by Jody Gehrman
Not now, I remind myself. Focus.
Next photo.
“We want clothes that skim our bodies, fabrics that say ‘touch me.’ We want to show off our assets but still be in control. We don’t need to reveal everything. Not yet, anyway. We want to leave plenty of room for a man’s overactive imagination.”
Felicity suddenly bursts into the room. “I’m so sorry I’m—” She stops, gaping at me, bewildered. Her usually perfect hair looks slightly ruffled, and her forehead gleams with sweat. By the light of the screen, I catch a quick glimpse of her face. Cold fury darkens her features. “What are you—?”
“Ruby offered to get us started.” Colin’s voice booms from the shadows, an undertone of warning beneath his practiced calm. “Please, continue.”
For a second, Felicity’s mouth literally hangs open. Her jaw goes slack with shock. Then her face clenches tight as a fist, and I hear the effort it takes for her to murmur a high-pitched, “That’s perfect.”
My heart’s galloping inside me. The interruption has totally thrown me. I flip to the next slide, but my mind’s gone blank. “Uh, as I was saying...”
The icy hostility radiating from my nemesis and the confusion on the clients’ faces has me spiraling into a black hole of tongue-tied panic.
Don’t think about The Stick, I order. Block her out.
From the corner of my eye, the sight of Felicity crossing her arms with smug satisfaction distracts me. Even in the half light, I can see her thoughts so clearly, there may as well be a cartoon caption hovering over her head: Give it up, you stupid cow. We both know you’ll never pull this off.
“You were saying,” Colin prompts gently, “that men have overactive imaginations.”
I shoot him a grateful look as the clients chuckle. “That’s right. So many of today’s fashions equate sexy with nearly naked. They lack subtlety—the power of the implied. Gioioso knows that power. Gioioso speaks an ancient yet enduring language, the language of charm and the promise of mystery.”
I move through the rest of the slides, continually driving home the key points of the campaign. I can feel Felicity seething from across the room. Her rage is like a teakettle, humming away quietly, threatening to explode into a shrill whistle at any moment. As I proceed with the presentation, though, her simmering resentment begins to feed rather than drain me.
Finally, I reach the last slide. It’s similar to the first: same smoky nightclub, same fabulous blue dress, same classic microphone. The main difference is that in this shot my head is thrown back in joyous abandon, my mouth wide as if hitting the high notes of the final chorus, bringing it home. I read the text aloud, imbuing it with all the sex kitten huskiness I can muster.
“Gioioso: Because curves never go out of style.”
Chapter Twenty
Unforeseen Delights
While Felicity and Dylan usher the Gioioso clients out the door, Colin shakes his head at me, eyes twinkling. The little creases around his mouth tell me he’s trying not to laugh.
They were so impressed with my pitch they signed us right away. It’s a huge account, one of the biggest we’ve managed to land. I can hardly contain my exuberance.
When at last we’re alone, Colin gives into his laughter. “What was that?”
“Oh, god! Don’t ask me,” I say, laughing with him, giddy with relief.
“You were amazing! You blew them away.”
“I was fighting for my life—or at least my job.”
His smile vanishes. He lowers his voice, glancing at the door. “Felicity told me you quit. She said you couldn’t handle the pressure.”
“She lied.” I shrug. “She does that.”
“You’re kidding!” He gets a flinty look in his eye; a muscle twitches in his jaw.
“Nope. She fired me,” I say flatly. “Actually, she claimed it was your idea.”
His face drains of color. “That manipulative bitch.”
“Welcome to my world.”
The Stick couldn’t have picked a better moment to reenter the room. I watch as Colin transfers his gaze from me to her. His jaw tightens and his eyes narrow to slits.
Felicity is too focused on me to notice though. She launches herself at me, nostrils flared, pink splotches breaking out on her long pale neck. “If you ever step foot in this office again, I’ll call the police. You don’t even work here anymore! What gives you the right to—?”
“Did you fire her?” Colin interrupts, his voice dangerously quiet.
She spins on her heel to face him. For a second, she obviously has no idea what to say. She tries to paste on a saccharine smile. “We had a talk, and we agreed it’s time for her to move on.”
I can’t keep from scoffing. “That’s utter shit and you know it.”
“Did we misunderstand each other?” She tries to sound perplexed, innocent.
“I understood perfectly. You fired my ass.”
“I would never, ever—” She sputters to a stop, her eyes darting back and forth between Colin and me like a cornered rabbit. “I’m sure Colin doesn’t want to hear about our miscommunication.”
“Oh, but I do,” he says coldly.
“I’ve been training Ruby for years, teaching her to express her ideas to clients in a way that will serve her throughout her career. I’ve been her greatest champion.” She stands a little straighter, trying to sound affronted now. In the two minutes since she walked in here she’s gone from homicidal to sweet to confused to indignant. Woman knows how to work the full emotional range, that’s for sure.
Colin studies her for a long moment, then looks at the carpet. “Felicity, I’m sorry to have to do this. I was hoping we could avoid it, but I see now that’s impossible.”
She lets out a shrill trumpet of laughter. “We’re all a little high strung! Let’s not say anything we might regret.”
“I’m going to have to let you go.” He looks her in the eye. “Effective immediately.”
“What?” she whispers.
“It’s actually the main reason I’m here. To confirm or deny some of the reports filtering back to New York.”
Her hand flutters at her chest. “Colin, you can’t—”
“Oh yeah. I can. In fact, I just did.”
* * *
Three hours later, Colin and I clink glasses at Sabroso, a beautiful little tapas place right on the bay. The wait list here is legendary, but somehow Colin got us in. My whole body tingles like it’s filled with champagne. I’m already so drunk with relief, alcohol seems superfluous.
“To Ruby Sugars,” he says, raising his Scotch dramatically. “Future legend of Madison Avenue.”
I sip the cold gin, then carefully set my glass down. “Don’t you think that’s a little hyperbolic?”
“Not at all.” He pins me with his stare. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
Suddenly I feel nervous; I’m not sure why. “I guess this is part of why it’s complicated getting involved with your boss.”
“How so?” he asks, his tone impossible to read.
“I mean, how can I tell if you sincerely like my work or just, you know...?” I trail off. Why am I ruining this perfect moment with inane babble? Why, why, why? I’ve just felled my nemesis, won the account, got my job back, and now I’m here with the man of my dreams.
Man of my dreams? Did I really just think that? Mr. Wright. Mr. Right. Oh, god, why can’t I just focus on the moment? A series of sexy, romantic images flashes through my brain like a liquor ad: Colin and I on a sailboat, Colin and I riding in a carriage through Central Park, Colin and I naked in a tangle of satin sheets.
He stirs his drink, the ice tinkling against the glass. The amber liquid sparkles in the candlelight. I watch the red swizzle stick rotate, urging myself to get it under control. I f
ucked up. I said the wrong thing. Where was I going with that, anyway? Did I really mean to imply he’s only praising me because he wants to sleep with me again? Way to insult, degrade and presume all at once.
“Ruby?”
With effort, I raise my eyes to meet his. “Yes?”
“Don’t do that, okay?”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t pull away. Here we are, having a drink in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.” He gestures at the view. The bay undulates beneath a creamy twilight. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here. With you.”
“Really?” I can feel a shy smile taking over.
“Really. And I’m dead serious about your work. You’ve got real talent.”
I lean back in my chair, finally starting to relax. “Thank you. I loved putting this campaign together. Clothing, makeup, perfume—the girly stuff—those are my favorite products to push. It’s like I’m talking directly to my best friend, you know?”
“I do know. That’s how I feel pitching whiskey.” He lifts his glass and takes a sip. “I love coming up with that stuff. Everyone should have a niche.”
“Tell me about your life in New York.”
And so he does. All the stories we avoided our first night together—the details of our day-to-day existence—come out now. He tells me about starting the company eight years ago with his mentor, Daniel, and his best friend from college, Owen. He describes his brownstone in SoHo, his obsession with late-fifties furniture, his “Da” from Dublin and his Mom from Vermont who died of breast cancer six years ago. He tells me about his family’s high-powered investment firm and how it pisses him off when his older brother belittles him for going into advertising instead of joining him on Wall Street. I tell him about Nana and how she inspired my Gioioso campaign. I explain how she died of lung cancer. I admit that when I’m lonely, I still bury my face in her favorite mink stole and imagine I can smell her perfume.
Plates of tapas appear and disappear: miniature crab cakes, perfectly fried calamari, spicy shrimp with yellow rice, cherry tomatoes stuffed with olive tapenade, grilled Portobello mushrooms with hazelnut gremolata. Colin orders a bottle of wine, and I can tell by the way the waiter raises his eyebrows with a subdued, “Very good, sir,” that it probably costs more than I make in a month. We drink it slowly, and though I know nothing about wine, I have to admit it’s the most amazing liquid ever to pass through my lips. Whether it’s the drinks, the tapas or the conversation, I find myself shedding my inhibitions, feeling more at ease than I’ve ever felt with a man. In Colin’s presence I feel myself and yet more than myself—some other, minxy self I’m just starting to believe exists.
“There’s something I want to tell you, before I lose my nerve.” He stares at me intently, the candlelight flickering over his features.
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you.” He looks down, as if gathering his thoughts.
I stare out the window, one finger gently caressing the stem of my wine glass as I steal sideways glances at his reflection. There are boats out on the water, their lights bobbing steadily in the inky blue. I try not to guess where he’s going with this, try not to anticipate what he’ll say next.
“I just turned thirty-six. I’m finally old enough to realize this sort of thing—” he gestures between us “—doesn’t happen very often. For some people, it never happens. I don’t want to let it slip away.”
“Me neither.” I bite my lip, wishing my heart would stop racing.
“When I accused you of setting me up last week, I was completely out of line. It made me realize how cynical I’ve become living in New York all these years and just, you know, obsessing about work constantly.”
I nod. “It happens.”
“Anyway, now the New York office is doing really well. Daniel and Owen have everything under control. It’s time we pay more attention to our West Coast accounts.” He lets out a wry, self-deprecating laugh. “Listen to me! I’m making it all about work, and that’s not it. I mean, it’s a practical decision, yes, and one I’ve toyed with before, but—”
“Colin?” I interrupt gently. “What are you saying?”
“I want to move out here!” he blurts. His eyebrows cant in that subtle way he has, rendering his expression vulnerable and boyish in an instant.
“Really?” I spear a shrimp with my fork, trying not to seem too jubilant.
“I want to run the San Francisco office. And I want you to run it with me, as my creative director.”
I gasp midchew. The shrimp goes down the wrong pipe and I find myself choking convulsively. Very sexy.
When at last I’ve managed to draw air again, I murmur, “Are you sure?”
“Well, there is one thing.”
Oh, god, here it comes: the catch. “What’s that?”
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Ruby, or thwart you in any way. You’re at a delicate juncture in your career. Now that Felicity’s gone, you’re going to skyrocket, I’m confident of that. If you’re with me, there will inevitably be stupid rumors about...you know...” He hesitates.
“Sleeping my way to the top?”
“Exactly. Which is why I leave it up to you. If you want me to stay in New York, I’ll do that. I don’t like it, but I’ll do it. If you want to work for someone else, I can get you interviews.”
“You’d really move out here?” I ask, my voice wobbly.
“I want to!” He clasps my hand. “And frankly, I don’t care what people say. Let them talk. I want to be with you. I want to work with you, I want to travel with you, I want to—” he glances around and lowers his voice “—fuck you. I want you on a regular basis. If you want me, I’ll move here tomorrow. Just say the word.”
My smile is so huge, I fear my face is in danger of splitting in half. “I’d like that.”
Suddenly my phone starts playing “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” inside my purse. Couples at nearby tables glower. Great! Wanda.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, fumbling for the off switch.
“Is it Wanda?”
I giggle. “How did you guess?”
“See if she’ll meet us someplace. We can all celebrate.”
“Okay!” I send a quick text. Emergency celebration required!
She immediately texts back. Kapow! Ethan and I will meet you at Jo-Jo’s in an hour.
I grin at her response. She’s with Ethan. I’m so glad.
“Everything okay?” Colin asks.
I slip off my stiletto and inch my stockinged foot up his leg. “Better than okay. Perfect.”
He clears his throat. “After we have a drink with Wanda, I’m going to need to take you back to my hotel room.”
“Oh?” I put on an innocent look. “Did you need to dictate some memos, Mr. Wright?”
He lets out a soft groan. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t start that perky secretary routine, or we’re never going to make it past the parking lot.”
“Oh, my.” I widen my eyes in mock surprise, my foot wandering higher. “Sounds like an urgent situation requiring immediate attention.”
“Extremely urgent,” he growls.
As my foot caresses his lap, he bites his lip and closes his eyes. When his lids flutter open again he fixes me with a stern look. “You’re a very bad little minx, do you know that?”
I flash him a cheeky grin. “I’m starting to think you’re right.”
* * * * *
About the Author
Jody Gehrman is a Northern California native, the author of nine novels and numerous plays. Her young-adult novel Babe in Boyland won the International Reading Association Teen Choice Award and was optioned by the Disney Channel. Her plays have been produced
or had staged readings in Ashland, New York, San Francisco, Chicago and L.A. She has a masters degree in professional writing from the University of Southern California and is a professor of English and communications at Mendocino College.
For more titles by Jody Gehrman visit www.jodygehrman.com.
Do YOU want to write a story for Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Harlequin?
The editors of Cosmo Red-Hot Reads are looking for new writers with fresh voices and entertaining romances. The editors review each and every submission looking for bright new talent. It could be you!
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Harlequin are 25,000 to 30,000 word fast-paced, passionate romances for today’s fun, fearless females! Set in big cities, including glamorous international locations, each features a twentysomething heroine who values her female friendships and is building a successful career. She does not need a man to make her life complete, but he is the icing on the cake! The ensuing hot romance has strong conflict, witty repartee, a fresh contemporary voice and a hero you want to spend the weekend in bed with.
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ISBN-13: 9781460339589
Bombshell
Copyright © 2014 by Jody Gehrman
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