Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1

by Julia Kent

  I also want to be sure no one sees me too clearly.

  Have I told you my theory of successful design presentations?

  First rule: be absolutely confident in the work you are showing. The design is the star.

  In keeping with this idea, I am wearing a sleeveless black linen shirtdress. Silver hoop earrings, silver bracelets. My hair is tied back. Simple and neutral, nothing to distract from the work.

  Second rule: be absolutely confident in yourself.

  So I am wearing my power underwear. Does that make you think of Wonder Woman? Supergirl maybe? Their superpowers are different.

  What I have under my dress now gives me the delicious power of knowing a secret. No one else in this room would guess that I am wearing a black mesh corset, structured with boning that holds me tight and pushes my breasts against my dress. They can’t see the tiny matching thong, or feel how it runs between my legs and up. Only I know.

  Joe used to know, too. Which made it so much hotter.

  No no no! I can’t think about that!

  I look around the table. Some familiar faces, some new.

  Andrew McCormick is here, and oh my. He’s the new CEO of Anterdec, and O has been one of his special projects since the beginning. I wouldn’t mind being his special project, but...

  Amanda Warrick. She just joined Anterdec as assistant marketing director. She was here once before, unofficially, shopping us for a bachelorette party for her friend. I gave her group their tour. I’ve heard rumors that she is Andrew’s girlfriend, but if so, they’re keeping it very quiet.

  Wait. Amanda… here before… shopping us…that mystery shop report...

  Alarm bells begin dinging.

  “Hey, Chloe,” she says with a wink. I smile back, projecting serenity.

  To the right of Amanda is a seriously handsome man. Serious, and handsome. He looks the tiniest bit familiar? A bit older than me? I meet his eye and smile.

  In a purely professional way, of course.

  He looks down at his phone, frowning slightly.

  Hmm. Usually when I smile at a guy, he smiles back. But usually my eyes are not swollen to the size of hard-boiled eggs.

  Sigh.

  I turn to my presentation. Everything was pinned up before I left the office yesterday. One long wall of this room is covered in white linen, just for this purpose. All the fabrics we’ve selected for O NOLA, the samples of wood finishes and paint colors, squares of carpet, and photos of furniture options are displayed in groups.

  And I immediately see that two of the fabric samples have been pinned in the wrong groups. I step over to the wall and re-pin them, reaching up high over my head.

  Glad I caught that before I started presenting.

  A side table holds materials too big or heavy to pin up, like stone and marble samples, ceramic tile, a faucet, a sconce. There is a stack of folders for everyone, with floor and furniture plans and of course all the estimates, budget sheets, and timelines.

  Carrie distributes the folders, and they automatically open them and begin flipping through. All except The Frowner. He’s looking at my chest.

  So I look at my chest.

  Which, of course, makes everyone watching me look at my chest.

  My secret power isn’t secret anymore… two buttons of my shirtdress have come open.

  Black mesh corset on full display, one pink nipple fully visible.

  I pull my dress together. I wish I could pull myself together. My face is bright red, and red is not in the O corporate color palette.

  “This is not the presentation I had in mind,” I blurt out. “Normally, when I set out to give clients something they’ve never seen before, it’s not quite like this.”

  Amanda starts to giggle, so infectiously that I have to join her. Everyone else follows, and the formality in the room evaporates. Suddenly they’re all on my side, except for The Frowner.

  Is the guy made of stone?

  “Did you get that corset here?” asks a blonde woman. Diane. Diane...something. She’s in accounting. Severe face, hair pulled back in a tight bun, smile twitching her nose.

  Amanda asks, through laughter, “Does it come in large?”

  Of course I did. Of course it does.

  One hour later I have finished giving my virtual tour of the new O. I have passed around fabric samples so that everyone could feel for themselves just how luxuriant a fire-retardant material can be. I have given a very short course in sustainable woods, and explained that the ash for O’s custom cabinetry is sourced only from accredited plantations. And, of course, I have justified every dollar to be spent.

  Everyone seemed to love it. Except The Frowner, who now clears his throat.

  “Chloe, I’m Nick Grafton. I handle branding for Anterdec properties. It’s critically important for a new brand like O to carry the same recognizable image throughout all locations. Can you tell us a bit more about how your design will do this while at the same time bringing in the unique atmosphere of New Orleans?”

  Even seated, I can tell he’s a tall man. All the time I spend with seven-foot-tall Henry has skewed my perspective a bit, but Nick must be over six feet. His hair is thick and a little on the long side for a corporate guy, light brown with a hint of silver. I admit it: I have a total weakness for long hair. Not man buns, but a little over the collar… something to grab and maybe pull at intimate times...

  Ice blue eyes.

  But what really gets my attention is his dark navy blue suit. Crisp shirt. Cotton madras plaid tie. When you spend every work day surrounded by mostly naked men, a fully-dressed guy gets your attention.

  Sexy. Makes you wonder what’s underneath.

  Not that I’m objectifying him. Ahem.

  Did he say his last name is Grafton? My turn to look closely at him. My first boyfriend—we’re talking age fifteen here—was Charlie Grafton. Not an unusual last name, though, right?

  His question is easy, really. I answer, he thanks me, no one else has a question.

  I signal Carrie to lower the room lights. Showtime.

  “O is never ordinary,” I begin. “We’ve created another O for you, and I think it’s our most exciting space yet.” The faces around the table are mildly surprised, not expecting anything else from me.

  I click a button to lower the screen and another to start the slideshow.

  “This is our first gO Spa.” I flash to a picture of a full-size RV. “This vehicle could be the beginning of a fleet. In every city where O has a presence, the gO Spa can go beyond the physical location. The gO Spa can be booked for private parties and weddings. It can travel to concert venues and theaters for services to big-name performers.”

  The next slide is an interior view of the gO Spa. Three small showers. A bank of four hair washing and styling stations. Small closets filled with curated professional clothing.

  “But it has another important purpose. The gO Spa is how O will give back to the communities that have welcomed us and made our success possible. A way to demonstrate our commitment to the idea that peace and pleasure are vital to everyone.”

  Nick Grafton is giving me his full attention. I like it. I could get used to it.

  “In inner cities, classes in self-care and stress management can be offered to high school seniors, or new mothers. Mini spa services could be provided for a reduced fee, or even on a complimentary basis in areas of need.”

  I’ve been keeping one eye on Andrew McCormick, but I can’t read his face.

  “And we have already implemented a pilot project in Cambridge with homeless teens. I have personally gone on weekly ventures for the past five months. The PR coverage has been extraordinary.” I nod at the report I’ve handed each of them. “Metrics are are laid out in there.”

  Silence around the table. Although I imagine I hear gears shifting in fourteen brains.

  “Metrics aside,” I add, “This outreach project changes lives. I’ve seen it.” My voice grows passionate. “The women and girls who show up at gO ha
ve dreams and aspirations of a better life. They know it’s out there, but they have no idea how to get to it. O can show them. It’s O’s mission to empower women. I take that mission very, very seriously.”

  I don’t mention meeting Li on my first gO Spa homeless trip. I don’t mention how she cried in my arms after her shower, hair cut, facial and mani-pedi. I don’t mention how on my second trip she told me she was pregnant, and how our on-site social worker helped her get medical care and government assistance.

  I definitely don’t mention how she asked me to adopt her baby.

  None of those details matter in a conference room.

  This is all about money. Not mercy.

  But money allows for more merciful acts.

  Reaching down, I pull out a soft grey t-shirt with orange letters that read “you gO girl.”

  “Every visitor to gO Spa receives one of these.”

  A bald man at the end of the table clears his throat. “This is a big investment,” he begins, but Amanda jumps in.

  “The PR from this would be worth a fortune,” she says excitedly. “It would pay for itself.”

  Already has, I think to myself.

  And gO Spa has already helped one special young girl find a way out of trouble.

  Already helped a new baby find a secure life.

  And helped my greatest dream come true.

  Nick nods slowly, brow knit in concentration. Those arctic eyes meet mine and he asks, “How does this mobile RV spa fit in with brand expansion? Seems risky. Doing well by doing good is a great concept, but I want to know how this ties in with deeper corporate identity issues.”

  And suddenly, Nick Grafton just flipped every switch inside me.

  He’s a handsome guy. I wonder if he ever smiles.

  Chapter 5

  Nick

  It takes everything in me not to smile at her.

  Everything.

  She’s a pro. Sophisticated and smooth, gracious and composed, well-versed and well-informed. Chloe Browne moves with a confidence that gives the air in this stuffy conference room an erotic charge. Her dark hair, so smooth it must be soft. A body that doesn’t quit. Those brown eyes—tilted slightly, yet paradoxically round. Alert and intelligent, they take in the room.

  I’m watching her. It’s my job to watch her.

  And she’s watching me.

  Days like this make me love my job.

  Her mouth stretches with a delighted precision, as if she were waiting for someone to ask my question. Electricity shoots through me. She’s four steps ahead of the rest of us, a chess player who thinks in dimensions, not boards.

  One corner of my mouth rebels and rises.

  “A great question, Nick.” Her lips part slightly. The tip of her tongue slowly touches the edge of her top teeth. Then she gives me a sultry half-grin and says, “Integrating new positions into our body has been so exciting.”

  I did not imagine that.

  Chloe’s flushes. “I mean, integrating new locations into our body of work has been exciting.” She clears her throat, squares her shoulders, and continues. “New Orleans is the prototype. O’s brand ties in to Anterdec’s brand as a luxury option for insiders. People in the know.”

  “Your maiden voyage.” Not smiling is impossible.

  Her lip curls up, a mirror image of my own. “This is virgin territory, yes.”

  Andrew McCormick’s eyebrow shoots up as Amanda Warrick’s face goes deceptively blank.

  “Love the innuendo. Fits nicely with the sensual branding that O cultivates,” Andrew says, his words snapping like the sound of buttons on a tailored woman’s shirt popping off, as I tear it open in the throes of passion.

  Or something like that.

  “The Big Easy.” Chloe lets that hang in the air, her eyes opening just slightly, then narrowing.

  We’re playing a game. I don’t know the rules, but I sure do like handling the pieces.

  “How easy?”

  Andrew happens to be drinking from his coffee cup as Amanda asks that question, his throat spasming with the kind of hacking that provokes a sympathetic wince from the rest of us.

  He glares in response.

  At me.

  There is a moment when you look at a woman for the first time. It’s an up or down moment. Thumbs up: yes, I’ll sleep with her. Thumbs down: she never enters my consciousness again sexually.

  Chloe gets considerably more than a thumb’s-worth of up from me.

  I shift uncomfortably in my chair and try to wrest control back from the strange tension that has infused the room.

  This is a business meeting. Branding. My specialty is branding, and on paper, Chloe’s spa line has some serious weaknesses. Significant investment in an unproven market means that high risk needs to pay off.

  You can’t put that kind of trust in just anyone.

  “Very easy,” Chloe replies, reaching for a clicker and pulling up a PowerPoint spreadsheet. “Take a look at O Boston. Here’s the initial investment. Here’s the profit and loss statement.”

  “Seventy-three percent growth in Year Two?” Andrew lets out a low whistle. My shoulders relax. I had no idea they were tight.

  My pants are tighter.

  Why am I invested in whether the CEO of Anterdec buys into the O Spa expansion? Until three minutes ago, this was just another pitch.

  “Hold on,” Amanda interrupts. “That line for marketing and advertising. That figure is impossibly small. Did you forget a digit?”

  Andrew gives Amanda a satisfied smirk. “A typo would explain that crazy profitability.” He leans back and reaches for his phone. When Andrew McCormick reaches for his phone in a meeting, it’s over.

  “No.”

  Chloe’s single word rings out like a gunshot.

  Andrew’s hand freezes.

  “That is not a mistake. Word of mouth is our primary form of advertisement.”

  Andrew makes a grunt I know too well. It’s the sound I make when one of my college-age kids asks to borrow the car for a week. In Mexico.

  “Isn’t that a little too 1990s?”

  “Every customer who walks through our doors converts.”

  “One hundred percent?” Andrew’s eyes telescope. “You’re certain?”

  Click. A new graph appears.

  “And each of those customers brings in an average of 3.8 new clients?” Amanda says, reading the slide.

  “And that’s without paid advertising?” Andrew says skeptically.

  Chloe remains unflappable as they read and analyze, talking about O as if she weren’t the expert. “Yes. In fact, our business model is counter-intuitive. The more we advertise, the less we sell.”

  I frown. “That’s impossible.”

  “No, Nick,” she says, her voice like velvet and chocolate. “That’s O.”

  “You’re saying there’s some disconnect between paid ads and foot traffic?” Amanda asks.

  “It’s lifestyle,” I murmur. “The advertising taints the allure. The appeal is in the secrecy. In being told by someone in the know. Women want to be part of the exclusivity, and it’s not special if everyone knows about it.”

  Chloe studies me.

  “Like an affair?” Andrew asks. Amanda glares at him.

  Chloe pales. It’s the first hint of insecurity in her, and it intrigues me. This is a complicated woman.

  She recovers quickly. “No. This is nothing like an affair. An affair is a secret because of shame. O is a secret because of pride.” She squares her shoulders and blinks exactly once, mouth slack and flat, devoid of emotion.

  Andrew’s voice goes tight. “This is also nothing like any profit and loss statement I’ve ever read. It’s either brilliant or a giant waste of money.”

  “Brilliant.” The word’s out of my mouth before I even decide to say it. Our business meeting has lost all pretense of being a corporate affair. Chloe’s chest rises and falls rapidly, yet her breath makes no sound.

  “You’re telling me that Anterdec should
make a significant investment in a subsector of the spa industry by trying an unproven and sweeping lifestyle niche—the fourth space—based on a blip in a spreadsheet and promises that word-of-mouth marketing is superior to data analytics we can track on paid ads?” Andrew makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat.

  “No,” Chloe says, before I can blurt out the opposite. “We have data analytics as well.”

  Click.

  “Does that column actually say ‘sex toys’?” Andrew asks, giving Amanda an arched eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me that they—”

  “The average client owns 3.2 devices.”

  “Only 3.2?” Amanda mumbles.

  Did Andrew just kick her under the table?

  I don’t care who is screwing whom at the company, but knowing who is screwing whom is strategically important. Catalogue that.

  “Before they begin patronizing O, that was the figure. After two months of membership, that average increases to 7.9,” Chloe explains.

  Amanda interrupts her. “Do we sell batteries and chargers on-site at the O spas? If not, we need to.”

  Andrew raises an eyebrow and tents his hands, index fingers pressed against his lips. “Good point.”

  What’s next? An O Spa porn channel? I almost open my mouth, but stop.

  Because they might take me seriously.

  “I will add batteries and chargers to our inventory. Great suggestion. All devices purchased on-site,” Chloe says to Amanda. “All via careful customer relations management that allows staff to learn their preferences and anticipate their...”

  “Kinks?” I ask helpfully.

  “Preferences is the term I would use,” Chloe says, her voice smooth as silk. “We optimize our device sales. Private label, all made in the USA, no BPA—”

  It occurs to me that this is the first professional meeting I’ve ever attended where the casual discussion of sex toys as a profit-making venture has been a primary topic. Staying cool is key. The CEO acts like we’re discussing cars or magazines or lamps.

  I wonder what Chloe’s preferences are.

  All 7.9 of them.