could smell weakness from a mile away.
Today, with the winter sun slanting through the windows and her boss tapping her watch, Georgia felt like she was walking into a firing squad.
Because instead of only Liz Whitmore sitting casually at the table, Georgia was facing down the entire executive team, including the foundation’s founder, Mr. Whitmore.
She’d only ever met the man once—and met was a strong word.
It had been at the foundation’s annual holiday party and Georgia had drunk one too many eggnog martinis and shaken her money maker while doing the Macarena.
A little dizzy and a whole lot drunk, she’d accidentally walked into the wrong restroom and ran smack into Mr. Whitmore.
Had he been washing his hands it wouldn’t have been so bad.
But it hadn’t been soap he was holding. Nope, it was much more horrific than that.
Cue awkward apologies and frantic retreat. But the damage had already been done. Which was shy she’d successfully avoided being in the same breathing space with the man for the past four years. And she could go another four, but karma had other plans.
Based on the look on Mr. Whitmore’s face, Georgia wasn’t the only one who’d missed the memo on today’s attendees. In fact, he looked at her as if demanding she come up with an excuse for why she needed to be anywhere but there.
“I’m sorry,” Georgia said. “I must have the wrong room.”
“Right room,” Liz said. “A little late. In fact, you’re next on the agenda.”
“I’m on the agenda?”
“You are the agenda.” Liz gave a too-bright smile, as if saying, “This is the big leagues, please tell me you at least brought a bat.”
“Right.” Georgia cleared her throat and made her way to the nearest open seat. She was about to sit when Liz shook her head and then mouthed, Stand.
Georgia stood.
Liz gestured toward the flatscreen on the far side of the wall, which had the first slide of the presentation Georgia had spent weeks creating. Spreadsheets, projections, possible partnerships, the right photos of smiling kids to pair with the perfect data. It was two years in the making.
This was her shot.
So she’d seen her boss’s penis? So what. First world problems.
“I know you weren’t expecting a full house, but I figured that since the board was together for their quarterly budget meeting we’d add another item on the agenda,” Liz said in an “I’ve got your back, girl” tone.
“So without further ado, Georgia, why don’t you walk us through this brilliant idea of yours. ”
Her pulse thudded hard in her ears, but she ignored it. Just like she ignored the bead of sweat forming between her boobs.
She looked at her notes and read, “Wishes on Wheels. It’s a project targeted at pairing up with celebrities to help make wishes come true while partnering with another arena of donors. For example, Formula 1 alone accounts for an annual revenue of…”
She looked up to find three of the executives scrolling on their phones and two others looking as bored as white bread.
She wasn’t just losing the room. She’d never gained it.
Georgia put the note cards down and took a deep breath. She didn’t care about the graphs, so why would they?
Make them care.
It’s what one of the nurses had told her when Georgia was handling the role of Connor’s medical advocate. It wasn’t about showing the doctors that you knew your medical jargon. It was about getting the doctors to become invested in her brother. Not his case.
“It’s more than an idea,” she said. “It’s an opportunity.
This campaign isn’t about glossy photos or ad space.
It’s about visibility in a way that feels alive.
” She grabbed the laser pointer, the nerves in her stomach sharpening into resolve.
“Imagine: kids who’ve spent years in hospitals and treatment rooms finally getting to meet their heroes.
Not through a screen or a signed card—in person.
We capture those moments. The joy. The awe.
That’s what donors respond to. That’s what makes people care. ”
Whitmore tilted her head, expression unreadable. “That sounds like a charity gala with extra steps. More expensive steps.”
Georgia didn’t flinch. “Except instead of ballrooms, it’s the racetrack.
It’s fast, exciting, unpredictable—like the kids themselves.
We’re not parading them around for sympathy.
We’re giving them memories. Real, life-changing ones.
And in doing that, we’re giving the foundation a story people want to be part of. ”
Whitmore’s brow arched. “You think you can rent out the racetrack?”
“Part of it yes.” She already had an in with the owner of Jane’s husband’s team. All she had to do was sell him on the idea.
“And you’re sure that story won’t turn into a circus? Sick kids, cameras, celebrities—one wrong angle and suddenly it’s exploitation instead of inspiration.”
“I’ve thought of that,” Georgia said quickly.
“We control the access. No paparazzi. No cheap shots. Just the kids and the drivers. Small groups, carefully scheduled. We don’t use any images without permission.
We focus on the human moments—like a driver kneeling to sign a hat or letting a child sit in the car.
That’s what will make the story go everywhere.
Not because we spin it, but because it’s real. ”
Liz leaned in, telling Georgia with a single look that it was mic-drop time. “And this is where your connections come in?” Liz prompted.
Georgia felt the heat creep into her cheeks but forced herself to stay steady. “I have a personal connection with some of the F1 drivers. I’ve built trust with them. They’ll show up for this. I promise.”
“And what drivers are we talking about?” Whitmore asked.
“To start with, Jake Evans of Nova Racing,” Liz offered.
“You can deliver Jake Evans?” asked Frank, the head of marketing, sounding like a little kid who discovered Santa really did exist. A little spark of determination flickered in her belly. If she could win over Frank, she could win over the whole room.
The only problem was if she could actually get Jake to agree. She wasn’t sure. But she also wasn’t a quitter. She’d do whatever it took to get him to say yes.
“I can. I can also provide a few other drivers, who have partnered with some of our competitors as soon as their contract expires next year.”
“Our money needs to be spent by the end of the year if we’re to keep our non-profit status.”
“Which is why we’re starting with Jake first.”
“How much would an ambassadorship with Jake Evans cost us?”
“Nothing. All the drivers I work with would do it because it’s a great cause,” she said.
“This is bigger than ad campaigns and press releases. Polish fades. Authenticity sticks. You can buy glossy. You can’t buy the look on a child’s face when their favorite driver reaches out a hand.
That’s what makes people open their wallets—because it makes them feel something. ”
Whitmore studied her for a long moment, silence stretching until Georgia’s pulse hammered in her throat.
Finally, he sighed, setting his pen down with a soft click. “You’ve grown a spine since I last saw you.”
Georgia blinked, not sure if it was a compliment or a warning.
His mouth softened into something almost like a smile. “I like that. Fine. You’ve got my okay. But listen”—his eyes sharpened again—“I’m giving you the rope. Don’t hang us with it.”
Relief surged through Georgia, but she kept her expression professional. “I won’t.”