by L.H. Cosway
Two hours later I was showered, dressed, and on my way to my second meeting at Davidson & Croft. Joan had scheduled it with me yesterday, assuring me that Annie would be there. And yeah, I had kind of made it a requirement for my participation and attendance. I mean, the only reason I was doing this was because I wanted to get to know her. If I could clean up my rep while getting into Annie’s curvaceous knickers, then I’d be one happy, sexually sated camper.
Much to my irritation, when I arrived at the offices, I was ushered into a small conference room with Rachel and Ian, and there was no Annie in sight.
“Where’s Annie?” I said, folding my arms and leveling my stare at Rachel. She seemed to be more open to chatting than the stern-faced Ian.
Rachel shuffled her papers. She looked a little nervous. “Oh, she might be in later. Annie doesn’t always work at the office.”
I leaned forward, eager for more information. “Where else does she work?”
“From home. Aside from Joan, none of us really know her that well, but from what I’ve heard, she’s a bit of a hermit. The brilliant ones are always a little odd, you know.”
“Brilliant ones?”
“Well, yeah, Annie can singlehandedly turn your public image around. Remember that Oscar winner who nearly ran over an eighty-year-old lady when he was drunk?”
“Eh, no….”
Rachel grinned. “Exactly. Annie buries the bad and either exalts or manufactures the good, placing accomplishments on a bright, shining pedestal—with a spotlight no one can ignore. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve been in this business for a long time.”
I briefly wondered if Annie thought it was ethical to cover up stuff like that or if she just did it because it was her job. Something about her made me think that, unlike the privileged and distinguished background I was reported to have, Annie was a lot like me. Coming from nothing but trying to build a solid place in the world, willing to do things she didn’t necessarily agree with in order to survive. I bear the name Fitzpatrick, but I have never been accepted by my father’s family. They didn’t approve when my dad married my mother, a girl of no means and no social standing. So, when I was just a kid and he died in a car crash, they basically disowned me and Lucy.
I kept my voice disinterested, conversational, and pushed Rachel for more information. “Where’d she learn to do that?”
“She graduated top of her class at Wharton.” Rachel’s grin widened, like she was proud of Annie’s accomplishments.
“Wharton? Isn’t that Ivy League in the States? Like those twats from Cambridge and Oxford?” I knew I sounded unimpressed. I was disappointed at the thought that Annie was a blue blood.
Rachel shrugged, though she looked amused, like she was trying not to laugh. “Something like that.”
I scowled. “So, she’s a bit of a snob, then? Comes from a rich family?”
She vigorously shook her head. “God, no. Not at all. I think she grew up in Scranton.” Rachel wrinkled her nose as though the word “Scranton” tasted like piss. “She just likes to keep to herself, and like I said, she’s completely brilliant at what she does. She had her pick of firms around the world trying to win her over, but she chose us. That’s why Joan allows her eccentricities. We all know we’re lucky to have her.”
I stared at Rachel, thinking about all of this.
Growing up, we had very little. Ma had to work hard to put me through Belvedere, the same school Dad had attended, and I’d always be grateful to her for that. I wondered who had worked hard to help Annie go to Wharton.
“So, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Ian began, all business, “Rachel and I have put together the preliminary proposal, and I’d like to run through it with you if that’s all right?”
“Sure, go ahead,” I replied, shrugging, and that was my cue to zone out.
Ian seemed to be slowly losing his temper as I continually clicked a pen while he spoke. He could get as angry as he wanted. Joan had promised me Annie would be here today. So I was feeling a little bit conned with the whole “no Annie” situation.
“We’d like you to attend a few high-profile film premieres and awards ceremonies over the coming weeks. Having you photographed on the red carpet will get you featured in magazines and on websites, put you on the radar, so to speak,” said Ian before glancing down at the papers in front of him and continuing under his breath, “so we should look into vetting potential dates for you.”
“Oh,” Rachel said excitedly, “I’m on good terms with Taylor Swift’s people. Perhaps I could get you an intro.” She glanced at Ian. “Is she single right now?”
Ian shrugged. On the inside, I was pissed at the idea of being set up like that; on the outside, I took the piss.
“You know who I’ve always had a thing for, that Rosie O’Donnell. You think she’d be up for a bit of the young stuff?”
Rachel obviously didn’t understand sarcasm because she gave me a confused look. “Um, I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian. And that’s not really the image we’re going for. You need to date someone young and attractive, someone the press really likes.”
At that moment the door swung open, and Joan stuck her head in. “Hello again, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Are you being well taken care of?”
I cocked my head to her. “I thought Annie was going to be here.”
Joan frowned for a moment. “She was supposed to be.” She glanced at Ian. “Didn’t Annie show up today?”
“I haven’t seen her,” he replied.
“Well…isn’t that curious.” And with that she left the room.
I looked back to Rachel and Ian. “I think we’re done here.”
“But Mr. Fitzpatrick, we still have to go over the rest of the preliminary proposal. We haven’t even covered the social media front and the planned press releases, and I would like your input at some point, too.”
I was already standing up. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll go to the premieres and all that. Just give me a few days’ warning so that I can make sure I’m available.”
“Of course,” said Rachel.
Ian didn’t argue further. To be honest, I thought he was glad to see the back of me. As I was making my way to the elevators, I was cut off by Joan. It was funny how a five-foot-nothing woman could come across so foreboding. I stopped and looked down at her. I wasn’t glaring, and I wasn’t scowling; but I was definitely emanating hostility.
“We made a deal, Mrs. Davidson.”
“That we did, and the deal is still on,” she said and handed me a small white business card. “This has all of Annie’s contact details. She’s been unexpectedly busy today, but said she’d like you to give her a call so that the two of you can arrange to meet.”
I took the card, momentarily pacified, and stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans. “I’ll be sure to do that. You have a nice day.” I nodded and walked by her, continuing to the elevators. It was a long walk down the hallway. When I finally reached the corner, I saw a familiar figure wearing a gray coat hurry inside a car. She was mumbling to herself, but I couldn’t quite catch what she was saying. I jogged forward and slipped into the elevator just as the door closed.
When Annie saw I was the person who’d just entered, her eyes got all big, the same as they did yesterday. Then she looked away and studied the floor. She stood in the corner, and I stood about a foot away from her. She appeared to be wishing I’d give her some space, but somehow I wasn’t feeling charitable.
I’d ask myself what it was about her that made me want to get so close, but I already knew. She was incredibly beautiful and a perfect candidate to explore my baser needs with.
The elevator stood still, neither one of us having selected a floor yet. I stepped forward and hit the button for the lobby, hearing her exhale in relief and mutter indistinct words to herself again.
“Good to see you, Annie,” I said, smiling amiably. Not that the smile was having much effect since she wouldn’t look at me. The elevator started to descend.
“Yes, you, too,”
she replied, lifting her eyes to me with a concerted effort.
I felt like I’d just been given a gift. Those eyes were unfathomably big and brown, like melted chocolate. I even thought I could see flecks of gold. After having spoken to Rachel, I was now beginning to understand that Annie might be a little bit socially phobic. Why else would she choose to work from home most of the time? And why else would she be so uncomfortable talking to me? It made something in my stomach tighten. Simultaneously, I both loved and hated her coming across so hunted just to be standing alone in an elevator with me.
The protector inside me was frowning while the predator soaked up her discomfort with glee.
Still, I wanted her to be relaxed. Okay, that was a lie. I wanted her to lose control, and I pondered how I might coax her into doing that. She was looking away again as I glanced at her sideways, considering. What I did next might have been a bad idea, but I had to see if pushing her boundaries would work. Since she was leaning against the wall in the corner, she was in the perfect position for me to cage her in.
Brazenly, I hit the “stop” button, and the elevator came to a shaky halt.
“What are you doing?” Annie asked, a hint of nerves causing her voice to rise.
I turned and stalked to her, placing my hands behind her on the wall of the lift over either side of her shoulders. My gaze wandered over her features—luscious lips, sweet nose, long lashes, fucking beautiful eyes that rapidly flickered between mine. I heard her breathing escalate.
Bending down a little so we were almost level, I lifted a hand from the wall and rubbed my thumb along her chin.
“I like you,” I stated.
She swallowed, her voice sounding rough and uneven. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, that button is only supposed to be pushed in case of an emergency.”
Obviously, I knew that, but I figured I’d deal with the consequences after getting a little taste of her. I wanted to sample those pretty lips.
“I’m living up to my bad-boy reputation, then, aren’t I?” I murmured, dropping a hand to her collarbone, the flat of my palm against her sternum. Her heart was racing. “Is your heart beating fast because you like it when I touch you or because you don’t?”
There was a momentary flash of temper in her expression. “Obviously, the latter.”
“Have dinner with me,” I said, ignoring her answer. My gaze wandered to her mouth, where she very briefly wetted her lips. I wondered if she was attracted to me but was trying to hide it.
“Of-of course we’ll be having dinner together.” She cleared her throat, and her eyes finally settled on mine. “Davidson and Croft frequently schedules client dinners.”
“I’m not talking about client dinners.”
She swallowed. “We’re going to be working together, so non-client dinners would be unprofessional.”
I brought my mouth closer to hers, and our breaths mingled as I said quietly, “Let’s be unprofessional together, Annie.”
Her eyes seemed to glaze over a little after I said it, making me grin, because it looked like she was imagining what that would be like. I wanted to be so fucking unprofessional with her, it wasn’t funny. Quickly, she righted herself, brought her hands to my chest, and pushed. I caught them, holding them in mine, my thumb brushing her inner wrist. She shivered. Her hands were shaking.
“Nothing can happen between us, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“It’s already happening, Miss….” I paused, let go of one of her hands, and pulled the card Joan had given me out of my back pocket to read it. “Catrel.”
She focused on the business card, and panic flickered over her features before they hardened. “Who gave you that?”
“Joan,” I happily replied. “She wanted to make sure I’d be able to contact you directly, seeing as you were missing from the meeting today. I was very disappointed when you didn’t show.”
She tried to grab for the card, but I stepped back and held it out of her reach.
“Give that to me. You don’t need it. I’ll contact you if we ever have to meet,” she said desperately.
I chuckled as she advanced on me until I was the one backed into the opposite corner of the elevator. Her chest pushed into mine as she went up on her tiptoes, still swiping for the card. “Look at you, Annie; you’re all over me,” I teased.
Immediately, she backed away, scowling and folding her arms over her chest. “I don’t want you calling me unless it’s work related,” she said in defeat.
My devious smile told her I had absolutely no intention of sticking to that rule.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” I purred, lazily scanning her figure. Her coat was long and bulky, covering everything up. It was a good thing I had an active imagination.
“I bet you have a killer body under all those layers,” I said huskily, still in a teasing mood.
She blinked, and her mouth straightened into a firm line. “Some of us don’t feel it necessary to flaunt our looks, and I’m very happy with my layers.”
The remark was obviously aimed at me, and I didn’t know why she seemed so against being friendly. I wasn’t that bad of a guy. Well, not really. “That’s not what I meant. I was trying to pay you a compliment, Annie.”
My words were low, tender; my sincerity seemed to elicit a reaction in her. Her previous disgruntlement deflated. It was true. For whatever reason, I thought she was the perfect combination of genuine, beautiful, and sexy. I wasn’t used to genuine. She glanced at me, opened her mouth to say something, but then snapped it closed again.
Just then a voice crackled through the speakers, requesting to know why the elevator had been stopped.
“It’s nothing. We’re fine,” Annie said, clearing her throat again and talking into the speaker. “Can you start it back up, please?”
Seconds later, we were moving again. I took a step toward her, but the look she gave me said it would be a good idea to keep my distance. People started to get on and off, and once we reached the ground floor, Annie quickly scurried by me, rushed straight out of the lobby, and into a yellow cab. I didn’t mind her scarpering as I glanced down at the card I still held in my hand.
I had her number now, and I had every intention of using it.
Chapter Five
The Creeper Selfie: When one takes a selfie with the express purpose of including some person or action in the background. Usually only part of the photographer’s face is present in the photo—usually the eyes, but sometimes half of a face—in order to display shock, excitement, or disgust.
Best for: Chaotic situations, when others are focused on the action the photographer is trying to document. Also, airplanes.
Do not use: In restaurants or near mirrors.
*Annie*
I followed the email exchange between my administrative assistant (Gerta) and Ronan Fitzpatrick on Wednesday morning for about two hours. It spanned a sum total of thirty emails before I finally stepped in to end the debacle.
Poor Gerta. All she was trying to do was set up a meeting with him for this week, and he turned it into a debate on James Joyce, under-age rugby, and whether Clongowes Wood College in Clane, Co. Kildare, was ultimately responsible for Ulysses. I made a mental note to give her a raise. Gerta deserved it. She really was a saint.
It appeared Mr. Fitzpatrick was not exaggerating when he’d said that he wanted to contact me directly. I didn’t know what to do about his persistence because I didn’t think anyone had ever been so determined to get in touch with me.
In the end, I sighed heavily, opened a window in Infographicsgenerator.net, and drafted my email to Mr. Fitzpatrick.
When communicating with clients, I use infographics almost exclusively. I find that most of our clients—as they are extremely busy and lack patience—do not respond well to text emails (i.e., emails containing only words); they prefer the shortcut of pictures. A graphic representation of my thoughts and/or the information I need to communicate allows the client to absorb the information faster and
remember it for a longer period of time.
Infographics as a Means to Effectively Transfer Knowledge Reducing the Bias of Consumer Interpretation was the title of my Master of Science thesis at Wharton. The idea came to me when my master’s thesis professor mentioned that my emails and written correspondence often came across as terse and condescending.
The great thing about the pictures within infographics is that they’re always positive images. The images are not open to tone, inflection, or word-choice interpretation because they’re intrinsically happy. I don’t have to worry about people understanding the multisyllabic syntax. Not to mention the little illustrated people are always smiling, even when I’m not.
Think of it like sending someone a smiley-face emoticon instead of typing the words “You make me happy.”
Or sending a thumbs-up emoticon instead of “I agree.” Or “I like that.” Or “Good job.”
Since graduate school, I’ve found text-less emails to be invaluable as both a timesaver and as a means to ensure all business correspondence remains positive and strictly professional. It works for me. It works for my clients. It works for my co-workers. Everyone wins.
The only person I interact with at work who disallows my infographics is Joan. I assume it’s because she’s a bit old-fashioned in her consumption of data. Eventually, however, she’ll have to make the switch. As a society, we’re moving away from the written word. We want the shortcut. We don’t want to have to think about the meaning of words—ours or someone else’s—and how they affect us or those around us. We want to feel good.
I quickly assembled the graphic I needed—basically, a clock with a question mark, a picture of a calendar, and a series of food choices—and opted for a green, orange, and white color scheme. I felt that the subtle inclusion of the Irish flag’s colors would make Mr. Fitzpatrick feel good which might encourage his cooperation.
