WILD OPEN HEARTS: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy

by Nolan, Kathryn

  “On a personal note,” she whispered, “if you were inclined as to ask me on a date, I’d say yes.” Luna stepped back, looking pretty and girlish and filled with hope. “So you should ask me.”

  32

  Luna

  I sat at the head of the table at the Wild Heart conference room, staring at a group of people who no longer seemed to respect me very much.

  I’d pushed to have this meeting with Fischer Home Goods at the Wild Heart offices because I wanted them to fully understand that what happened with Ferris Mark was absolutely horrible, but that we weren’t—and never would be—a fraudulent company. Around the room hung framed magazine and newspaper articles about Wild Heart—our high pay standards, our diverse board and leadership, our eco-friendly packaging, all of it was displayed openly and celebrated. I’d removed large photos or articles with my face in them, trying to distance the amazingness of Wild Heart from whatever complicated feelings the public had about my role as spokeswoman.

  This morning, after leaving Beck’s office, I’d watched my TED Talk, re-igniting the fire in my belly that had led me to pull zero punches in that speech. I hadn’t hesitated to call out big cosmetics brands and label them hypocrites. Didn’t hesitate to splash the human and animal rights violations prevalent in our industry across that screen and call for change. Now. None of my speech had been for image or branding or Instagram or Jasmine. It had all been my vision.

  If Fischer Home Goods was going to terminate their contract, they were going to have to wrench it from my sunshine-y, vegan hands.

  Sylvia sat next to me. One minute before the meeting began, she passed a sticky note my way.

  Remember what you stand for.

  So different from the aggravated frustration from Jasmine and her team this morning—they were pissed about the picture, pissed about the caption.

  Pissed that I’d deleted the photo of me and Sunshine.

  This little note of uncomplicated support meant so much more than Jasmine’s media concerns.

  I beamed at Sylvia, nodded at her.

  “Thank you, everyone, for coming,” I said, aiming as much light as I could at their head of in-store products, Kristin Langley. “I know it’s been a tense couple of weeks since the Ferris Mark news broke, but I really appreciate your kindness and understanding during this time.”

  Kristin’s expression let me know she felt neither kindness nor understanding but I forged ahead.

  “Today we’ll be discussing negotiations of our storefront contract with Fischer Home Goods. There have been discussions”—threats—“of terminating the contract, so I want to do everything in my power as the founder and CEO of Wild Heart to guarantee your trust in us. Such a drastic action need not occur. Kombucha?”

  They weren’t really a kombucha crowd, but I still poured some for a few of the willing visitors and then settled back into my chair. “Tell me your concerns. I’m here to listen,” I said, accessing a deep, zen-like space to keep from freaking out or tearing up all the papers on the table and running away. Daisy could hide me out on her yacht and Cameron and Emily would helicopter in corn chips, I was sure of it.

  “Let me be clear,” Kristin said. “We’re here to formally end our partnership with Wild Heart. Just so there’s no confusion.”

  I kept my smile broad and hid any strain. “I see. I want to remind you that until Ferris Mark lied to us, and four other major cosmetics companies, our relationship was nothing but incredibly beneficial. Financially and from a marketing perspective. Young people in America care about the causes that Wild Heart stands for. Not only cruelty-free products, but a company that pays its employees a living wage, a company that values gender, racial and ethnic diversity in its hiring practices. A corporation that puts social justice at the center of its decision making.”

  “Until you didn’t,” Kristin said. “And that’s the issue. I know you’re working with a new supplier now, but the public fallout has been too severe. It’s easier for us to cut contact with you altogether.” She smiled like a snake. “You understand. The public doesn’t want to buy products at Fischer Home Goods from a company they believe has lied to them.”

  “I don’t understand, actually,” I said. “Since my work with Lucky Dog, the tide has been turning and my PR team is working on rebranding and re-messaging with a focus on honesty and transparency. We fully intend to correct the mistakes that were made. In fact, many of them have been corrected already.”

  “How does your connection with the Miami Devils play into this?” she asked, crossing her arms.

  The question threw me for such a loop that three awkward seconds ticked with no pithy response from me.

  “What are you referring to, Kristin?” Sylvia asked sharply. “Wild Heart has never had a connection with a motorcycle gang. That’s preposterous and, I might add, not relevant to a business negotiation.”

  “It is if your CEO is dating a member, openly. Fischer is a national company but based in Miami, like Wild Heart. We’re all very familiar with their reputation.” Kristin leaned in across the table. “Careful. It’s tarnishing your perfect one, Ms. Da Rosa.”

  Her quick, icy tone felt like an actual slap across the face. Two years ago, Kristin and I had been colleagues, working together to make a partnership we hoped would be lucrative and revolutionary.

  This happened to me quite a bit. Between my active social media accounts and my generally bouncy personality, people usually assumed I was a vapid, glittering fairy without any bite.

  “Careful,” I repeated to Kristin. “My personal life and the personal life of Beck Mason is of absolutely zero concern to you, Fischer Home Goods or the consumers. This company is valued at over a billion dollars and has been credited with changing the production standards of the beauty industry. You either want to continue partnering with an innovator or you don’t.”

  “We don’t,” Kristin said. “I’ll have the termination papers sent over within the hour.”

  The Fischer team stood as one and exited the Wild Heart headquarters. Kristin didn’t even have the decency to look disappointed, or bittersweet, or something.

  She just left.

  Absent their scrutiny, and in the relative comfort of Sylvia’s presence, I let my head drop into my hands. For a moment, no more. I wanted to be back in Beck’s office, stepping into his body heat and scent. If Beck were here, he’d wrap me into a bear hug—no question.

  “It really is easier for them, Luna,” Sylvia said, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s business. If they smell danger, they’ll drop you and pick up another company. Money works fast, you know that. And even though you believe Wild Heart is vital and innovative, they only see you as a maker of mascaras. And there are many mascara makers in this industry for them to choose from.”

  “We’re not special,” I repeated bitterly.

  “You are,” Sylvia said. “You are special. They’re not.”

  I stalked over to the conference room door. Locked it. Leaned against it and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Can I ask your honest opinion, Sylvia?”

  “Of course,” she said. I trusted her opinion—more than Jasmine’s, I was realizing.

  “What’s the board thinking right now?” I asked. I was the majority shareholder in the company and every single member was a trusted colleague I’d personally brought on. But that didn’t make me entirely safe.

  “The board is committed to Wild Heart and you. You’ve done an excellent job, Luna. They trust you.”

  I blew out a relieved breath. I might have been feeling confused about aspects of my job lately, but at least I wasn’t at risk of losing it. Not like what happened with Emily.

  “We just lost our main source of revenue,” I said, pointing out the door. “I thought the Ferris Mark thing would drop but it’s sticky. It’s all over me.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “Some stories aren’t let go of that easily. You are a threat, Luna. To the way things are done. If they see a chance to drag yo
u through the mud, they’ll take it over and over.”

  I swallowed around a lump in my throat. “At least I know now,” I said, voice wavering. “But am I making a mistake? Working with Lucky Dog and adding extra fuel for the fire?”

  “Is your question really about Lucky Dog or are you asking me about Beck Mason?”

  I opened my mouth to answer. Stopped. Felt my cheeks get hot. “Nothing is formally happening with Beck and me. But it might happen and I want to know if I’m going to take this company down with me. People’s jobs are on the line. Our mission is on the line. Are my personal choices sacrificing what’s best for Wild Heart?”

  “You’re a woman, a CEO, a public persona,” Sylvia said. “Your choices will continue to be picked apart and analyzed forever. You won’t ever escape it.”

  I looked out the window, found no comfort in Miami’s shimmering waves.

  “That wasn’t the answer I wanted,” I said.

  “I know it’s not.”

  “I thought light attracted light. I’m always nice, I care deeply about things, I’m all about good causes—”

  “That doesn’t matter,” she said. “Your detractors will be many. Always. You think I didn’t feel the same pressure? Because I did. But you cannot live your life dictated by the opinions of strangers.”

  A knock on the window. Jasmine, pointing at one of the giant screens on the wall. Turn it on, she mouthed. She looked furious. Sylvia turned it on—to the business news network we always had on.

  “In the wake of the Ferris Mark scandal, things aren’t looking up for Miami’s own Wild Heart. First, the animal cruelty. Then the news that Luna da Rosa had openly defied her own policies to work with them. And now, the latest word that Fischer Home Goods, the second-largest chain of stores in the country, will no longer be selling their products. This was the partnership that garnered Ms. da Rosa’s billionaire status and put Wild Heart officially on the map with the other reputable cosmetics brands.”

  My gold rings caught the light from the sun, twinkling with all of their expensive goodness. The Fischer contract had only been possible because of my rash decision to go with Ferris Mark—because I’d run the numbers and had predicted, if all went as planned, my net worth would break the billion-dollar mark. It had been an exciting gamble, a tease, a fun game, to roll the dice and let the universe reward me for my hard work.

  The devil on my shoulder had won that day. There’d been no regard for social justice, only money.

  “Luna, are you okay?” Sylvia asked.

  “Of course,” I said brightly, with my last remaining ounce of strength. “One second, I need to get some air.”

  “Luna.”

  I stopped, turned. It was Jasmine, barreling through the door and brandishing her phone like a sword. “It’s nuclear again. They’re ganging up on you now.”

  “I know,” I sighed. Sylvia caught my eye across the table.

  “We need to strategize, immediately,” Jasmine said. “Does Beck have any dogs coming that are particularly tragic or traumatized? You could do a video. Maybe shot in black and white. We could even stage it.”

  “No,” I said clearly. But Jasmine was scrolling through her phone as always. “Also, if the media is going to continue to bring up Beck’s family, we could flip it. Use it. What if you surprised Beck at his office by bringing his parents there? Show both of you confronting them, put you in a hero’s light, working together.”

  “No,” I said again.

  From behind her, Sylvia gave me an approving nod.

  “You’re making it hard to do my job,” Jasmine said.

  “I know,” I said. “We’ll figure it out. But I want to move forward intentionally. And I don’t want to manipulate or use Beck or the dogs in any way.”

  “You told Beck in your first meeting it’s not manipulation if it’s mutually beneficial.” Her smile was wry. “So what’s the problem?”

  My hand was on the door and I was already moving. I needed a break from this conversation. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  I stepped outside to Jasmine’s protests, kicked off my shoes, and sank my bare toes into the sand. Inhaled. Exhaled. Tried to feel every grain of sand along the soles of my feet—a meditation technique my mother used to have me do when I was a little kid. Grain, grain, grain went my focus. It was a pointless endeavor—you couldn’t actually feel every grain—but it had the benefit of calming your mind after a few minutes.

  The clarity materialized—about the meeting and Jasmine’s emergency ideas. Deep down, even when I felt like the sky was truly falling, I believed good was still coming my way. Fischer had been very clear about their intentions and yet I hadn’t let myself believe it. Because I had apologized, was working with Lucky Dog, doing something trustworthy with my time.

  It still wasn’t working. But now Jasmine’s ideas felt… icky to me.

  I could try my hardest—and my life might never go back to the way it was.

  Maybe it was time I started to accept that.

  My phone pinged.

  Beck.

  My cheeks were still hot and I realized I was smiling even in the midst of this mini personal crisis I was having with my toes in the sand. There was a video plus a text that said: I had to ask Jem to help me send this. She says hi and that she misses you. Thought you would want to see this.

  The video was Beck, looking bearded and handsome and giant standing in the middle of the Lucky Dog training field. In his right hand, he held a minuscule treat between his fingers. Face open but stern, he said, “Penelope. Sit.”

  Before him was my girl—my straggly, mangy, skinny stray dog looking cleaner, more filled out and sitting on command.

  I pressed the phone to my chest. Glow went my heart.

  Before I could think too hard I fired off a text back: I can’t tell you how much I needed to see this video right at this moment. Thank you, Beck. You’re doing such a great job with our girl.”

  Behind me, people were streaming into my office—Jasmine’s staff. The fall-out was continuing and now we had a potential financial crisis on our hands. I curled my toes, squished sand, yearned to tear off my clothing and dive naked into that sea-green water.

  I don’t think I’ll be around this week. Bad news for Wild Heart and I have to be here to fix it. Send your prayers to the universe that all goes well. I’ll keep posting photos to raise you more money, okay? And I’ll send a case of kombucha to Lucky Dog for you.

  Okay, Beck texted back.

  I smirked. The man was a one-word machine.

  Thank you again for talking with me this morning, I wrote. And if you want to ask me on a date later, you know where to find me.

  He didn’t text anything back.

  33

  Beck

  Luna hadn’t been at Lucky Dog for an entire week.

  According to my staff, I was in a bad mood.

  Which wasn’t true—I just wanted to slam doors and prowl around and scowl at every question because I liked it that way. But I guess we’d all gotten used to a weekly infusion of Luna’s cheery light and without it I felt stuck in grumpy darkness.

  Her influence wasn’t entirely absent though. Right now, Elián and I were sitting on the stairs outside the office, sharing a six-pack of beer, and watching Luna’s website update with more and more donations for Lucky Dog. We were approaching $100,000 in total donations over two weeks, which was one-third of our budget gap, the one we needed to close by the end of this month.

  It also meant that my staff could be paid next week. I didn’t think that was going to happen before Luna decided I was stuck with her.

  “Can you show me what she’s been posting?” I asked Elián. Luna had texted that she’d been secretly taking more than four photos every time she visited. She had plenty to upload and share from the comfort of her office. Elián showed me her Instagram page. It was filled with attractive pictures of our campus. I scanned the same horizon—saw our dusty field, the shabby equipment, everything looking old
and cheap.

  Luna’s pictures were colorful and hopeful. We looked like a happy place for happy dogs that needed a little bit of extra help. There were portraits of every single dog we had with funny captions. Silly photos of Wes and Jem, training sessions with Elián.

  “She’s good, man,” Elián said.

  “Is that a lie?” I asked. “What she posted?”

  “I don’t think it is,” he said. “I think she really loves it here. You can tell how she talks about it. Donors want to give to her because she’s authentic. She’s not trying to guilt them into giving. I think she’s trying to inspire them.”

  I ran a hand through my hair, pondering that. “She is good,” I admitted. “I feel bad that my family is fucking things up for her this week.”

  “Media that bad, huh?” he asked, squinting at the setting sun.

  I shouldn’t have brought it up—I had to clamp down on my anger to keep it from boiling over. After that paparazzi shot, the Devils were back in the public eye, though mostly it was re-posting the same mug shots or sharing bizarre theories. About ten years ago, I’d kicked around the idea of sealing or expunging my juvenile record—a real clean slate. But I hadn’t gone through with it, mostly because I wanted to avoid even talking about it at all costs.

  Now I wished I had.

  “Bad. It’s all fake. They’re trying to drag her down. Dragging up old stories about me that I’d forgotten about. Or aren’t real.”

  “Have your parents reached out to you?” Elián asked.

  I huffed into my beer. “No,” I said. “I’m only useful to Rip and Georgie if I come back begging. They’ll stay away until that happens. But the MC’s letting me know they’re around. Couple times. I think they rode past here the other morning. A couple guys on the beach giving me the eye, that kind of thing.”

  “Jesus, man,” he said. “If they give you problems, tell me, okay?”