by Claire Adams
“I don’t know. What about Connor? I haven’t talked to him yet about this. I should probably…”
“Mom, say yes, he loves you,” Connor said as he turned around from looking at the sunset and came to stand next to me.
“Thanks, man,” I said as I gave him a fist bump and pulled him next to me. “See, we are a team.”
“Well, then…if my little man here is on board, then my answer is definitely yes.”
“Yes?” I asked to verify. “Dude, did your mom just say yes to marrying me?” I whispered as I kneeled next to Connor and gave him a hug. “I think she really did say yes.”
“Yep, she did.”
“Yes. I said yes, you silly boys!”
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SLEEPING WITH MY BOSS
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Claire Adams
CHAPTER 1
Asher
I glanced at myself in the mirror to see the image of a young man dressed in a subdued business suit reflecting back at me. He sat in silence on the sofa in the seating area, studying the artwork hanging on the wall next to the mirror.
It was a large piece, perhaps five feet across and four feet high. It consisted of a small, red square in the top left hand corner against a white background. Countering the geometric, ordered simplicity were splashes of bold color sprayed across the entirety of the right hand side in a chaos of strokes. It was as though all of the artist's pent-up rage and frustration had been poured out onto that canvas. It was a work of genius, really. In a way, that red square represented everyone, trying to play our roles and keep the madness, the chaos, contained and controlled.
A young man approached and looked up at the artwork, following the same pattern with his own eyes. He looked at the painting for a few seconds, shrugged, and then turned his attention to me.
“Hi,” he said, somewhat nervously. “Do you mind?” He motioned to the empty seat next to me on the sofa. “I have a meeting in this boardroom in a few minutes,” he added as he nodded toward the closed door to our left.
“Don’t mind at all,” I said, smiling warmly as I shifted to make more space for the newcomer. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” the young man replied, looking a bit flustered. His ill-fitting suit appeared to be uncomfortable, which only added to the somewhat flustered air he exuded. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his forehead and the sides of his neck.
“I'm Jason, by the way,” he said to me as he put down his briefcase and took a seat.
“Nice to meet you, Jason,” I said, extending a hand to the man. “I'm A-, er, Andrew…Andrew,” I replied as we shook hands. I caught myself before I gave away my true identity. “I'm with the Sinclair Agency,” I added.
“Nice to meet ya, Andrew.”
“Are you with Winston?”
“No. I'm also with Sinclair. You been at the agency long?” Jason questioned.
I smiled strangely and nodded. “You could say that.”
“It's my first month here,” Jason said. “I was just assigned to the PR project for the Harry Winston Watch Company like three days ago. Now, here I am presenting at a brainstorming meeting. I’m a bit of a nervous wreck. Word is the CEO of the agency Asher Sinclair isn't too happy about the performance of the latest line of athletic watches in the first quarter of the year.”
I nodded. “I heard the same. Say, what's the word on Mr. Sinclair these days? What do your coworkers in the marketing department think about him?”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Uh, don't you already know a bunch about Asher Sinclair? I mean, you did say you've been working here a while. What department did you say you were with again? I didn't catch it the first time.”
“I'm with finance. We don't chat too much about the boss in finance. I think there are too many people who have to answer to him directly.”
“Oh. Well, this might help. Check this out,” Jason said as he opened his briefcase and took out the latest issue of Forbes magazine. “There's a feature piece on Asher Sinclair in here.”
“Is there, now?”
“Oh, yeah. I've read it like three times already. The guy's like, man, I dunno, Bruce Wayne or something. I can't help wondering if he's got a Batcave and a Batsuit up in some old family mansion in the hills.”
I chuckled. “Maybe he does have a Batsuit.”
“He's an odd dude. It’s a little strange that almost nobody knows what he looks like. There aren't even any photos of him on social media or anything like that. I don’t know how he keeps such a low profile. But, I guess I would, too, if I were in his shoes. It couldn’t have been easy for him, the way he grew up.”
“And, how was that?”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “You really don't know? Are you sure you've been at this firm for a while, man?”
“I just like to cross reference the stories I hear. It’s interesting how different they can be. So, what is it that you think you know about how Asher Sinclair grew up?”
“Well, rumors are that his family situation was, you know, kind of troubled. I mean, being a millionaire by age eighteen cannot make for an average childhood or normal teenage years. And then the big kicker: when his grandfather, founder of the Sinclair Agency, passed away, he left the majority shares and control of the company to Asher instead of Asher's father. Now come on; how many twenty-year-olds do you know who not only get to become sudden billionaires, but also the head of one of the most powerful PR firms in North America? That sort of stuff has got to mess with your head a little.”
“It might, I suppose. Although, for someone with the right resolve, the right constitution, with an insatiable urge to achieve and succeed, it could be the perfect trial by fire.”
Jason nodded. “Yeah, you could be right. And by all accounts, the kid pulled through that fiery trial like a beast. According to everything I’ve heard or read, everyone was expecting the corporation to crash and burn after being thrust like that into the hands of a kid. And, I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, but shares did initially plummet.
“But, man, I don’t know what's in Asher Sinclair's blood, but there must be something superhuman mixed in. After all, here it is twelve years after he became CEO and those shares are worth three times what they were before. Three freakin' times, man! The guy's a bonafide genius. Someone even told me he's got his own personal racetrack and Formula One car he drives around it!”
I grinned. “I've heard he's a decent driver, but doesn't race formally because it would put him in the spotlight, and you already said he keeps a low profile. A genius, huh? Maybe he was just lucky and made a few really good decisions at just the right time.”
“Or maybe he really is a genius.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Jason checked his watch and dabbed at his forehead again with his handkerchief, looking decidedly nervous. “Oh boy, the meeting's about to start. You know, they say Mr. Sinclair often drops in on these meetings incognito. Because so few people actually know what he looks like, he's able to do that. Man, I sure hope he's not gonna be there today.”
“Relax, Jason. I'm sure he'll be receptive to your ideas if he is.”
“I'm new here. This is one of the most prestigious agencies in the country. I do not want to mess this up. This is my dream job! And, if Asher Sinclair is in there and I mess up or something… Oh God, I
don't even want to think about it. I think I'm gonna throw up.”
I placed a reassuring hand on Jason's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“Relax, kid, relax. I'm sure you've got some good ideas. Present them with conviction and passion, and chances are you'll impress the team, and maybe even the boss himself if he's in there.”
“I actually hope he isn't.”
“Just relax, Jason. Take a few breaths.”
“All right, I'm trying, I'm trying. I really shouldn't have had that third coffee before this.”
I laughed warmly. “No, you probably shouldn't have,” I agreed with a chuckle. “Come on, I think the meeting's about to get started. Let's go find a seat.”
***
I was sitting at the back of the boardroom keeping as low of a profile as I could. To that point, I'd been pretty unimpressed with anything that had been presented. The line of athletic outdoors watches from the Harry Winston Company had been performing, quite frankly, abysmally in the market. I needed to know why, and I needed to correct it.
Jason, the kid I'd met out in the hall, had presented a few pretty decent ideas considering they’d only given him a couple days of notice, but none of them struck me as being revolutionary or bold enough to tackle the issue of poor sales.
The problem was, as I saw it, everyone was continuing to run with the same theme we already had running—a theme I had originally conceived, but also one that had not performed as hoped. Hey, we all fall a little short sometimes. I’m not immune to it. However, this particular shortcoming was proving to be costly—not just financially, but also to the reputation of my PR firm.
I was about to quietly leave via the door to my left, feeling frustrated with the lack of creative ideas, when the next presenter stood and made her way to the front of the boardroom. I couldn't help but stare. There was something about this woman that hit me like a punch to the gut.
She was beautiful–that much was obvious–but not in a traditional sense. I didn't particularly care for “conventional” women and this woman was anything but conventional. My eyes traced her petite frame, admiring the generous curves she had in all the right places.
When she turned and looked up, her striking, blue eyes mesmerized me. They captivated from beneath finely-arched eyebrows and a mane of jet-black hair, which was tied up impeccably for this occasion—very businesslike, but still begging to be untied and let loose. Her sense of style was unquestionable. This was a woman who knew just what to wear to grab everyone's attention, but not in a revealing way. Everything about her was just the right mix of formal and bold with a splash of sexy. I was intrigued from the moment I laid eyes on her. Very intrigued.
I leaned back in my chair and grinned, aiming the smile at her even though I was fully aware she wasn’t looking in my direction and probably couldn't even see me while the projector shone in her eyes—which, might I add, gave them an almost ethereal sparkle.
She brought up the main image of the poster and billboard campaign we'd been running for the Harry Winston watches—the campaign I had created. There was a photograph of a rugged male model, who looked like a cross between Indiana Jones and the Marlboro Man, driving a jeep through a desert with a beautiful woman draped under his arm and a hunting rifle situated just so on the backseat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began as she pointed at the image on the projector screen with a laser pointer, “I would like to present to you a great, revolutionary advertising campaign.”
I raised my eyebrows, as I'm sure everyone else in the room did. Then she delivered the punchline.
“Revolutionary and great if the year was 1982.”
A few uncomfortable chuckles rippled around the room.
“Allow me to be blunt here,” she said flatly. “The watches aren't selling because this campaign sucks. It feels tired, it feels worn-out, it feels like it's been done a million times before. How many times have you seen images exactly like this one trying to sell products like this one, only repackaged?
“And, that's what we're doing here, aren't we? There's nothing particularly revolutionary about the Harry Winston athletic watches, is there? Granted, they're beautiful and well made, but the bottom line is an athletic watch is an athletic watch. There's only so much variety one can have when it comes to selling products like this.
“And, as you all know, it's all about marketing. It’s about the image that both the product and the company that produces that product convey. That's what the customer is buying. They are not buying a watch; they are buying a lifestyle, a statement, an image. And to be perfectly upfront, right now the image and the lifestyle we're selling is the same old image that countless other advertising campaigns have sold before.
“What sets this line of watches apart from those of the competitors? At the moment, not very much. That's why the Harry Winston Company pays us—the best damn PR firm in the United States—to handle this for them. And what have we done? We've let them down.”
She paused for effect, to let everything she'd just said sink in. And it did. After a few moments, she continued.
“Now that I've told you everything that's wrong with the current campaign, let me tell you what I think we can do to change it, and to make it actually work. First of all, we have to completely drop this Marlboro Muppet, Raiders of the Lost Dork shtick. It's lame, it's tired, and it's overdone.
“We need something new, something fresh, something crisp. Something that's going to sell this image, this lifestyle–because, remember, that is what we're ultimately selling the public on: not simply a watch. I've been thinking a lot about this, and I have an idea that will totally kick start the heart of this campaign and not only revive it, but turn it into a full-on monster.”
I chuckled. I couldn’t help it. This unconventional woman had just proven that her appearance wasn’t all that was unpredictable about her. After all, she’d just thrown a Mötley Crüe reference in and I wondered if anyone else had picked it up. It seemed there was more to this woman than the serious, go-getter image she was currently projecting.
Still, as attractive as I was finding her, I wasn't there to think about that sort of thing. I needed to concentrate on her ideas. And over the next twenty minutes, she presented some excellent ideas on how to turn the campaign around. When she was done, I was impressed in a way I hadn’t been by anyone in my company in some time.
After the meeting was over, I waited at the back of the room for her to pack up her briefcase before I approached her.
“Hi,” I said, extending a hand. “I really enjoyed your presentation. You have some rather interesting ideas.”
“Thanks,” she said glancing up at me with a smile—a smile that immediately sent ripples of electricity coursing across my skin.
“I'm sorry, I don't think we've met,” she said. “I'm Lilah Maxwell; and you are?”
“Andrew,” I replied. “Tell me, do you really think Asher Sinclair's campaign for these Harry Winston watches is that, er, lame? I mean, he put it together himself and word is he’s pretty good at what he does.”
She shrugged. “Maybe he did, but I call things as I see them and I don't pull punches for anyone. Even if he is the CEO of Sinclair. And even if he is the genius everyone says he is, on this particular occasion, he dropped the ball a bit. It happens to the best of us.
“However, while it's not my company, my job is my priority and I want to see whatever company I work for do the absolute best it can. I want to do my job to the best of my ability. If that steps on Mr. Sinclair’s ego a little, so be it. After all, my career on the line as much as it is the firm's reputation.
“And now that I've taken a personal interest in this campaign, I intend to work my fingers to the bone to turn the campaign around. We need to rectify the damage that’s been done with the Marlboro Man wannabe persona. And you saw my presentation–there’s a lot of damage.”
“Maybe he was under a lot of stress when he came up with this campaign.”
“Well, if
he can't handle the pressure, he should make way for someone who can,” she replied. “That would be what’s best for the agency.”
“Oh, I don't think he has any problems handling the pressure,” I replied. “It's just that he sometimes has a little too much on his plate. He takes a very personal interest in everything the firm does.”
“Maybe he shouldn't,” she retorted. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work to do on this campaign.”
She picked up her briefcase and turned around to leave the now empty boardroom. Before she could, I stepped between her and the doorway.
“Before you go,” I said, my heartrate starting to increase with a sudden and unexpected nervousness. “I’d like to speak with you about something.”
She looked up at me with something mysterious sparkling in her gorgeous eyes. “Oh yeah? And what might that be?”
“My name's not really Andrew. It’s Asher. Asher Sinclair. And I must admit, Ms. Maxwell, you've impressed me. I want to hire you as an aide to work in my office on high profile campaigns.”
CHAPTER 2
Lilah
As soon as he approached me, I knew something was up. I'd noticed how intently he'd been watching me during my presentation from the back of the room. He certainly hadn’t been present in any of the meetings I'd been to before.
Granted, I'd only been working at The Sinclair Agency for a couple of months and it was a sizeable agency; there were a lot of people I hadn't yet met. There are some people you can’t miss, even in a crowd, and this man was one of them. There’s no way I would have forgotten him had I seen him before. I sure as hell wouldn’t have forgotten the charge of electricity coursing through me from one simple moment of eye contact.
