“Posters for sure,” Mallory answered. “And maybe some miniature circulars we can hand out or toss around on tables in the student center.”
“On it,” Hunter said, already dropping and dragging things across her screen at record speed.
Samantha studied a small ledger. “We have roughly fourteen hundred dollars from last year’s fund-raiser available, which comes out to about a hundred and fifty per showing.”
“We can get by on that,” Mallory said.
Brooklyn had another idea and hoped she wasn’t overstepping her bounds. “What if we had some sort of fund-raiser at the events themselves? Maybe a raffle of some sort? Movie posters, DVDs, scripts, or props. Whatever we can get our hands on in advance. We could bundle them.”
Mallory sat back in her chair and smiled. “Geez, Brooklyn. You’re kind of full of great ideas.”
She couldn’t have hid the smile that comment inspired if she’d tried. “I am?”
“You kind of are,” Hunter echoed as she typed.
Samantha held up a hand. “Has anyone else noticed that the barista has yet to take her eyes off Hunter?”
“I think she hearts you,” Mallory said.
Hunter shrugged and flashed a killer smile, dimple and all. “It happens.”
Brooklyn laughed.
They went back to work snowballing one concept into another until they felt confident they were heading in an exciting direction. But outside of the symbiotic way they worked together, Brooklyn noticed they also had a lot of fun doing it. She hadn’t relaxed around a group of friends in, well, ever.
It was past eleven by the time they finished. They packed their stuff and walked out together. As they spilled onto the sidewalk, Samantha turned to them. “I’m starving. You guys want to chill out over some waffles? They have chocolate ones over at the Cornelia Street Cafe.”
Brooklyn inclined her head. “I’m sorry. Did you just say chocolate waffles?”
Samantha nodded. “I did say that. Chocolate waffles. Said it again.”
“Chocolate waffles could be intriguing.”
“Understatement,” Hunter said. “They’re amazing. Let’s go. You’re buying.”
Mallory shrugged. “Um…I have kind of an early morning class tomorrow and an incredibly long to-do list before then.”
Samantha nudged her shoulder. “Chocolate waffles, crazy. Chocolate waffles.”
Mallory nodded decisively. “Right. Sold.”
As they walked, chatting away, Brooklyn smiled to herself, because even though she couldn’t put her finger on it, this felt like the beginning of something important.
Chapter One
Ten Years Later
“License and insurance, please.”
Brooklyn sighed at the familiar police officer peering into her window. “Seriously, Paul? You know who I am. You know I’m incredibly sorry. You know I’ll never do it again.” She offered him her most pitiful face because it’d always worked in the past.
He dropped the pad. “Not true. I don’t know that. You cut me off at the intersection while doing forty-seven in a thirty just now. Tourists were racing for the curb as you rounded the corner. Foam cutouts of the Statue of Liberty fell to the street. You’re a menace to the city and I’m giving you a ticket this time. New York City will thank me.”
“Fine, but make it fast. I have to get back to work.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’re a peach, Paul.”
She shook her head in annoyance. There went her record. Six warnings in a row, and now Officer Uptight had gone and blown her streak. If the rest of the city would learn to drive, she wouldn’t have to break the traffic laws to circumvent them all.
This was so not her fault.
When Brooklyn rolled into the Soho Savvy office, she already had a black cloud over her head. The office was her safe haven, however, and one of her favorite spots on the planet. When she’d gone into business with her three best friends seven years prior, they’d chosen the sixth-floor loft in Soho for its wide-open space and fourteen-foot ceilings, which were perfectly conducive to collaboration. A must for an advertising agency. Plus, something about it just felt creative, and you shouldn’t ignore those kinds of signs.
They’d put down a sizable deposit immediately. Without Mallory’s inheritance, which was substantial when you came from a family like hers, they never could have afforded this piece of prime real estate, which they’d continue to pay on for years to come. Soho was trendy and that meant expensive.
But the loft was theirs. All nine hundred and eighty-five square feet of exposed brick and beautifully stained concrete floors. Several large pipes ran parallel to the ceiling, giving the place an industrial vibe that worked. They’d outfitted it with no-fuss contemporary furniture, opting for the minimalist approach.
Rather than partitioning off the space into four separate offices, they’d arranged their desks into distinct working spaces but kept the room entirely open. This made it easy enough to work independently but convenient enough to cross-talk whenever they needed collaboration. And they collaborated a lot. To the far left of the metal sliding door stood a conference table for meetings that backed up to an open kitchen, complete with granite countertops and stainless-steel lighting fixtures.
And what was better, it was only five floors below her own loft that she shared with Samantha.
She stood in the center of the room and regarded her friends.
“Cheer me up immediately or I may not make it.”
Mallory looked up from her desk in the center of the room. “Well, that’s super-dramatic, but okay.”
“Completely called for.” She held up the speeding ticket and fell backward onto what they called the comfy-couch for fun, because it was really anything but.
“Ohhh, they finally got you,” Sam said from the kitchen where she poured a cup of coffee. “Busted. Have you finally learned your bad-motorist lesson?”
“No,” Brooklyn answered meekly. Then she sat up. “Wait. What’s the lesson again?”
“That you’re a horrible driver and should stick to the subway at all costs. We live in New York City, Brooks. This isn’t rocket science. They invented mass transit for a reason.”
“But I love my little Bug. It’s so cute.”
Samantha sat down next to her and regarded Brooklyn seriously. “You know what’s not so cute? Traffic jail. I’m not thinking orange is your color.”
“No, it’s not,” she answered solemnly. “Would rather steer clear of traffic jail. If that’s even a thing.”
“Then listen to reason. Sip?” She offered Brooklyn her cup, which she wholeheartedly drank from before handing it back.
“Thank you. That helped.”
“I know. Caffeine tends to make the world better.” And Sam was off to her desk as Brooklyn studied her thoughtfully.
“Hmm. You’re wearing your numbers glasses and your hair’s in the serious ponytail. The serious ponytail matters. What gives?”
Mallory swiveled in her chair. “She’s finalizing the budget for the Foster Foods pitch. We’re not supposed to bother her until she’s done.”
“Sorry,” Brooklyn whispered.
“It’s okay,” Samantha whispered back. “But I’m going into my numbers tunnel now.” And with that she popped on her headphones.
“Any luck with the endorsement deal?” Mallory asked.
“That’s the good news I was waiting to spring on you. Jimmy St. Romaine is in, and we didn’t even have to counter. He accepted our first offer.”
Mallory beamed and clapped her hands once in victory. “You’re awesome, Brooklyn. This could make all the difference in the pitch.”
“Wait, isn’t he a football-coach guy?” Samantha asked, pulling one headphone out.
“He’s the football coach guy, Samantha. Wait, you’re in the tunnel.”
“I’m out of the tunnel. Catch me up.”
“Jimmy St. Romaine is like the king of football-coach
guys, and he’s agreed to shoot a commercial for Foster’s new maple-flavored bacon. Well, provided we land the account he is. But he’s now officially a part of our pitch. We can safely sell him to Foster. A done deal.”
It was a major score for them.
In less than a week, they’d be pitching their ideas to Royce Foster and the Foster executives. If they impressed them enough, the Foster account would be theirs. Huzzah! And that would mean a ton of business, a major coup for a boutique agency. As in pop-the-champagne-and-hire-more-staff caliber.
It was the big break they’d been waiting for, and as a consequence, they’d all been working major overtime to make sure the account would go to them.
Mallory checked her to-do list, something Mallory often did. “So as soon as Hunter’s back from the printer, you two should sit down so she can storyboard your fleshed-out concept. Meanwhile, I’ll get the slides for the presentation ready while Samantha—”
“Makes this budget her bitch,” Sam added, a playful gleam in her eye.
Mallory nodded. “Right. What she said.”
It was a testament to why the company ran so smoothly and was slowly moving into the who’s who of ad agencies. They all four had their own strengths and specific roles within the business. Mallory ran everything, organized everyone, and was the face of the company. Brooklyn was the idea girl and handled most of the creative. Samantha was in charge of the finances and anything that had to do with numbers or money. And Hunter handled all the art and graphic design. They hired assistants on a job-to-job basis but for the most part had it covered.
Yes, Soho Savvy was a small firm, but they offered a hands-on approach that the bigger companies just couldn’t.
It was four-way chemistry at its finest.
The loft’s sliding door opened and Hunter eased in. Her hair was in a French braid, and she wore an open plaid shirt, lip gloss, and motorcycle boots. She was a walking contradiction in a way that only she could pull off. “Printer didn’t have our order ready. He said another two hours tops. Fruitless trip.”
Brooklyn turned. “Unless you stopped at the deli on the corner to chat up the counter girl. Fifty bucks says you did.”
“Fruitless might have been too strong a word,” she said reflectively, a gleam in her eye.
“Wanna play storyboard with me instead?” Brooklyn asked.
“Desperately. Let me get my laptop.”
Brooklyn settled in with Hunter at the table and went to work. Over the next forty-five minutes, they constructed the beginning stages of the storyboard for the promo spot. Just as they were finalizing a color scheme, her phone buzzed in her back pocket. Annoying. She checked the readout but the number was unfamiliar.
“This is Brooklyn,” she said absently, trying to stay in the zone.
“Brooklyn Campbell?” the woman’s voice asked. Official sounding. She hoped it wasn’t traffic jail calling. She pointed at the second option Hunter had on the screen and nodded to her, trying to do two things at once.
“Yeah. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling from the Reunion Registry of New York. Several years back, you placed your information in our registry in the hopes of reuniting with your birth mother. Is that correct?”
Whoa. What was this? She played back the sentence. An unfamiliar tension entered her body and her heart rate skipped. Somehow, she found her voice. “Right. When I turned eighteen.”
“This is a courtesy call to let you know we’ve received a hit. Your birth mother is seeking contact.”
The world tilted and Brooklyn had to blink several times to let the words sink in. A chill shot through her. She’d signed up with the registry on a whim but never really thought anything would come of it.
“Yes, sorry.” Hunter placed her hand on top of Brooklyn’s knee and looked at her questioningly. Brooklyn waved her off as if to say “no big deal.” Only it was. It was the biggest deal. “Okay. So what happens now?”
“I’ve been authorized to provide you with her name and phone number, if you’d be interested, that is.”
It was the million-dollar question. Was she interested? This was the woman who had given her up on the day she was born, who hadn’t wanted her, who’d set her on a course to a very difficult childhood.
But it was her mother. And she’d never had one of those.
Back when she’d added herself to the reunion registry, she’d felt like she had no one in her life. She’d just turned eighteen and was old enough to move out from under the care of the state. It had been a time when reaching out to her birth mother seemed like a possible next step, like she was taking control of her life. So much had changed since then.
But she had to admit, she was curious.
“I’m interested,” she blurted. On a purple Post-it, she neatly wrote the name, Cynthia Mathis, followed by a phone number. She stared at the name and ran it through her mind several times. Cynthia Mathis. Cynthia Mathis. Cynthia Mathis. It felt strange to actually know her mother’s name. It was as if she didn’t comprehend how to process the information. She carefully folded the Post-it in fourths and placed it delicately in her pocket.
“Who was that?” Hunter asked once she’d clicked off.
“Oh, um, a referral for a stylist. I’m looking for someone new to cut my hair.” A lie. And it felt horrible.
“Oh, keep the layers though. They’re sassy, like you. And you need to stay blond, whatever you do.”
“Opinionated. I’ll keep that in mind.”
So she’d sidestepped the truth. It wasn’t like her at all. Brooklyn trusted her friends with everything, right down to the smallest details of her life, her innermost secrets. Well, most of them. Yet somehow, this was different. She wasn’t ready to share the specifics of the phone call with anyone quite yet.
However, no matter how hard she tried to push it to the side and finish her day, it wouldn’t stop tugging at her. Her mother’s name. Cynthia Mathis. The purple Post-it burned from within her pocket.
She did everything in her power to focus on the storyboard in front of them, but her mind was no longer working. After twenty minutes of vamping, which only earned her several curious though patient stares from Hunter, she had to get out of there. Take a break and clear her head.
“Hey, I could use some air. How about I pick up the print order for you?”
Hunter sat back in her chair. “Really? That’d be awesome. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Mallory eyed her suspiciously from across the room. “Brooklyn is volunteering to run errands. Is the world ending? Has anyone checked the sky recently?”
“It just so happens that I’m just an incredibly helpful person,” she shot back with a smile. “I mean, look at me.”
“Could be that,” Samantha said in contemplation. “But probably Mallory’s thing.”
Brooklyn offered her most impressive eye roll. “Then enjoy it while you can, you guys. I’m off.”
Once she was alone, the full brunt of the afternoon hit her. To be honest, it was a day she never thought would come; yet here it was.
She gripped her steering wheel harder than usual to stop her hands from shaking. She wasn’t getting the kind of air she should either, which had her reaching instinctively for her inhaler and taking a couple of hits. It’d been months since her asthma had acted up, but stress was a trigger.
What helped, though, was the drive.
Despite it all, she was able to zip from Soho to Greenwich Village with excellent precision, if she did say so herself, delayed only by end-of-the-day work traffic and lumbering tour buses.
She found something gratifying about fighting the traffic and winning.
The sun was low in the sky and just about to dip below the tall buildings of NYC as she pulled her car into the snug space along the curb in front of the printer. The line inside was longer than you would have imagined for a print shop, but she waited patiently to retrieve the magazine mock-ups for the Newhouse Bottled Water campaign.
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All the while, her mind raced.
When she finally received their order, she headed back out onto the street, darkness now in full effect, only to find a tow truck driving off with, dear God in heaven, her car attached to the back! No, no, no. She’d seen the NO PARKING sign and should have paid attention to it, but she thought she’d be back quick enough. Damn that line. Damn the printer.
“Wait!” she yelled as the tow truck turned the corner. But it didn’t.
She started to run.
It was possible she could catch him if the light changed to red. Pedestrians grumbled at her as she pushed past them. But she wasn’t deterred. She rounded the corner, gaining ground just in time to hear the snap from the heel on her left shoe, which, horror of horrors, was her favorite pair. The ones she received all the compliments on. And now the left one was heel-less. Maimed. Needless to say her progress was now stunted. She limped along helplessly and watched the tow truck drive off into the night. With her car.
Damn it all to hell.
This was a day for the record books. Seriously.
She hobbled back to the print shop and contemplated her next move. She could call Mallory to come pick her up, but how embarrassing would that be? Especially after they’d just ribbed her for the speeding ticket. Better she just limp her way to the subway.
But look at that. Across the street, a fluorescent sign for what looked to be a little wine bistro caught her attention. Puzzles, the place was called, and it looked quaint.
Plan B was in order. Because a drink to calm her nerves would be killer right now.
Chapter Two
Jessica Lennox didn’t frequent bars. But this place was one step up from that. She’d passed the small establishment nearly everyday on her way home from her office on the Upper West Side but until today had never set foot inside.
She didn’t know why, but she was in the mood for a change of pace. Her day-to-day could use a little spicing up, and why not try out the little place on the corner? Unwind from the stresses of her week.
Kiss the Girl Page 2
