by Stasia Black
I’m talking so vehemently my arms are involved. Crap. That only happens when I get passionate about a topic. I try to ramp it down a few levels. I take a quick breath and then finish. “Even if I don’t respect Bryce as a person, it’s a vision I can still find inspiring. Tell me, Mr. Vale,” my eyes flick up and lock onto his, “can you say that your commercial products have saved any lives this year?”
I’m prepared for another pithy comeback or for the sparring to continue, but there’s only silence. Again, Jackson just watches me. Like he’s taking my measure. It’s hard not to squirm under the microscope of his gaze. Did my little speech move him? Or is sweat smearing my makeup and he can’t believe what a hack Bryce sent to represent his company? I lock my jaw and stiffen my spine.
Finally, when the staring goes on for at least another ninety seconds—I know because I started counting—I raise an eyebrow in challenge.
Not that it seems to affect him. He just continues to stare for a few moments longer before finally speaking. “Accompany me as my plus one to the Red Cross Gala on Friday night.”
It’s more a statement than a question. And a what-the-fuck of a non-sequitur. We were just talking war and drones and saving lives, and now he’s inviting me to a party?
Not just that, but the way he phrased it, it sounded like he assumes I’m going to go. “Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? What if I’m busy?”
“You’re not.”
Well that definitely pisses me off. He apparently sees it on my face.
“You’re not the only one who did their homework before this meeting, Miss Cruise,” he cuts me off before I can go on the warpath. “Obviously I met your son when I accidently ran into you in the park the other day, so I know you have a child. A simple Facebook search told me you were single. You really should update your privacy settings on there, by the way.
“So, a single mother,” he shrugs, “maybe you do already have plans lined up for your Friday night,” he squints at me. “But with your new—and if I know Bryce,” his face darkens, “—very stressful job, I’m betting the last thing you want after a week of putting up with that asshole is to go out and put up with other assholes on the whole dating scene. No,” he shakes his head, still eyeing me. “I’m betting you’re more of a wine and bubble bath on a Friday night kind of woman. Maybe a good book?”
I glare at him. All right. It’s disturbing how well he’s guessed my Friday-night routine. Seriously. The books are only sometimes, though. And once I’m out of the bath, it’s more classic movies, like Gone with the Wind or anything with Jimmy Stewart, Spencer Tracey, or Katharine Hepburn.
I give him a little acidic sweetness with my smile. “Wrong on all counts. This Friday I have an evening full of plans to deep condition my hair and paint my toenails.”
He’s never once looked away from my eyes in the last nerve-wracking five minutes. He doesn’t now either as he does the half smile thing that’s charming as hell. “I consider care of one’s feet and footwear to be essential to the presentation of one’s person. Though I must say, I appreciate quirk as well as quality.” He holds out a hand and pulls me to my feet before I even realize what he’s doing. His eyes are still on mine as he says, “I was quite beguiled by your own choice in footwear today.”
I feel my eyes widen but I can’t think of even a stumbling excuse. It’s not like pulling out one of my pretty pumps at this point and saying, “No, wait, I was supposed to be wearing these sexy things!” is going to help my embarrassed blush. And damn him, he’s managed to get the upper hand on me, right here at the end of the meeting. That’s not supposed to be how this goes. He slips my laptop back into its case—shit, did he see the pumps at the top of my purse right beside the laptop case?—and his hand drops to the small of my back.
He walks me to the door and I’m moving with him. Wait, this can’t be the end of the meeting. We didn’t even come to terms—I have no idea where the proposal stands or if he even—
“My driver will be around to pick you up at 6 pm for the gala,” Jackson says smoothly when I’m at the threshold of his office. “And I hope it’s not too presumptuous, but I have a personal shopper who I haven’t used nearly enough this year. She works on commission, you understand. She’ll drop by on Thursday with several dress options as well as shoes.” There’s a definite twinkle in the bastard’s eye as he says this. And wait. What? A dress? Shoes? I never even agreed to go to the damn gala!
“Mr. Vale—” I start, but he smiles at me. Not those odd half smiles he’s been teasing with all morning either. No, this is a genuine full-teeth affair. And he has such white teeth. And that damn dimple. A dimple. In what world is that fair?
I’m, well, dazzled for a moment. And then the door closes.
I just stand there. As I head back down the hall, I can only shake my head, still a bit dazed by that entire interaction and its outcome. What I do know is that I haven’t convinced him to collaborate with Gentry Tech yet. I have to salvage the deal somehow and that boils down to the only option left to me.
I guess I’m going to a fucking gala.
Nine
I don’t pull any punches when I report back to Bryce about my meeting with Jackson. There’s no point in softening the fact that Jackson didn’t make any concessions or sound very open to collaboration. I take Bryce through every step of how the meeting went and his jaw grows more and more tight. But then, as soon as I tell him that Jackson invited me to the Red Cross Gala, his entire posture relaxes.
“Good,” he says. “You can use that opportunity to get closer to him. I’m sure between your persuasive skills and my innovative designs, we’ll sway him to our position in time. Today was only an opening salvo.”
“I did want to talk to you about that,” I hesitantly start. “Mr. Vale seemed…” I cast around for a diplomatic word, “less than thrilled that our presentation included only the external modeling. Perhaps if we could present some of the internal algorithms, he might be persuaded more quickly —”
Bryce makes a derisive face and waves a hand dismissively. “I’m not giving away industry secrets unless he’s willing to commit.”
“But how can he commit unless he knows something of what you’re bringing to the table?” I ask, a little of my exasperation coming through.
Bryce’s sharp glare makes me wish I’d bit my tongue.
“Don’t forget your pay grade, Miss Cruise. Only a novice would think that showing their hand at this stage in the game was a wise move. In poker, do you give your opponent a glimpse of your Ace?”
This time, I do physically bite my tongue. This isn’t fucking poker. He’s trying to get Jackson to collaborate with him. Collaborate. As in, incentivize him to cooperate. Not outgun him at a freaking duel or, to use his stupid metaphor, win at a poker game. Still, I swallow down my real thoughts and shake my head no.
Bryce smirks at me. “No. You don’t. Why don’t you go back to clearing up my backloaded correspondence? You know, your job. At least until you’re needed on Friday. Then you can do your other job. Be arm candy.”
He looks down at his computer. I’m already dismissed from his presence even while I still stand there.
I turn and walk to my office. I wish I could say I’m fuming the whole way. But Bryce’s words are stuck in my head. Arm candy.
Old, veined hands groping me. Pretty girl. I could just eat you up.
I cringe and startle at the sudden memory. I press my hands to my face when I sit down at my desk. Pull it together, Cals. I take my hands from my face, careful not to muss my makeup, then force them to my desk. I will not go to the restroom and wash them over and over until the skin is rubbed pink. I won’t give into the old compulsions that took over every time I thought about that old dirty bastard.
I count to ten, breathe out, and open my email to get back to work.
On Friday I’m taking notes at a teleconference with Gentry Tech’s Japanese manufacturing partner. Bryce’s been having similar conferences with various com
panies all week. I wonder if these are the very contacts Bryce is dangling in front of Jackson. And why can’t Jackson just contact them directly? Bryce did keep saying ‘exclusive contracts’ in that first meeting with Jackson. Maybe that means Gentry Tech has them hired out only to work for them and no one else for a contracted period of years?
“Miss Cruise,” Bryce’s voice jolts me. “Repeat back the specifications we’ve agreed upon so far.”
Shit. I sit up in my chair nervously and scroll through the notes on my laptop. My improvised shorthand is all but second nature after six weeks and my fingers have been flying furiously for the last forty-five minutes. Well, except for those few moments when my mind was wandering thinking about Jackson.
I take a quick second to adjust my Bluetooth earpiece and then get talking. “The motor should be made of carbon fiber with fiberglass central and mounting plates.” I continue paging up on my laptop. “To deal with high temperatures, the surrounding case should have a finned heatsink design to self-ventilate, able to withstand temperatures up to 240 degrees Celsius. The entire motor should weigh no more than 160 grams, 200 with copper wiring in place. The voltage range should be 16.8 to 34.” I continue rattling off statistics from my notes for another five minutes.
When I finish, there’s silence on the other end. Mr. Kuramoto finally responds, “I thought we agreed on 12 kHz for the ESC PWM Rate. That’s generally accepted as standard.”
Bryce rolls his eyes, but his voice is calm and professional as he responds, “With the specs of this motor, it should easily push to 16 kHz, maybe even 20. I’d like to set that as our goal.”
There’s a murmur of assent on the other end of the line. “Yes. I like the idea that our motor will set the new standard.”
“Exactly. Gentry Tech and KDI Industries should be the names that come to mind when people think of the future of robotics, don’t you agree?”
“Very true, sir.”
“Excellent. I look forward to touring your factories and getting to speak more one-on-one when I visit in two weeks.”
“Yes. We will have some initial drawings of what we have discussed today and you can talk with our engineers.”
Bryce and Mr. Kuramoto finish with some more closing pleasantries and then Bryce closes the teleconference. I breathe out in relief as I take out my earpiece. We’ve had several of these teleconferences with different manufacturers this week and each one has made me nervous that I’ll miss out on recording some important detail.
I should have known he’d put me on the spot today. All week, Bryce’s been occasionally tossing me a question out of nowhere, so I always have to be on point. It’s been terrifying, but if I’m honest, also totally thrilling. A few months ago, I could only dream of being involved with work like this, even if just in this peripheral support position.
Bryce leans back in his chair and smiles at me. It appears genuine, not calculating in any way. “You’ve done a wonderful job this week on these calls, Callie. Not just coordinating their set up and getting everyone connected at the right time. You’re fielding every query I’ve tossed your way. Don’t think I haven’t been noticing.” He nods as if to himself. “You’re really proving yourself here.”
I feel a ridiculous blush at the praise and stand up, laptop clutched to my chest. “Thank you,” I murmur as I turn away. “I’ll have the notes from the meeting typed up and to you within the hour.”
And then I get the hell out of there, forcing myself not to look back at Bryce. When I get into my office, the window between Bryce’s room and mine stays frosted, just like it’s been all week. I finally let myself look back in the direction of his office, even though I can’t see through the opaque glass.
But seriously. What the hell?
It’s like some other boss has body-snatched the Bryce I’d known for the first few weeks I worked here. Again, it feels like the good twin has taken up residence. I dub him Mr. Respectful. As opposed to Mr. Asshole.
Today isn’t the first time he’s complimented my work. He’s been at it after every teleconference and even after the weekly internal head of departments meeting.
Just my work. Not accompanied by any lewd remarks about my body or person. I shake my head. No requests to work topless. Nothing. He must really want this deal with Jackson to go through. As if I didn’t already feel enough pressure not to fuck up tonight. I don’t know how much shop talk Bryce really expects I can accomplish at a social outing. I rub my temples and then get back to work typing up the notes from the meeting with Mr. Kuramoto.
After I send Bryce the meeting notes, he emails back with a one-liner saying I should go home early so I have extra time to get ready for my event. So I take off at four o’clock, unsure if I’m grateful or not for the extra time without the distraction of work to obsess about the night ahead.
I get home a little bit faster than I normally do since it’s not yet rush hour. There are actually seats available on the light rail too, something that’s never true at five when I usually get on. Since it’s a little earlier in the day, I don’t feel quite as exhausted. Not to mention, in spite of myself, some really stupid little girl Disney Princess part of me that I thought long dead and buried got all excited last night when the three dresses were delivered.
Disney’s screwed us all. That’s all I’m saying.
Long flowy dresses? A gala? Apparently that sounds close enough to a ball to my inner eight-year-old princess’s ears.
And the dresses. Let me tell you. That personal shopper that Jackson was talking about? Yeah. She deserves her commission for the year and then some. How am I supposed to choose just one?
I tried on each one and Shannon took pictures. For once, we actually got along. I thought she would give me shit about a bunch of super fancy dresses being delivered—it reeked too much of my beauty pageant days, which had always been a sore subject between us. But when I explained it was for a work function, to my surprise she asked if I wanted help looking through them and choosing what to wear. After our blowup the other night, I’d noticed her making small moves toward reconciliation and maybe this was another one. I wasn’t going to hold a grudge.
I agreed and we unzipped each of the three garment bags, assessing each like we were guest judges on Project Runway.
“Well,” Shannon said, eyeing each of the three dresses critically. “They’re all pretty and even have good hanger appeal, but you really need to try them on before we can make any real decisions.”
I grinned. I hadn’t enjoyed dressing up in a very long time. Being poked and prodded and pinned into pageant gowns for a significant portion of my adolescence had killed it for me, but seeing Shannon’s enthusiasm made it feel fresh. Enough to even forget that this was supposed to be a working event. I clapped my hands like a little kid.
She rolled her eyes at me, but for once it was a good-natured gesture. “Just get your butt in the blue dress.” She held a strapless blue bandage dress that looked like it would hit just below the knees. “I’ll go get my camera.”
I tried on each dress in turn and Shannon took pictures. Though, saying she took pictures is an understatement. She got all into it like she was a budding fashion photographer or something. Actually, thinking about it, didn’t she minor in photography in college? I remember thinking it was so strange because it was like, artistic, and that was always the last word I would’ve associated with my dreary, studious sister.
Anyway, she was really into the photoshoot. She had one of those cameras with the giant lenses and everything. It was pretty hilarious, but I didn’t dare laugh. Shannon actually seemed like she was having fun.
My sister.
Fun.
Yeah, it took a while to compute for me too.
“The lighting is better over here by this lamp,” she said, after I changed into a shimmery gold dress. She all but dragged me by the wrist over to a standing lamp near our front curtains. “It has a yellow bulb and the ambient light will really make the gold color pop.”
> She nodded as I positioned myself in front of the curtain. The dress had a sweetheart neckline with a peplum detail at the waist before dropping dramatically to the floor.
“Mmm, yes,” she murmured, “that’s much better.”
She brought her camera up to her eye and adjusted the big lens on the front several times before clicking away. “Drop your chin. No,” she shook her head after I moved my head, “not that much.” I re-adjusted. “Better. No, now I can see up your nose. Down some. There. Now don’t move.”
I barely stopped myself from shaking my head. No wonder Shannon loved this. It was the perfect excuse to order me around.
Finally we finished with the gold one. Then there was the last dress. The red one.
No, red was the wrong word. The dress was magenta, a deep, rich magenta. Made from an expensive chiffon, the neckline swept down in a V that showed just a hint of cleavage but still kept it classy. The rest of the bodice was fitted, and it kept its shape over the hips but then it flared—or no, again that was the wrong word—the material floated as it brushed the ground.
I spun in a circle and the material swirled in a cloud of flowing fabric around me. Shannon’s camera was click, click, clicking away on some super-fast shutter speed.
I looked up at her and our eyes met across the small expanse of our living room.
“This is the one,” I said at exactly the same time as she said, “that’s the one.”
We both laughed and I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a moment like this between us. I walked over to her, lifting the hem of the dress as I went so I didn’t step on it.
Shannon was busy looking at the screen on her camera, clicking to look through the pictures. I lifted a hand to the camera and lowered it.
“What happened to us, Shannon?”
Her eyes briefly flipped up to mine, but then she lowered them again. She lifted the camera and went back to clicking through the pictures. I could see flashes of red and then gold as she ticked through the pictures way too fast to really be seeing anything.
