by Cat Carmine
Rich’s smug smile cracks a little. “Different? And what exactly do you have in mind?”
“We don’t go to the business papers. They won’t take me seriously and I don’t want to give them the chance to chew me up and spit me out. What if we go to my people instead?”
“You have people?” Rich is looking smug again, and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“I do run my own business, you know,” I say. I try to sound confident but my voice is shaking. It’s true though — Margaux and I have built Bounce Couture from a sewing machine in our shared apartment into a trendy line of plus-sized clothing. I turn to Sasha. “We could go to the lifestyle blogs, the style magazines, the influencers — HuffPo, Lonnie, Domino. I don’t know if it helps us to talk to the people who are going to be worried about me taking over Bailey Living — we should be going to the people who are going to be excited about it. Those are our people.”
Sasha is madly scribbling notes into a little steno notebook. When she’s done she taps the pen against the table again. “Do you want me to call them or …?” she says, directing her question to Rich. He shakes his head slightly, then turns to me.
“Bree, I know you think you know what you’re doing because of your little … fashion company, but I really must caution you against that strategy.”
I spread my hands wide on the table, feigning a confidence I don’t quite have. Rich has the decency to hesitate.
“It’s just that … this isn’t how we did things before,” he tries to push on. “Your father didn’t run this as an entertainment company, Bree. It was a serious business to him. We need to treat this seriously, and The Post and The Journal are the papers with credibility.”
“Right.”
I gnaw at my lip as I look around the table, at all the faces staring expectantly at me. All these people who were loyal to my father, who are now expecting me to carry the torch.
And I owe them that, don’t I? I owe my father that. This company was his baby, not mine, and Rich was his closest advisor. So if this is how he thinks we should do things, then I guess I should go along with it.
Finally I nod at Rich.
“Okay. If you think this is best. I’ll talk to The Post and The Journal and whoever else you want.”
He glances at Sasha and they exchange a brief nod. She flips her steno pad closed and then slips out of her chair and out of the room.
“This is great, Bree. Thank you. You just have to trust us, right?”
“Right.” I force myself to smile.
“Now, Sasha’s going to confirm with The Post, but I think we can expect to do the interview over the phone within the next hour or so. They’ll be sending a photographer out as well — we offered to just send them a head shot, but you know what they’re like, they want to do their own photos. Is that what you’ll be wearing?”
I look down at the yellow blouse — one of my own designs, with a drapey tie at the neck and soft pleats falling from the chest.
“I was … planning on it?”
“Maybe Sasha has a jacket she could lend you,” he sniffs. I don’t mention that Sasha is the size of my pinky finger and that I’d have a better chance fitting into one of his jackets than one of hers.
Instead I force myself to smile. Rich pushes his chair out, which apparently is the signal that this meeting is over. Everyone else starts pushing their chairs out too, and soon I’m the only one still sitting at the table. Rich stays behind as everyone exits the room, and then he puts a hand on my shoulder. The gesture is almost … fatherly, and coming from Rich it surprises me more than anything.
“I know this hasn’t been easy, Bree,” he says kindly. “But I think you’re doing the right thing.”
“Thanks.” I’d almost be touched, if I trusted Rich at all.
“Oh!” he pauses just as he’s heading out the door. “I almost forgot to tell you. We finally heard back from Trinity Central Hospital and they’ve agreed to take Bailey Living on as a last minute sponsor. We’ll be doing all the furniture for the homes in the lottery and they want you to be the one at all the events. I guess they like the idea of a fresh face.” He says this last part as if he can’t quite believe it himself.
“That’s great news,” I say, because it is. The hospital’s foundation puts on a huge home lottery every year, raffling off a half-dozen beautiful homes, all donated by the builders or condo companies. It was always their biggest fundraiser — both the raffle and the homes themselves got tons of positive press coverage.
In the past, Loft & Barn has been their furniture sponsor, but I’d pitched it to Rich early on that it would be a great publicity option for Bailey Living — a chance to get our stuff in front of a whole new market and earn some cred for doing a good deed. I was surprised he’d actually listened to me.
“When’s the meeting?” I ask him.
He flips open his tablet again and taps a couple of times. “This Wednesday. That work for you?”
“Absolutely.” I’m actually excited about this one. If I can just survive the next week or so, I’ll be golden.
Rich leaves the room and I take a few minutes to myself before I have to go and get ready for The Post interview. I know this isn’t going to be easy — in fact, I’m fully expecting them to rip me a new one after I admit that I’ve been running the company in secret for the last month. All I can do is pray that Rich is right, that the fact that the company has reported better numbers in all areas over that month will be enough to convince them that Bailey Living isn’t just dead in the water.
It’s times like these I wish Margaux were here. I know I’m going to be a live wire once this interview is over, and a girlfriend to go for a drink with would be just the thing to soothe my jangled nerves.
Or a drink with a hot guy.
Luke’s face pops into my mind again, and all my bones seem to turn to liquid at the thought. Because Luke could do more than just buy me a drink. Luke could make me see stars. Luke had made me see stars, at least five times last night.
I try to push the thought out of my head. Part of me is still kicking myself for walking out of his apartment like that this morning — but the more rational part of me knows that it was for the best. I don’t have time for a relationship right now. I have too much on my plate, and there’s too much at stake. This is my father’s legacy we’re talking about — I’m not going to fuck that up just because I’ve got a heart on for the first guy who’s shown me a good time since I’ve been back in Chicago.
Not just since you’ve been back in Chicago, that annoying voice pipes up again. When have you ever had a night like that?
It doesn’t matter now though, I remind myself. I left. I told him last night wasn’t repeatable, and I meant it. And he seemed more than happy to leave it at that.
God, how it had killed me to walk out of that penthouse though. Even after he’d said that stuff about Bailey Living. Which, sure, I wanted to smack him a little — but his words only made me feel more determined to help turn Dad’s company around. To show people like Luke that it wasn’t all just old people furniture.
“Almost ready?”
Sasha’s voice startles me out of my reverie. I smile up at her.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.
7
Luke
I stare down at the massive stack of file folders Lottie has left on my desk. All things I need to review or sign or review and sign. Things people are waiting for me to make a decision on. I thumb through them idly but I’ve got zero motivation to start actually going through them.
I turn back to the laptop instead, but my email inbox is another mess of to-dos and action-requireds. I’ve already had to turn off the audio notification setting because the constant pinging was driving me insane.
I don’t know how Trent does this every day. What’s even crazier is that he actually seems to enjoy it.
Me, on the other hand? I’d give just about anything to be in my workshop right now. To be covered in sawdust, the sce
nt of cedar in my nose, the whir of my table saw in my ears.
When Trent and I first founded Loft & Barn, over ten years ago, we divided the labor. He handled the business side of things, and I was the designer. Even as we’ve expanded into a billion-dollar company, we’ve kept those same roles. I still design every major piece in our collections, and I build all the prototypes myself, which are then used as the models at an American plant that creates the full line.
I’m never happier than when I’m working on a new piece, and Trent is never happier than when he’s solving some issue or negotiating a new deal. That’s why we work so well together.
But I couldn’t say no when he asked me to step into his role for six months while he stayed home with his wife and new baby. I thought it was cool that he wanted to take that much paternity leave, and I was happy to support his decision. And frankly I thought being CEO for a few months would be a breeze — after all, we’re a pretty well-oiled machine by now. How many fires could really need fighting?
Turns out, the answer is a lot.
Of course, we didn’t know at the time that his parental leave with coincide with the work we were doing to take the company public. We had thought the process would be wrapped up long before Trent left, but things hadn’t worked out that way. Now on top of the regular demands of the business, I’m also fielding a million requests from the underwriter, and soothing the uncertainty of our own executive team. It’s funny how having an independent third-party poking around through our finances and corporate history has set people on edge, even though it’s all a formality. We have nothing but pristine records and an impeccable track history in the industry.
Anyway, thanks to the constant demands on my schedule, I haven’t really had any time to get out to my workshop. We have a collection I’m supposed to be working on and I have no idea when I’m going to actually get around to accomplishing it.
I’m hoping that if I can get through some of these folders today, maybe I can pop out a bit early. My home and workshop are about an hour outside of the city, so it’s hard to get out there in the evenings, but I might just have to justify it tonight.
Because the other truth is that my workshop is the only place I can really unwind, and ever since this weekend, when Bree walked out my door, I’ve had a serious need to unwind. I feel pent-up in all the wrong ways, like I’m constantly wearing a sweater that’s too tight. I’m not used to this feeling. I’m usually the one walking out the door in the morning — or long before the morning, in most cases.
But Bree isn’t most cases. Bree is … different. And as much as I’ve been trying to shake the memories — of the way it felt to kiss her, to slip my cock into her sweet pussy, to lay beside her in my bed — they remain firmly entrenched in my traitorous brain.
For about the twentieth time in two days, I briefly entertain the notion of trying to find her. I don’t know much about her — that her name is Bree and she’s got a VIP enough job to have a driver and that she may or may not work in fashion — but there must be something I could do.
The phone on the desk rings and I glance down to see Lottie’s name on the display. Good. Maybe she can tell me which of these files I should be working on first.
“Hi,” I say, picking up the handset.
“I have Kenny Bradworth on the phone for you, Luke.”
Great. Something else that needs my attention.
“Did he say what he wants?”
“No, sir.”
“Fine. Put him through. Oh, wait, Lottie?” I interject, before she can hang up.
“Yes?”
“Which one is Kenny Bradworth again?”
I can almost hear her chuckling on the other end of the line. “He’s head of shipping.”
“Right. I knew that.”
“I know.”
Lottie has been Trent’s secretary pretty much since we started the business. She’s a no-nonsense grey-haired woman with a calm demeanor and a memory like a steel trap. To be honest, I’m starting to think Trent should have left her in charge instead of me.
I take the call with Kenny and talk through some distribution issues. I’ve discovered that the best way to solve most problems here is to get people to come up with their own solutions. A few probing questions is usually enough to get them to realize they already know what to do. Then all I have to do is give them my blessing as CEO, and everything is golden.
Things with Kenny go pretty much the same way, and in just a few minutes, I have him off the phone. I wish I could get through my whole to-do list this easily.
I’ve just disconnected the call when there’s a knock at the office door. It can only be Lottie so I call for her to come in.
I groan when I see her.
She’s holding another giant stack of file folders. I can see little colored tabs sticking out from some of them. There goes my plan to sneak out of here this afternoon.
“Where do you want these?” she asks.
I nudge the little garbage can beside my desk out towards her. “Here would be great.”
“Funny,” she says, dumping the files on my desk with all the others.
I scrub my face with my hands. “Okay. Walk me through this — which ones do I absolutely have to get through today?”
“The pink ones.”
“And the green ones?”
“As long as they’re taken care of this week.”
“Okay.” I look at the stack — about half pink. I wonder again how Trent can possibly enjoy doing this all day every day.
Lottie smiles gently, as if placating a toddler who’s just been told he can’t, in fact, wear his ice cream as a hat.
“The pink ones are the records the team’s pulled together for the underwriter. They need to be couriered out today, so they need your approval. The green ones are just our usual monthly reporting — they need to be signed off this week so that accounting can issue the necessary payments in time.”
I nod. “Thanks Lottie. Where would I be without you?”
Her smile broadens. “I’ve no doubt you’d manage just fine.”
“Well, it’s much more pleasant having your help.”
Lottie leaves my office with a smile, and I turn to my folders with another sigh. I’m just opening up the first of many when my phone starts to ring again. I glance down, thinking it’ll be Lottie wanting to remind me of something else I need to do, but instead I see Trent’s name blinking up at me.
“Checking up on me again, are you?” I tease when I pick up.
“Have you seen it?” Trent says, in lieu of an answer.
“Seen what?”
“Lyle Bailey died.”
“Oh, shit, you’re kidding.” Lyle Bailey, founder of Bailey Living, might have been one of our biggest competitors, but he was a titan of the industry and someone both Trent and I had looked to for inspiration when we were first starting Loft & Barn. “That’s crazy.”
Trent breathes out. “No — what’s crazy is that he apparently died a month ago.”
“What?”
“Yeah, apparently his daughter has been running the show ever since.”
I let out a low whistle. “That’s fucked up. I guess that’s why we’ve been seeing them pop up all over the place lately. We thought Lyle just had a new marketing strategist … but it turns out there’s a whole new Lyle.”
I can hear Trent humming thoughtfully on the other end of the line. “I think you’re right. By the looks of it, she’s got some business and marketing experience of her own. Ran some fashion company or something?”
Something pings in my chest at the word fashion. It makes me think of Bree — Bree with her handmade green dress. Bree with her red hair cascading down over her creamy white tits.
Bree with the personal driver. Bree with the urgent Saturday business meetings. Bree asking why I didn’t own anything from Bailey Living, and getting pissed when I made a joke about it.
I flip open my laptop so fast that I almost rip the screen off the hinge.
Trent is saying something but I’m too focused on loading the browser, typing in Bailey Living. The Post article comes up right away and I click on it.
Lyle’s photo is at the top, and for half a second I pause to feel bad for the old guy. But then I’m scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, until …
Fuck.
No.
Fuck.
It’s her. Bree with the red hair, the copper lips. She’s wearing a yellow blouse and a red skirt, and she’s leaning against an old cherrywood desk — a Bailey original, no doubt — with her arms crossed. It’s a typical new-CEO-breaks-mold kinda photo, shot from a low angle and meant to show off the towering power that now rests under her pretty little thumb.
But all I can think about what this means for me.
Bree Bailey, the girl who’s been haunting my dreams all week, has just become our number one competitor.
8
Bree
“Ms. Bailey, it’s such a pleasure to have you.”
I reach out to shake his hand, hoping that my handshake comes off as professional and firm. I’ve been practicing it all week.
“Please, call me Bree,” I tell him, and he smiles.
“Of course. Then you must call me Tomas.”
The man in front of me is younger than I expected — maybe late forties — with impossibly white teeth and eyebrows that have seen more rigorous grooming than mine. He wears a slim cut suit that shows off his lithe frame, and adorns it with a hot pink tie. I like him already.
“We’re so thrilled to have you,” he repeats, gesturing for me to sit. I’d expected to meet with him in his office, but instead we’re in a small boardroom to talk about the hospital foundation’s upcoming home lottery.
“Well, let me just say that Bailey Living is thrilled to be able to support such a great cause,” I say. It’s not even a line — the Trinity Central Hospital is a major cancer research hub and they have a particular focus on childhood cancers. Hard to imagine a more worthy charity than kids with cancer. “I think we can do something really special together.”
