That New York Minute

by Abby Gaines

  Charming. Rachel resigned herself to a long ascent. Not that she wanted social chitchat with Garrett, not after last night. She stared straight ahead, focusing vaguely on the safety certificate which, from numerous rides spent avoiding eye contact with other New Yorkers, she knew expired in November.

  Garrett leaned against the wall to her left, facing Rachel. No idea of elevator etiquette. Mind you, most of her female colleagues would be delighted to have such an excellent view of him. No question he was good-looking, if you liked your men tall, dark and brooding. And with a thick head of hair, damn him.

  She’d noticed before that he took up more than his fair share of space. How did he do that? He was tall, but there was no excess bulk to him. Nor could Rachel attribute it to his larger-than-life personality—last night was the chattiest she’d ever seen him. Unfortunately.

  The recollection had her shifting in her high heels. She realized he hadn’t selected a floor destination, and stretched a hand toward the panel. “Fifty-four?” That was the floor they both worked on.

  He winced and pressed his fingers to his right temple. “Could you please stop shouting?”

  His deep voice held a faint croak, suggesting he might actually have finished that second bottle of bubbly. There was no sign of mockery in his dark eyes. In which case…maybe he’d forgotten their conversation. Maybe it was lost in the depths of his hopefully agonizing hangover. She was torn between relief at the thought, and annoyance that he could destroy her relationship without remembering a thing about it.

  “Which floor?” she asked, louder.

  His eyes, dark as coal, narrowed. “Same as you.”

  Rachel’s hand dropped. “You’re going to fifty-six?” To the partners’ floor?

  Garrett ignored her.

  She registered that he was wearing a tie—charcoal gray, an elegant contrast with his dark shirt and perfectly cut black suit. Something shifted, as if the elevator had jolted in its slow, straight course.

  No way. She knew exactly how this morning was supposed to pan out. She would attend the partners’ breakfast along with the other candidate, schmoozing her heart out with the Key Bowen Crane partners. At the end of breakfast, she would be named partner designate, poised to cement her place in Madison Avenue’s largest independent ad agency. The other candidate would also be named partner designate, though only one of them could ultimately win the partnership, along with the coveted role of chief creative officer.

  Rachel knew it would be her. Just yesterday morning, Jonathan Key, chairman of KBC, had said with a no-need-to-worry wink that he was sure she could guess who her competition was.

  It wasn’t—couldn’t be—Garrett Calder. He’d been at KBC for mere months, and was renowned for moving on the minute he got bored. Not partner material.

  Surely there weren’t two other candidates? The walls of the elevator seemed to close in. Rachel sucked in a sharp breath—better—and checked the illuminated number above the door. Tenth floor. Hurry up.

  “So, Garrett, when were you invited to the breakfast?” she asked, trying to sound relaxed.

  A glint in his eyes suggested she’d fallen somewhere short of the mark. Landed somewhere right around tense. “A couple of weeks ago. I told Tony I wasn’t interested, but last night I decided I might as well come along.”

  Mention of last night made her pause. But this was too important not to pursue.

  “What, uh, changed your mind?”

  “You did.” That glint turned diabolical. Telling her that, hangover or no, he remembered every word.

  “I suspect that second bottle of champagne dulled your memory,” Rachel said briskly, trying not to blush. “I did not encourage you to attend this meeting.”

  “‘Do it on your own terms,’” he quoted.

  She racked her memory for when she would have said something so self-absorbed. “You said that.”

  “Did I? Damn, I’m good.”

  Rachel gritted her teeth. “The whole idea of partnership is working with others—it’s not about your own terms.”

  He didn’t reply, but one dark eyebrow rose lazily.

  Garrett was lazy. He arrived around nine most mornings, when other people had been there since seven-thirty. Outrageous that he should think he could turn up to the partners’ breakfast on a drunken whim, and snap up the job she’d been working toward for so long.

  “Has your boyfriend cashed in that rain check yet?” he asked.

  She clamped her lips together. Then, unable to resist, muttered, “What made you think we were talking about…what you said?” Not that she was about to tell him he was right.

  “Been there, done that,” Garrett said. “By which I mean, I’ve been the offeree before. I’ve never begged someone to stay, but I recognize the body language.” He shook his head, all phony sympathy. “Like I told you, begging doesn’t work.”

  Rachel’s eyes smarted. She blinked hard, twice. “Here’s some advice right back at you. What happens in the bar stays in the bar.” Switching gears, she said crisply, “So, Garrett, you’ve been at KBC, what, six months?” But she was well aware it was longer than that that she’d been subjected to his suspiciously bland expression whenever others acclaimed her work.

  “Eleven,” he said wearily, as if he was already bored with the topic. Or maybe a three-syllable word was too much effort this morning.

  “That’s got to be a record for you. Come on, Garrett, you don’t want to be a partner.” He was renowned for his refusal to settle in one firm.

  Her insistence had a shrill edge, and he winced. “If I agree I don’t want to be a partner, will you shut up?”

  As if he would be so agreeable. He hadn’t earned his nickname—The Shark—by backing down from a fight. No, that moniker was born of his reputed killer instinct for winning pitches. It had become one of those self-fulfilling prophecies—Rachel suspected he had an advantage over rivals intimidated by being up against The Shark.

  Not today. She wasn’t about to be intimidated.

  He probably made the name up himself. Which was good marketing, she’d admit. Perhaps she should start calling herself…The Terrier.

  Didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

  A glance at the numbers above the elevator door revealed they were at the twenty-fourth floor.

  “I guess Tony had his reasons for inviting you to attend this morning,” she said, “but, Garrett, you won’t win. Why put yourself through that?” Perhaps she could convince him to get out on fifty-four.

  He didn’t say anything. Tension flattened his lips and he obviously had a pounding headache. Drawing his dark eyebrows together in that thunderous way wouldn’t help the pain. He must realize, in his heart, that she was right. He was an outsider, and everyone knew that outsiders seldom won. Rachel’s shoulders relaxed. She could almost feel sorry for him.

  Maybe that’s why he was drinking alone last night. Out of a sense of inadequacy.

  She ignored the fact that the word didn’t gel with anything about him.

  “It’s not about you,” she assured him. “I’ve been at KBC eight years. Around here that counts for something.”

  His expression lightened, as if he’d heard her entirely reasonable explanation and discounted it. Rachel shifted uneasily as he scanned her, top to toe, lightning fast.

  “You must have joined when you were twelve.” His tone was chatty.

  Garrett Calder didn’t make idle conversation.

  “I was eighteen,” she said warily. “I started in the mail room.”

  “She Worked Her Way to the Top,” he intoned.

  “You bet I did.” Her response was clipped—he didn’t get to mock her achievement.

  “So, it’s your eight years versus my eight gold CLIO awards,” he mused, sounding a whole lot more cheerful. “Think they might count for something?”

  Eight gold CLIOs! It was practically obscene, how successful he’d been in the advertising industry’s equivalent of the Oscars. But those awards came wh
ile he was working at five different companies. And he’s made more enemies than friends. Making partner was about loyalty and long term. Rachel was about loyalty and long term.

  She dismissed his awards with a pff. “Style over substance.”

  The Shark bared his teeth. It might have been a smile. Then again, he might have been anticipating dragging her beneath the surface and chomping on her drowned body.

  Rachel folded her arms across her chest, realized she looked defensive and dropped her hands to her sides. Surely we must be nearly—nope, only the thirty-sixth floor.

  “I have an excellent track record, and that’s how I’ll get the partnership,” she assured him.

  “Right,” he said encouragingly.

  He clearly meant Wrong.

  “Do you know something?” she demanded.

  He closed his eyes. “You’re shouting again. And I’m having a bad week. Bad enough that I might take off this stupid tie and gag you with it.”

  He was a jerk. Jerks didn’t make partner at KBC. It was different at some other agencies, but not here.

  He’s a jerk with eight gold CLIOs.

  She shouldn’t bother explaining, but the urge to convince him he was wasting his time was overwhelming. “It’s not just the eight years. I’ve put in more hours than anyone, I’ve won more pitches…”

  “You’ve won a bunch of clients too scared to do anything interesting,” he said. “Your work is tame.”

  Rachel clenched her jaw to hold back her outrage. Tame! She prided herself on her ability to take clients beyond their expectations.

  “Do you want to know what your weakness is?” Garrett asked.

  “No.”

  “It’s those eight years,” he said. “You’re relying on past experience, but everything can change in a heartbeat around here.” He folded his arms, and on him it didn’t look defensive. “In a New York minute, you could say.”

  She’d never liked the song “New York Minute,” with its suggestion that everything—business, family, life—could be turned on its head any moment.

  “Your weakness is that you don’t think on your feet,” Garrett said. “Reacting to those moments of insight, freeing yourself from reliance on what others have told you, is what drives creative power.”

  As if she would trust the impulse of a moment over a carefully crafted solution. Her hands fisted at her sides. “You don’t get to waltz in here with your Dom Pérignon hangover and your eight CLIOs and your custom-made suits and your fancy cologne—”

  “I don’t wear cologne.” He spread his hands, palm out, as if declaring himself innocent of some heinous crime.

  Wow, The Shark sure knew how to zero in on the main issue.

  “Uh-huh. So you just happened to sleep on a bed of—” she sniffed “—pine needles and citrus peel.”

  Ever so slowly, one corner of his mouth kicked up.

  The effect was more potent than any full-throated laugh. It was that stupid Shark thing, Rachel thought crossly. It gave him an aura of power.

  “Whatever it is you’re smelling, Rach, it’s all me,” he said. “Cologne is for sissies.”

  No way a man could smell this good without help. “Rachel,” she corrected. “Strange, I don’t remember that sissies line from your award-winning Calvin Klein Fragrance campaign.”

  “That was last year. I believed in cologne last year.”

  Typical of his here today, gone tomorrow style. “Whereas I prefer to take a long-term, truth-based approach,” she said. Which did not mean she was tame.

  Garrett gave her a pained look through half-closed eyes. “Integrity in advertising,” he said. “Interesting concept. But not, I fear, a partnership-winning one.”

  Floor fifty-one. Nearly there, thank goodness.

  “Who else do you think will be here this morning?” Garrett asked abruptly.

  No thinking required. “Just Clive.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  Clive Barnes was the only other executive creative director, the same level as Rachel and Garrett. His seniority meant he had to be on the partnership shortlist. But…

  “Clive’s a nice guy,” Rachel said.

  “You know what they say about nice guys.” Garrett’s white teeth flashed.

  Out of loyalty to Clive, who’d been at KBC almost as long as she had, she sent him a disapproving look. But she didn’t consider Clive a threat, either.

  The elevator dinged to indicate they’d reached their destination. Finally. She couldn’t wait to get out of here and spend a few minutes alone, restoring the calm confidence she would need during breakfast. She stepped toward the doors, but they didn’t open.

  Garrett pressed the open button. Nothing happened.

  “Come on,” Rachel muttered.

  Garrett was already stabbing at the intercom. It rang three times—prompting more wincing from the hungover Shark—before an operator answered.

  “We’ll have you out of there in a jiffy, sir,” the woman chirped, once she ascertained how many people were in the elevator and that no one needed medical treatment. “Well, when I say a jiffy…hmmm…okay, we have a software glitch, but don’t you folks worry about a thing!” She hung up.

  Rachel groaned.

  “Just go with the flow,” Garrett advised her. “Live in the moment.”

  She turned her nerves on him. “I don’t know why you bothered to come in when you’re so, ahem—” sarcastic, fake throat-clearing “—unwell. Get real, Garrett, and get out of here. You don’t have a serious shot at this partnership.”

  He eyed her for a long, silent moment. “You remind me of someone,” he said. “Someone I don’t like.”

  Ow. That definitely qualified as a shark-nip. One she deserved, if she was honest—she shouldn’t have let him rile her.

  But you should never show weakness to a shark.

  “Your opinion won’t matter when I get the partnership,” she said. “I’ll be your boss.”

  His hands slid into his pockets and he leaned back against the wall. Instead of being scared off by her splashing about, she had the distinct impression The Shark was beginning to circle.

  “Protesting too much, methinks,” he said.

  He couldn’t really believe he would beat her, could he?

  The intercom buzzed. Rachel lunged for the answer button. Garrett reached it first; her fingers, clammy with sudden anxiety, pressed against his. She whipped her hand away.

  “How’re you folks doing?” the operator trilled. “Just wanted to let you know we’re almost done fixing you up. We’ll have you out in that beautiful New York summer day in just a—”

  “Jiffy,” Rachel muttered. She pressed the off button. “Thanks a lot, Doris freakin’ Day.”

  Garrett said, “My mother used to love Doris Day movies.” Something flashed across his face, maybe shock that he’d told her that much about himself.

  “So your mom has bad taste,” Rachel said. “She probably likes you, too…though if she’s ever seen you hungover and surly she might think twice about—”

  She stopped. His face had shut down so completely, it was as if he was no longer in the elevator.

  Uh-oh. “Um, Garrett, when you said your mother used to love Doris Day, was that past tense because Doris Day retired, or—” she cringed “—because your mom died?”

  He stared at the stuck doors as if he could see right through them. Now he rode the elevator like a proper New Yorker. “Both.”

  Damn. “I’m sorry,” Rachel said. It felt inadequate, when she’d been sniping at him the last fifty-six floors. “How did she—how long ago…?”

  His gaze cut to her. “Today’s my birthday.”

  She grabbed the non sequitur gratefully. “Happy birthday! So, that champagne last night…”

  “It’s also the anniversary of my mother’s death,” he said. “So, yeah, I’m hungover and surly, as you so delicately phrased it, but I have my reasons.”

  His skin looked suddenly pale in the elevator
lighting. Rachel opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “And, yeah,” he continued, “maybe Doris Day is too perky and not to your taste, but when my mom was dying of cancer, those movies were the only thing that kept her smiling through months of chemo. Doris Day was the difference between an unbearable day and an okay one.”

  Man, she had totally screwed up. “Garrett, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Rachel stretched out a hand, half thinking he might bite her arm off. Half wanting him to because she felt like such a jerk.

  Before she could get within prey distance, the elevator doors hissed open.

  Garrett shot her one last disgusted look, and left.

  CHAPTER THREE

  RACHEL PULLED THE END OFF her croissant and shredded it into tiny pieces.

  She’d far from sparkled throughout breakfast, which should have been an opportunity to impress those partners she didn’t work with. She’d been distracted first by Garrett’s presence, then by her guilt over dissing his mother. On the anniversary of her death. Which happened to be Garrett’s birthday.

  She groaned inwardly.

  Her one weakness in her work was that she wasn’t good in unexpected situations. Give her a creative briefing and a week, and she could come up with a fabulous pitch. Ask her to spout ideas off the cuff and she was hopeless. This morning’s breakfast…it wasn’t a pitch, but she’d prepared for it in the same way, thinking hard about how she could outshine Clive Barnes, anticipating questions.

  She hadn’t imagined Garrett would wreck her relationship last night, then show up like a hungover nemesis this morning. Or that she would say something so tactless as to leave him looking utterly bleak. No wonder she had zero spur-of-the-moment techniques for outclassing him in the eyes of the other partners.

  At the far end of the Key Bowen Crane boardroom table, Tony Bowen, chief executive officer, pushed himself out of his maroon leather chair. An immediate hush fell.

  “I hope you all enjoyed your breakfast,” he said.

  Rachel murmured her appreciation for the shredded croissant on the plate in front of her. Garrett hadn’t eaten, either, probably more from nausea than nerves—he’d drained a couple of cups of black coffee. Only Clive had tucked into his food with gusto.