by Jenna Sutton
Using a blue laser pointer, Shelby referred to a slide with a colorful pie chart. “As you can see here, Riley O’Brien & Co. owned the biggest market share of all jean manufacturers throughout the 1980s and 1990s. The company dominated the industry.”
The slide animated to highlight different slices of the pie chart. “Even the collective market share of your two main competitors fell short. For decades, Riley O’Brien & Co. had a jeans monopoly. Rileys are synonymous with jeans just as Coca-Cola is synonymous with soda.”
Quinn had always thought his dad had done a great job leading Riley O’Brien & Co. The company had flourished during his tenure, with revenue and profit increasing every year. Quinn knew that kind of success couldn’t have been luck alone. At the same time, however, he realized the company had not faced as much competition when his dad had been at the helm.
Shelby advanced to the next slide, which delved into the numbers. “It’s important to point out here that Rileys dominated the market for men’s jeans by a huge margin, but they’ve never dominated the market for women’s jeans.”
Quinn’s gaze fell on Amelia, who sat toward the front of the room. Her curly head was bent over a notebook as she took notes studiously.
She was such an intriguing combination of sass and serious, playful and professional. Her comments were in turn insightful and irreverent, and he wondered what she thought of the information Shelby had shared so far.
Did she regret her decision to partner with Riley O’Brien & Co.? He gave her one last glance before turning his attention back to the presentation.
Shelby faced the audience. “I have two words for you: ‘designer denim.’”
The words flashed on the screen, the individual letters designed to look like denim. They were studded with rhinestones that twinkled at the audience. Shelby had bedazzled her presentation, and if the topic at hand wasn’t so damn disheartening, Quinn would have laughed.
“Designer denim has completely changed the jeans industry,” Shelby announced. “Twenty years ago, no one would have dreamed that the average woman would pay more than fifty bucks for a pair of jeans. Today, it’s commonplace for her to spend double that amount, even triple. Upscale department stores and trendy boutiques now carry a variety of designer denim brands.”
Another slide flashed on the screen dotted with hundreds of different logos. “This is just a small sample of the upscale brands that want to steal your customers.”
Amelia waved her pen to get Shelby’s attention. She said something, but Quinn was too far away to hear it. Whatever it was, Shelby must have agreed because she nodded emphatically, her strawberry blond bob swinging around her jaw.
“Amelia just pointed out that the impact of designer denim is not just limited to women’s jeans, and she’s right, especially when it comes to Riley O’Brien & Co.,” Shelby said. “Over the past three years, designer denim has pulled male customers away from Rileys. They’ve abandoned their old favorite.”
That statement clearly didn’t sit well with the audience because several people began to mutter. Shelby held up her hands in supplication. “Look, I’m not saying that men don’t like Rileys anymore.”
Shelby eyed the people grouped around the table. “You,” she said, pointing at Mateo Morales, the guy in charge of store operations.
Mateo touched his thumb to his chest and asked, “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes. You don’t have a girlfriend or a wife,” she stated confidently.
Mateo’s dark eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “What makes you so sure of that?”
Shelby smiled sweetly. “If you had a woman in your life, she wouldn’t have let you out of the house in such a hideous sweater.”
Her snarky comment made the whole room crack up. Mateo grinned, completely unoffended by her insult.
“What if I told you that I wear ugly sweaters to get the attention of pretty women?” he asked.
Shelby rolled her eyes before pointing at Leo Damashek. He always looked as if he had just completed a photo shoot for GQ.
“You look really good,” Shelby complimented Leo. “Who picked out your shirt and blazer?”
Leo grinned. “My fiancée. She picks out all my clothes, and every morning she tells me what to wear.”
“You should be ashamed to admit that,” Mateo told Leo with a smirk.
Shelby pointed at Mateo again. “You should be ashamed for wearing that sweater. You need to burn it.”
Before Mateo could reply, Shelby turned her attention back to the presentation, clicking to the next slide. It showed the total dollar amount of apparel purchases in the U.S. and drilled down into the buyers.
“Women account for the majority of apparel purchases in the nation, and when they buy designer denim for themselves, they also buy it for their husbands, lovers, fathers, and brothers.” She raised her hand. “Okay, ladies. Raise your hand if you’ve ever bought clothing for a man, even a pair of socks.”
Every woman in the room held up her hand, everyone but Amelia. Before Quinn could think too much about that mystery, Shelby clicked to the next slide and pointed out a significant shift between Riley O’Brien & Co. and its competitors.
Even though he’d grown up in the business, Quinn was still surprised to see how much Rileys’ overall market share had eroded since 2000. Every year it got smaller and smaller.
“Rileys have a midrange price point, and consumers seeking a more upscale look are choosing other brands,” Shelby noted. “As a result, Riley O’Brien & Co. is no longer on top.”
As Quinn stared at the pie chart on the screen, his head began to pound, the heavy beat drowning out Shelby’s voice. His ears rang with the fear he’d suffered since his dad had gotten sick and temporarily turned the company over to him.
Am I the right person for this job? Am I going to wreck something that took four generations of O’Briens to build?
Am I going to destroy my legacy, ruining the chance for my children and grandchildren to be proud of their heritage? Am I going to fail?
Unable to bear the noise in his head, he turned away from the presentation illustrating the slow decline of Riley O’Brien & Co. in colorful pie charts and graphs and walked out of the room.
Chapter 11
Tossing back his second glass of whiskey, Quinn plunked the barware down on the linen-covered high-top table near his elbow. He wasn’t drunk, and he wasn’t planning on getting drunk, at least until he got home.
A party to formally announce the partnership between Amelia Winger and Riley O’Brien & Co. definitely was not the right time or the right place for him to get shit-faced. And he had enough self-control not to over-imbibe no matter how much he might want to after that god-awful presentation this afternoon.
He had managed to find a fairly secluded area within Riley Plaza’s rooftop garden. He was close enough to hear the mellow rhythm of the jazz band and the muted buzz of conversation, but he hoped he wouldn’t attract anyone else looking for conversation.
Exhaling roughly, he leaned his forearms on the table and turned to look out on the city of San Francisco. Even the breathtaking view couldn’t pull him from his misery.
Tonight, Riley O’Brien’s legacy felt like a burden, the history and tradition making Quinn feel trapped rather than rooted. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, but it was one that had gotten worse over the past few months.
A cool breeze blew across his face, ruffling his hair and bringing a whiff of the garden. The deep tones of Cal’s laughter floated to him, and he turned to look for his brother. His height made him easy to spot, and Quinn experienced an irrational rush of anger when he saw Cal and Amelia together. They were alone, and they stood close to each other.
Way too close.
In one glance, he took in the temptation that was Amelia. Her luscious curves were encased in a close-fitting black sweaterdress that hit well a
bove her knees. The color made her hair look even more vibrant, like a match burning in the dark.
A kelly-green leather belt hung low on her hips, its unique cut-out design drawing attention to her waist, and her feet and legs were covered in a pair of black leather stiletto boots that screamed, “Bend me over and fuck me hard.”
If only I could.
Amelia smiled up at Cal, and Quinn clenched his fists when his brother tugged on one of the fiery curls falling across her eye. He had a sudden and intense urge to break his brother’s hand, maybe his entire arm, and his blue mood abruptly turned black.
He told himself he wasn’t jealous. He had no right to be. But if Amelia was off-limits to him, if he couldn’t touch her because it would be unprofessional and jeopardize their working relationship, then his goddamn brother sure as hell couldn’t put his hands on her, either.
Quinn stalked down the path toward them, his cowboy boots making a hollow noise against the pavers. At the sound, they both looked in his direction. When Amelia saw his face, she took a step back, but Cal merely raised his eyebrows.
“Hey, brother.”
Before Quinn could ask what the hell they were doing, Cal’s phone vibrated. His brother held up a finger and grabbed the phone from his pocket.
“I need to take this,” he said, reviewing the screen. “Excuse me, Amelia.”
Cal turned on his heel and headed back along the path, leaving Quinn alone with Amelia. He looked down at her.
She obviously wanted to follow Cal because she was edging away from him. Reaching out, he wrapped his hand around her forearm, not hard, but tight enough to keep her from going anywhere. The sleeve of her dress was soft, maybe cashmere, and he clenched his fingers in it.
“Why don’t you stay here and talk to me for a while.”
He’d phrased it as a demand rather than a request. She glanced down at his hand before bringing her dark eyes back to him. Her cheeks were pink like the asters bordering the walking path.
“Okay.”
Her voice was soft, softer than he’d ever heard it, and it raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He led her to the table where he’d stood before. He would have preferred more privacy, but it was the best he was going to get.
“Thank you for the party, Quinn. It’s incredible.”
He ignored her words of gratitude. “What were you and Cal doing?”
His question came out in a low growl, fiercer than it should be. He might not like or understand the aggression coursing through him, but it was there nonetheless.
She frowned at his tone. “Talking and walking.” Then she smiled suddenly, winsomely, her lips plump and rosy. “I can do both at the same time.”
Her response startled him so much he let out a sharp bark of laughter. “That requires real talent.” He rested his arm on the table. “What were you talking about?”
“Shelby’s presentation.”
He slanted a narrow-eyed look toward her. “And what did you think? Are you sorry now that you took on this project?” he asked, his voice much harsher than he had intended.
She looked at him intently. “No,” she said slowly. “Not at all.”
“We must not have been at the same presentation.”
He could hear the defeat in his own voice, and he was suddenly, horribly ashamed. She moved closer to him, and he caught a whiff of something sweet that reminded him of Christmas cookies. She placed her hand on top of his on the table, and he studied it, small and white with a smattering of freckles. Her nails were short and painted a pale pink, and she had calluses on a couple of her fingers.
“I can understand why it upset you,” she said, gazing at him sympathetically.
He grimaced. Upset didn’t really describe how shitty he felt.
She squeezed his hand. “That research told us how things are today. But things can change. You can change them.” She paused to let her words sink in. “What people think about Rileys today doesn’t have to be what they think about them tomorrow or five years from now.”
Quinn was shocked by her absolute confidence in him and his ability to change the course of Riley O’Brien & Co.’s future. Everything had always come easily to him: grades, sports, women, success, money. With minimal effort, he had obtained things most people wanted desperately but never actually received.
Hard work didn’t scare him, and he didn’t mind getting down in the trenches with his employees, but was that enough? His life-long confidence had deserted him, and he wasn’t sure he had what it would take to change the direction Riley O’Brien & Co. was heading.
When he didn’t respond, she sighed softly. “You should think about the connection between consumers and Rileys as a long-term relationship,” she suggested. “People who’ve been married for fifty years don’t feel the same about their spouses every day of their lives together. They go through ups and downs, periods of intense attraction and extreme irritation. They fall in and out of love.”
He thought about Amelia’s analogy. Could American consumers, especially women, fall in love with Rileys again? Was it really that simple?
He stared into Amelia’s dark eyes. The phrase “fall in and out of love” echoed in his head, and he felt strangely innervated.
With her encouraging words, she had freed him from the horrible despair that had choked him for the past several hours. His black mood was gone.
Poof.
But now there was something even more dangerous in its place: desire.
Her hand was still on his, and he swore he could feel the heat of her touch radiating throughout his entire body. He took a deep breath, battling the urge to move closer to her.
He pulled his eyes from hers, and his gaze dropped to the pale skin exposed by the V neck of her dress. She wore a silver necklace with translucent green and blue beads, and one of them had found its way into her creamy cleavage. As he stared at that lucky bead, his blood grew hotter, running thickly through his veins toward his cock.
His brain and his body disconnected, and he saw his hand move toward her, fingers spread.
Don’t do it! Don’t touch her!
His fingers stroked the warm skin of her throat, her pulse throbbing against his thumb. Her skin was so soft, so warm, he imagined she could heat all the cold places inside him.
Wrapping his hand around the back of her neck, he pulled her closer. She stumbled a little in her high-heeled boots, and he steadied her with a hand on her hip.
When he felt that beautiful curve within his grasp, the blood drained from his head, along with every bit of sense he possessed. With his intellect obliterated, his primal self was in control, and it wanted more.
Right now.
• • •
Amelia quivered when Quinn grabbed her hip with his big hand. The heat of it sent a trail of sparks directly to her center, where she had turned damp and hot. Off-balance, she reached out, and he was close enough for her to clutch his lean waist, the tips of her fingers grazing his leather belt.
He moved closer, crowding her against the round high-top table. The pressure of his hand on her throat forced her to lean her head back, and she stared into his face, twilight shadowing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and his full lips. Dark stubble covered his jaw, and she fought the urge to cup his cheek so she could feel the sharp prickles against her palm.
Quinn wasn’t the most handsome man she’d ever met, but he fired up her senses in ways she had never experienced. She could smell him all around her, a mix of his cologne, somehow woodsy and citrusy at the same time, and his own unique scent.
She was drowning in Quinn, and she wanted to push her nose into the hollow of his neck and breathe in until her lungs were full of him. She wanted to find the place where his scent was strongest and place her tongue against it, licking until she could taste his essence.
She felt Quinn’s gaze on h
er chest, which rose and fell rapidly from her shallow breaths. She shivered when his fingers trailed down her throat, tracing her necklace until he reached the large bead hanging between her breasts. Gently, he touched it, rolling it across the delicate skin of her cleavage. As his fingers grazed her skin, he blew out a rough breath.
His fingers clenched her hip, and he lowered his head, nuzzling the underside of her jaw before moving up. She gasped when he gave a small lick to the corner of her mouth and turned her head so she could taste him, no longer caring about all the reasons it was a stupid idea.
“Amelia? Are you back here?”
At the sound of Teagan’s voice, Amelia jerked away from Quinn, and he slowly released her hip. He glanced over her head, and she cast a frantic look over her shoulder, worried Teagan had seen them together. She was relieved she couldn’t see the other woman yet. But she could hear her footsteps.
Quinn moved to the other side of the table, its long linen drape blocking his lower body from anyone who might come down the walking path. She knew it was a deliberate move since she’d felt his erection against her stomach.
Casually leaning his elbow against the table, he picked up his empty glass as if he hadn’t had his hands all over her just seconds ago. He looked completely calm and collected, distressingly gorgeous in his charcoal-colored suede blazer and gray-striped dress shirt.
Amelia resented how easily he had put the past few minutes behind him. In comparison, she was an emotional and physical mess. Her ears rang, and she could feel the heat in her cheeks and across her upper chest.
She knew her skin was an ugly, mottled pink, the curse of being a fair-skinned, freckled redhead. And maybe it was her imagination, but she smelled him on her skin, and she still felt the imprint of his tongue where it had laved the corner of her mouth.
She glared at him, and in response, he raised an eyebrow as if he had no idea why she was upset. The jerk!
