by JD Hawkins
Peter sighs. “Even if the software correctly ‘reads’ the person’s skin tone, which it’s not doing yet, we then have to work on how those nuances are translated into a very precise color. Think of the analogy of the eye, the optic nerve, and the brain. The eye takes in information, the optic nerve sends that information to the brain, and then the brain has to translate that information so that it can tell us what we are ‘seeing.’ That last part, the translation into the most accurate skin tone—that’s a brain task. A computer program isn’t ideal for such nuance.”
I do everything in my willpower to maintain an even-tempered and assertive demeanor. “Okay, so what do you need? What is it going to take to make this thing work?”
Peter rubs his face. “Give us some of the folks working on the fitness app. Their launch date isn’t until the beginning of next year. We need more people.”
“Done. What else?”
“Some of our hardware isn’t as up-to-date as it could be.”
“Submit a budget proposal and I’ll look it over. You can’t make this work, I’ll hire someone who can. And I don’t want to do that. We clear?”
Peter frowns. “I’ll have that proposal to you by end of day,” he grumbles.
I lean back in my desk chair, door locked, taking a sip from the flask of bourbon that I keep in my top desk drawer for only the most trying days. If it were up to me, I would give Peter more time. I would push back the deadline. But the investors are getting antsy. They want a prototype yesterday and every morning I have several new voicemails asking when the project will be ready, wondering why it’s taking so long to come together.
Then there’s the other piece of the puzzle, the information I’ve told neither my employees nor the investors. The truth is that the initial funding for the app, the large sum of money that made the investors confident enough to get involved in the first place, that’s keeping Peter and his team going—that was my money. There’s been a small amount of capital from the investors on top of that, with a lot more contingent on the successful launch of our app, but for the time being, I’m the major source of funding for the project. Which means that once the amount I’ve contributed runs out, we’re done. Either we win or we lose. There’s no in-between in this context.
I know that technically, I still have plenty of money from my inheritance. Even in death, though, I don’t want my father to have anything to do with this new chapter in my life. My mother thought she loved my father when they got married, thought that he loved her. But only a few years into a decades-long relationship and he was already sleeping with his secretaries at his real estate business, opting out of family vacations by claiming he had too much work when he was actually gallivanting around the globe to visit his various mistresses. My mother was stuck. They had signed a prenup, and she later told me and my sister that she was terrified she would lose if there were a custody battle, terrified she would lose us. So she stayed, until one day my father dropped dead from a heart attack. His legacy will not be mine. I’m forging my own path.
I close my eyes, blocking out all thoughts of my past. A couple more gulps and the bourbon is loosening me up. I smile. It gives me a twinge of pleasure thinking about Zoe in that marketing meeting, how she was so engrossed in leading her team, in generating ideas, that she didn’t even notice I had cracked open the door to watch. I’ve met plenty of intelligent women in my life, but Zoe’s combination of fierce ambition, critical thinking, and the ability to connect with other people is unparalleled in anyone else I’ve ever known.
All that she achieves seems effortless, like it just comes naturally—but despite all her success she’s still human, still real, and passionate enough to speak her mind without trying to be some kind of automaton people pleaser. I feel my cock pressing hard against my pants as I think about her confronting me in my office that first day, the way she threw her head back laughing at something Josh said at Le Petit Poisson, those tantalizing curves, her luscious lips, her soft hair.
I think about that night at the hotel convention and suddenly I wish I could take it all back, if only because I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to convince Zoe that I’m not just a player, not some guy who thinks he can get any woman he wants and then drop her like a bad habit, whose only goal is to get laid as often as possible by an infinite number of hot women. Ever since I met her, I haven’t even thought of hooking up with anyone else.
There were times in my past where I was that guy. Especially during college, and at my first few jobs when I thought I was hot shit in my slick suits and flashy cars, god’s gift to women, like it was my sacred duty to pleasure every willing female that crossed my path.
But I’ve changed. The truth is, I’m starting to think I want somebody I can come home to, somebody I can make a life with. On the other hand, I know that as long as Zoe is employed at LoveLife, we should remain professional, and that my disastrous relationship with Holly was a clear example of how catastrophic it can be to mix one’s work life with one’s personal life. There’s no easy answer.
In spite of all that, I open my computer and type “Zoe Skye” into Google. Her most recent makeup video appears and I click on it, the volume low, hearing only the murmurings of her voice, the occasional throaty laugh. My cock hardens again, bulging against my thigh, and I pull it out and stroke the length of my shaft, imagining Zoe’s soft, warm lips against the head, the tip of her tongue toying with me, teasing me.
I imagine her mouth opening wide, her wet lips sliding lower and lower, taking me fully into her throat as I massage my balls, the pressure building up inside me as my right hand strokes harder, faster. I imagine her deep blue eyes looking up at me, glazed with lust, her quiet moan as I thrust faster and harder into her throat. I grab a handful tissues just before I come hard, rocking back in my chair, a feeling of release flooding throughout my whole body as I continue ejaculating into the fistful of tissues. I sigh as endorphins cascade through my brain, picture Zoe leaning back, lipstick smudged, smiling at me with a sly grin.
My desk phone rings. The caller ID says it’s Dr. Margaret Dee, one of the investors, the retired dermatologist. I let the voicemail take her message. I already know what she’s going to say. That she’s checking in. That she wants to hear more about the marketing plans for the app. That she’d like to meet with me soon to discuss the details in person.
I realize that I need Zoe. Romantic interests aside, I need her for more than just marketing—I need someone with her vision, her ambition, her insider knowledge. I need her to jump in with that can-do attitude and help me figure out how to save this app.
Because if anyone can do it, Zoe can.
11
Liam
I knock on Zoe’s office door, already ajar. She gestures for me to come inside, finishing up a phone call. I sit in one of the chairs across from her desk, while Zoe smiles apologetically and makes the hand motion indicating that whomever she’s on the phone with really likes to chat.
“Thank you for your very in-depth discussion on pigments, and I look forward to speaking with you again soon.”
Zoe hangs up, glancing up at me with those piercing blue eyes that always seem to see right through me. “Mr. Bartock, may I help you?”
“You can call me Liam. You know that.”
“Is that so?” And then she laughs. “Alright, Liam. What’s up? What do you need?”
“I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner, to discuss some things. Strictly business. Or we could do lunch, if you prefer to keep it on the clock.”
She narrows her eyes at me, but I see the hint of a flirtatious sparkle behind the tough act. “Uh-huh. And how do I know it’s strictly business? The fact that you’ll be charging the company card? I’m not going on a date with you, Liam. I’m serious about my boundaries.”
I shift my tone, hoping to convey how serious this truly is. “Listen, I really do need your expertise. This isn’t some cover for asking you on a date. Things with the matchmaking app aren�
��t going as planned, and I could use someone with your background as a sounding board.”
“I’m listening,” she says, leaning closer.
“I’d love to hear your thoughts on how to move forward, and you have my word that this is purely transactional. I just need to pick your brain and see if we can come up with a way to keep this makeup app afloat, and in exchange, you get a delicious meal at a restaurant of your choice. It’s a win-win. I’m telling you the truth, Zoe. There’s a lot riding on this project, and I could lose a lot of money and a lot of credibility if it tanks.”
Zoe crosses her arms. “You know what? I like this look on you. A little pathetic, a little desperate.”
I can’t help but grin at her teasing. “Pathetic and desperate? No, I’m strategic and willing to ask for help. Totally different things.”
Zoe smiles. “Uh-huh. Whatever you want to tell yourself, Big Boss.”
“So?”
“So…yes, we can go out to dinner and troubleshoot the issues with your app. But that’s all I’m offering.”
“That’s all I’m asking. And thank you. Are you available tonight? I know it’s Friday, but the sooner the better.”
“Can you get us a reservation at Jeffrey’s?”
I let out a low whistle. “Look who knows how to take advantage of a free meal.”
Zoe winks. “Four dollar signs or bust. Also, be prepared to treat me to a multi-course dinner.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. How’s 8 o’clock? I can pick you up.”
“How about I meet you there, Mr. Bartock.”
“Done.”
I arrive at Jeffrey’s twenty minutes early, in a crisp collared shirt and slacks, hoping to have a drink at the bar before Zoe arrives. I’m confident about our meeting, less so about us actually finding a way to save the app. But we have to give it all we’ve got, so here goes nothing.
I wave over one of the bartenders. “Whiskey sour, on the rocks. Not too sweet. Make it a Glenfiddich.”
“You got it,” the bartender says in a melodic voice, a broad-shouldered older woman warm brown skin and a capable air. The drink she hands me is smoky and perfectly balanced, with just the right amount of lemon juice and sugar. I slide her a generous tip and take my drink to a corner table.
I’m both looking forward to and dreading my dinner with Zoe. I love her self-confidence, the fire in the way she speaks, a reminder that she cares passionately about life and isn’t afraid to express her opinions. But there’s also the urge to possess her, the distraction of her mouth, the way I sometimes lose my train of thought at the sight of her.
And it’s not just that I would prefer that this was a romantic encounter—there’s also the fact that in order to get Zoe’s help, I have to be honest with her, honest about how much LoveLife is struggling to successfully launch this app, and I hate to admit how close we are to failure. At every other company where I’ve worked, I’ve been convinced of my ability to do my job, and do it well. Now I have to consider the threat of this whole project ruining my career.
“Liam?” Zoe taps me on the shoulder, and I can’t help gazing at her just a little longer than I should. She’s wearing a striking cocktail dress, a form-fitting, knee-length black sheath that hugs every curve without being too tight. Her hair is braided into a crown, and she wears just a touch of coral lipstick, her eyelashes thick and dark over dramatic swoops of eyeliner.
I give Zoe a hug with one arm, glad my drink prevents me from considering the placement of my other hand. “You look lovely,” I say.
“Thanks. I know it’s sort of overkill, but this place is fancy and I don’t have the opportunity to dress up very often. And look, I even wore the shoes you like,” she teases.
“You’re amazing. Thank you for meeting me,” I reply, aiming to be both genuine and professional, and I signal to the waiter that we’re ready to be seated.
The waiter pours us glasses of water and leaves a bottle of prosecco, and I order a plate of artichoke crostini and black olives for the table, with the notion that Zoe and I could start with some small talk before easing into the touchier subject of business. But before I’m halfway through my intro, she leans back and interrupts me with a raised hand.
“Stop. I need to know the ‘why.’”
I’m a bit taken aback. “The why? What do you mean?”
“Why did you want to create this makeup app? Is it just about diversifying LoveLife’s brand, increasing profits, doing something new? What’s driving you? There must be something.”
Our appetizer arrives, and I use the diversion to think about Zoe’s question. I should tell her the real seed of the idea, but I’m not comfortable revealing so much of myself and my past yet. So instead, I tell her what I tell everyone else, slipping easily into my sales pitch.
“American women spend an average of almost $4,000 on beauty products a year. I wanted to tap into that market and my background is in developing apps, so—it was a logical step. We did some test groups and considered a variety of ideas for apps, but this one seemed like the freshest and most potentially lucrative option—a combination of a free and easy app that anyone can use with recommendations that will drive the sale of individualized products.”
Zoe looks bored by my answer, and she shakes her head. “Bullshit.”
“What?”
“A man like you doesn’t fight so hard for an app like this without a personal stake in the result. Otherwise you’d’ve let this go when you hit that wall and moved on to something without so many hurdles. You said you have a variety of app ideas, but you’re still stuck on this one.”
I take a drink of prosecco and clear my throat. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“You are a straight man in your mid-30s with no previous experience in the makeup industry, yet you’re risking it all to launch a makeup and skincare app that could tank your career if it fails.” I nod. Her eyes look ready to battle. “Look, Liam, I know how much money you fronted for this app. But if your motivation was simply financial, you would have invested your money on a better bet in an even more lucrative industry.”
I clear my throat, taken off guard. “How do you know about my investment?”
Zoe smiles. She spreads her cloth napkin smooth across her lap. “It was a guess. But you just confirmed it for me.” She takes another crostini and bites into it with obvious pleasure.
I shake my head, simultaneously irritated and impressed. “Let’s just say that the information you have right now is all that’s available to you while you’re trying to help me.”
“I see,” she replies. “It’s something personal. Hence the secrecy.” She slides her glass closer and takes a long drink of prosecco.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Yes, very much so.”
“Fine. Yes, it is something personal, and no, I’m not going to get into it.” I take my frustration out on the appetizer, happy to find that it’s just as good as Zoe made it seem.
She tilts her head to the side as she munches another olive, cheeks glowing under the warm lights. “It’d be easier if I knew your motives, but I can help you anyway.”
The waiter swoops by again. At Zoe’s insistence, we put in orders for small plates of sunchoke and hamachi carpaccio and the bruta with pine nuts and sundried tomatoes, as well as pollo arrosto for me and black truffle risotto for her.
“You better eat all that,” I tease.
“I promise to taste everything,” she says. “You only live once. But don’t think for a second that you’re getting out of ordering dessert.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “Whatever it takes to keep my consultant happy.”
She grins. “Okay, line ‘em up,” she says. “Gimme all your problems and I’ll tell you how to solve them.”
“Just like that?”
“I’m a new set of eyes. There may be solutions sitting right there that you’ve become accustomed to overlooking. Or maybe a new angle you haven’t even
considered. You are a man, after all.”
“Ouch,” I say, draining my wine glass, though I love Zoe’s brashness, her teasing and lack of deference to my role as her superior at the office.
“It’s science! It’s why you all can never find anything in the fridge. Nothing personal.”
“Alright. So first off, the tech. It’s not working right now. The photo recognition software is having difficulty coming up with an aggregate for the pixels and translating that into a single skin tone that matches with our database of products. The questionnaire is still effective for matching users to things like cleansers and sunscreens, but for the makeup…we’re screwed.”
She chews her lip. “Do you have the money for a consultant?”
“I can make that work.”
“Okay. So hire my friend Kiley—she owns the Tyler Gallery downtown, but she has a degree in digital photography. I’m assuming you just have generalists up in the Tech Lair?”
“More or less. They’re expert programmers.”
“Sure. But they’re not experts on photo editing software. You bring Kiley in and I guarantee she’ll be able to figure out what’s going wrong with the colors and/or if you need to add some new programming to create a baseline color scale to better ensure quality control.”
I finish the last olive and take one of the fresh rolls set in the middle of the table. “Done.”
“Also, you’ll want to have users fill out a more comprehensive survey when using the app. It’s not just about what they might think they’re looking for, or what eyeshadows will flatter their eye color—it’s about what their skin might need, taking into account any sensitivities or allergies, and past experiences with products that haven’t worked. This way we can help them avoid making purchasing mistakes and help build trust in the app’s capability. Lanie brought all of this up in our meeting and it was so obvious I couldn’t believe nobody thought of it first.”
I nod, jotting it all down in my moleskine notebook and pouring Zoe a second glass of wine when I notice she’s finished her first. “What kind of questions do we want on the survey?”
