Love On My Mind

by Tracey Livesay

  “There’s one small caveat,” Mike cautioned.

  It didn’t matter. She’d do whatever it took to complete this assignment.

  “Adam is a brilliant man, but he’s . . . demanding. You’re not the first professional we’ve hired to help him. He says we’re trying to change him and he’s refused to work with any of them.”

  That didn’t sound good. “Isn’t that why you need my help? Aren’t you trying to change him?”

  “No. We don’t want to change Adam. I don’t think anyone can. But we can’t have him being surly and rude to reporters. Not in this day of instant uploads that go viral in minutes.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “If he knows we sent you, he’ll be resistant. You’ll need to find another way to approach him.”

  This assignment had left strange in its rearview mirror and was hurtling toward bizarre.

  She swung her widened gaze back to Howard and Rebecca. “Is that necessary?” she asked. “You’re adding an element of espionage to an already difficult task.”

  A large part of her success at her job was her insistence on brutal honesty with her clients, a practice she’d embraced after emerging from a childhood of lies generated by her mother. She may spin stories for the media, but she always delivered the unvarnished truth to her clients. Always. She was often the only person who did.

  Mike’s lips tightened. “Trust me, we’ve run out of other options.”

  “We’ve always had faith in your abilities,” Rebecca said. “This wouldn’t be the time to make us question that belief.”

  “My brother said your mother is a whore. She must be cheap, because you dress like shit.”

  “Does your mother take food stamps? What about layaway?”

  She blinked away the taunts from her childhood. She’d do whatever it took to ensure she’d never end up poor, used, and disgraced like her mother.

  “Consider it done.”

  Chapter Two

  AFTER THE ASSURANCES, handshakes and farewells, Chelsea took the elevator down to the twenty-­third floor. Euphoria vied with frustration for ownership of her emotions. She didn’t know if she should shimmy her shoulders and shake her hips in celebration of the opportunity before her or allow the awareness of another obstacle to hurdle to suffocate the burgeoning lightness in her limbs. When a triumphant smile snuck past her uncertainty to curve her lips, it immediately turned bitter upon reaching the air.

  Director of US Client Management.

  Partner in one of the top PR firms in the country.

  A high six-­figure salary and office suite on the top floor.

  It would be vindication for all of her hard work and sacrifice. The missed vacations. The days she worked from home clocking a fever of one hundred and one degrees. Her anemic social life.

  And all she had to do was make Adam Bennett presentable for the Computronix project launch in five weeks.

  She slowed, her fingernails digging into her palms as she replayed the scene from the conference room over and over in her mind.

  She should’ve gotten the advancement outright.

  Is there any more she could’ve done to prove her suitability, her loyalty? Worked longer hours? Brought in more clients? Chosen more high-­profile strategies?

  No. She knew the work she’d done. She’d more than earned that promotion. But if she had to complete one more task to achieve her goal, she’d accomplish it with her usual skillful expertise. Then the partnership would be hers.

  And her life would be perfect.

  She detoured past the bright, airy loft space looking for her assistant. Jill’s desk was unoccupied. Releasing an impatient breath, she perched on the edge of the rolling chair and opened her iPad. For most ­people, five weeks didn’t allow enough time to tackle an assignment of this magnitude. But she’d spent her entire career proving that she wasn’t most ­people. She’d maximize every moment she had, starting with research on both the man and his company.

  And what a man he was. Image after image showcased a tall, strapping body, dark tousled hair and intense piercing eyes.

  Heat coiled thick and heavy in her core. She shifted in the chair, pressing her thighs together, prolonging the sensation. The press conference may have been a fiasco, but People Magazine had gotten it right. Adam Bennett was the sexiest man she’d ever seen.

  Which was all she could do. See him, look at him, and definitely don’t touch. He was her ticket to the top echelon of PR professionals. He couldn’t be more off-­limits than if a neon X flickered on his well-­defined chest.

  Her gaze drifted to the time. Crap! She pushed to her feet and closed the tablet’s cover with a snap. Hadn’t she just complained about the lack of time she’d been granted for this assignment? She’d wasted precious minutes mooning over her client, and her assistant still hadn’t appeared.

  Where was she?

  “Have you seen Jill?” she asked the person in the neighboring workstation.

  “Not recently,” the guy said, his eyes never leaving his computer screen.

  Chelsea firmed her lips. She’d have to deal with her AWOL assistant later. She couldn’t wait any longer. She had work to do. Her long legs briskly covered the distance to her office. By the time she was twisting the doorknob, she’d already formulated a preliminary plan of action.

  “Congratulations!”

  Adrenaline thundered through her body, causing her to stumble several steps back, rendering her unable to suppress the gasp that slid from her parted lips. She pressed a hand to her silk-­covered chest and glared at the two women who stood next to her desk, their bright smiles already fading into frowns.

  “I was just at your desk waiting for you,” she said to the blonde woman on the left, letting her hand drift back to her side. She struggled to regain her composure. “Can you give us a few minutes? Then I’ll need you back with your iPad.”

  Jill’s gaze softened, but she straightened, nodded, and headed to the door. As she passed, she gently squeezed Chelsea’s arm, before exiting the office, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Chelsea turned to the other occupant. “Back so soon? You were here two days ago. I hope you’re in a better mood this time.”

  India Shaw stared after Jill, a frown marring her perfect, tawny complexion. “Well, hello to you, too,” she said, finally turning to face Chelsea. “I was here to celebrate your promotion by letting you take me to lunch, but there’s no way we can make it to Primo’s and back in ‘a few’ minutes.”

  She pressed a quick kiss to Chelsea’s cheek and glided over to the Belgian linen sofa on the opposite wall. She sank down, slipped off her beaded flats and pulled her legs up under her.

  Despite the confusing tangle of emotions Chelsea had experienced over the past hour, another one—­deep affection—­almost overwhelmed her as she watched her foster sister move with a natural fluidity she’d always envied. Years ago, she and Indi had been ships passing through the foster care system. For eight months they’d shared a room at a group home before Chelsea’s mother had convinced someone—­probably a man—­that she’d gotten her act together and had reclaimed her daughter. Chelsea had been eager to leave, preferring to cope with a situation she could control versus one she couldn’t, but she’d also been determined to stay in touch with Indi. Something about the younger girl had been like looking at a fun-­house mirror image of herself.

  Sitting in her own chair, Chelsea kneaded her brow and shook her head. “I’m supposed to celebrate my promotion by taking you to lunch?”

  Indi held her hands up, palms facing outward. “I’m more than happy to treat. Since I’m saving up for my trip to Key West, I can probably afford the tacos from that food truck parked a few blocks away—­”

  Chelsea laughed. “All right, I get it.”

  “It’s your celebration. I thought you’d rather go
to your favorite place.”

  “That’s very . . . noble of you, but it doesn’t matter. I didn’t get the promotion.”

  Indi swayed forward, her long Senegalese twists brushing against her face. “Are you joking?”

  Heat swarmed Chelsea’s cheeks and nape, prickling barbs of shame and frustration. “Do I look like I’m performing a set at the Laugh Factory?” As her sharp tone pierced the air, she closed her eyes and exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize.” Indi jabbed her thumb over her shoulder. “Those idiots do. If they can’t see that you’d make the best partner their stupid company has ever seen—­”

  “I wasn’t denied the promotion,” Chelsea said, her heart expanding at Indi’s support. “It was . . . postponed.”

  “Oh. That’s not bad news. What do you have to do to expedite the offer?”

  Just take a challenging, exacting tech executive and make him presentable for a project launch in five weeks without telling him who she worked for and what she was doing.

  She waved a nonchalant hand. “Handle a presentation for a very important client.”

  “Is that all?” Indi sagged against the sofa’s back cushions and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Shit, Chels, you had me worried for a second. You’ve got this.”

  She did have it. “Thanks. I’ll need to get started on this immediately, which means I’ll probably be late getting home tonight and”—­she grimaced—­“we may have to postpone our trip to Napa Valley.”

  “Say no more.” Indi unfolded gracefully from her lotus position and slid back into her shoes. “Actually, this presentation is coming at a good time. I got a call from a girl I went to college with. She lives in South Carolina.”

  Chelsea nodded, knowing what was coming before her sister uttered the words: Indi was pulling up her anchors and setting sail for another port.

  And suddenly, the events of the past ­couple of weeks made sense. Indi’s disproportionate outburst to her comment about rinsing her coffee cup before putting it in the dishwasher. Being awakened by noise at 3 a.m. and finding Indi mindlessly roaming the condo. Her sister’s frequent visits to the office, “for lunch.” All signs she’d come to recognize over the years that meant Indi was ready to roll.

  Chelsea rested her elbows on the desk as stinging pressure began to build behind her eyes. “What happened to Key West?”

  Indi shrugged. “I’ll get there, by way of Charleston.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “That’s what I was saying. At first I’d planned to stay another week. But now . . . I’ll probably leave in the next ­couple of days.”

  “You don’t have to rush—­”

  “I’m not. This works out for both of us.” Indi came around the desk and pulled her into a hug. “I love you, Chels.”

  Chelsea held on to the other woman, inhaling her familiar vanilla scent. After another long moment, she extracted herself, dashing away the tears she’d failed to contain.

  “You just love my Egyptian cotton sheets, stocked fridge and spa quality shower.”

  “Those things are nice, especially that showerhead.” Indi exhaled and her gaze wandered upward.

  “Ewww!” Chelsea slapped her arm. “I don’t want to hear about that! Now I’ll have to redo the entire bathroom.”

  Indi’s light brown eyes widened. “Don’t. Jeremy would think it was all his fault.”

  “Jeremy? Who’s Jere—­ You named my shower head?”

  “Of course!” She looked shocked. “I certainly hope you take the time to find out the name of your orgasm-­givers.”

  “Ugh. Now I’m definitely getting rid of it.”

  Indi sobered. “Seriously, you know I’m allergic to staying in one place for too long. But it wouldn’t matter if you lived in a shack. You are my home.”

  Chelsea wrapped an arm around Indi’s shoulders. “I love you, too. And you always have a place with me. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “I won’t.” She reached down and grabbed a small colorful bag covered in fringe. “Since you have your hands full here I’m going to head back to the condo and start packing.”

  “Text me later, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I’m calling the plumber as soon as you leave.”

  They hugged once more and Chelsea watched the closest thing she had to family walk away from her.

  Again.

  She gathered her hair back from her face, lifted the mass off her neck, and let the curls flow through her fingers. She understood Indi’s wanderlust and missed her when she was gone. Chelsea knew she should wish for her to settle down close by, but . . .

  A part of her was relieved that Indi was gone most of the year.

  Chelsea swallowed past the thickness that developed in the back of her throat. How could she even think such a traitorous thought? And yet, having Indi close was exhausting. Always being on her best behavior. Looking the part, dressing the part, acting the part. The consummate professional woman. Trying to live up to the image that Indi had of her, expected of her, was tough.

  She walked over to the window that afforded her a clear view of downtown. With its tall skyscrapers in the forefront and the mountains in the background, the city sat before her like a topographical tiara. Incredible weather, great beaches, world-­class art, and the entertainment industry made LA one of the most powerful cities in the world. And she was thriving here. Her. Chelsea Grant. A woman who came from no money and even less pedigree. If she was truly making it here, did that mean she’d finally become the successful woman everyone believed her to be?

  Or had she become really proficient at faking it?

  A brief knock on her door preceded the appearance of Jill’s round face. “I saw India getting on the elevator. You’re not going to lunch?”

  “No.” Chelsea recalled her poise, headed back to her desk and sat down. Grabbing her iPad, she entered her password and frowned at the list already starting to read like a document that belonged in the National Archives. “I need you to make copies of our files on Portia Altman, Malcolm Murdoch, and the Glover Foundation.”

  Jill’s brow lowered and her head flinched back slightly. “The three accounts you just brought in?”

  “Yes. Email them to Stan, Fabiola, and Andrea, respectively.”

  “We’ve barely begun strategizing for them,” Jill argued, closing the door behind her. “Is this a new approach? Are you planning on bringing in the other departments earlier than usual?”

  “Plans?” She laughed, then wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant sound. “I’ve recently discovered someone in authority laughs when I dare to make plans.”

  Jill crossed her arms. “What’s going on? You were scheduled to meet with Mrs. Stowe for your performance review. I understand that your promotion means you have to be mindful of more eyes on you, but no reasonable person could possibly begrudge you showing a little excitement or taking the afternoon off to have a celebratory lunch with your sister.” She hesitated. “Unless . . .”

  Chelsea’s chest tightened but she fought through it. This wasn’t over. She still had a chance. She shrugged.

  “You didn’t make partner?” Jill asked in a tone that suggested the notion was absurd. “Are they crazy? You’re the best publicity director in this company, not to mention the best boss. What happened?”

  Although it was necessary, she hated re-­sharing the tale. “They didn’t deny me the partnership. They conditioned it upon my successful handling and completion of a high-­profile project.”

  Jill sat in one of the two chintz-­covered chairs facing the desk. “What project?”

  Chelsea filled her assistant in on the assignment.

  “You have the best job in the world,” Jill screeched, her index finger flying high with emphasis. “You handle celebrities and athletes, and now
you get to work with Adam Bennett. Sexiest Man Alive Adam Bennett.” She leaned back, fanning herself.

  He was hot, she thought, agreeing with Jill’s assessment. Still . . .

  “If you’d seen that People Magazine press conference, you wouldn’t be so excited to find out the fate of my partnership is tied to him.”

  Jill winced. “That bad? So it’ll be a little challenging. It’s nothing you can’t manage. This guy is dark, sexy, and brilliant. You’ve got this.”

  Did Jill and Indi sip from the same optimistic cup?

  “But I hate that I can’t be straightforward in my approach. You know how I feel about honesty with my clients.”

  “It’s not ideal,” Jill said, nodding.

  “That’s an understatement. Not only do I have to come up with a kick-­ass PR plan, I have to organize an undercover sting, too.”

  “You want to make the big bucks? With great power comes great responsibility.”

  “Isn’t that a quote from Spider-­Man?”

  “It’s still relevant.”

  She smiled, a feeling of competence ushering out her earlier negativity. The fact that she had the support of such wonderful ­people, like Indi, Jill, and even Mrs. Stowe, was a soothing balm to her self-­doubt. She’d become the youngest executive manager ever through hard work and dedication. Her bosses had given her this assignment because they had faith in her abilities. She’d never let anything stand in the way of achieving her goals and she wouldn’t start now.

  “Thank you,” Chelsea said. “You’ve had my back since my first day at Beecher & Stowe, and I couldn’t do what I do without your support. Let’s get to work on those files right away.”

  Jill clasped her hands together. “Whatever you need. I’m counting on you to get us to the top floor where your office suite awaits and I’ll graduate to a space where walls go from the floor to the ceiling.”

  Chelsea didn’t try to repress her grin. “You’re ready to vacate your cubicle, aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea.” Jill stood and moved to the door. “Do you want me to email the client files before or after I pull together a packet on Adam Bennett?”