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“And we had to do the presentation in the dark.” Thatcher shook his head, remembering. “No projection screen, no nothing. And they wouldn’t postpone…”
“So you did an interpretive dance!” Laughing, Layla leaned over and grabbed Thatcher’s forearm. “While I held the flashlight.”
“Not quite,” Thatcher said dryly. His eyes flicked down the table toward me, then away. “I merely… gestured a bit to illustrate key points on the data tables?—”
“You sold it, Thatcher. Everyone at the meeting thought, ‘A guy like that is someone I want to partner with.’ And that’s exactly the energy that we need to deal with this PR crisis. Together, we can do a better job than either of us could alone. We’re a good team. Trust me.”
Thatcher sighed. “It’s not a question of trust but timing. Two weeks is…” He rubbed his thumb over his lips thoughtfully as if deciding how to finish that sentence, and now that I was looking at the man, I found I couldn’t look away. He seemed tired. A little unhappy, a little resigned, but mostly just full-on exhausted, like he hadn’t seen a bed since—the soft hotel mattress, the frantic slick-slick-slick as our sweaty bodies undulated together, the feel of his large hand wrapped oh-so-deliciously tight around my cock. The vision was so fucking powerful I sucked in a breath.
The sound wasn’t loud—no one else seemed to notice—but Thatcher’s penetrating gaze swung toward me like he alone had heard it. His gaze focused on my mouth for a fraction of a second, and then he turned away.
He cleared his throat. “You know, the more I think about it, two weeks sounds perfect.” He gave Layla a firm nod and managed a tired smile. “I trust your judgment.”
Layla’s answering smile was beyond relieved. More like thrilled. “I’d hope so,” she teased. “Considering I’ve been your friend and chief flashlight holder for… how long now?” The hand still resting on his arm squeezed the muscle there.
It was a simple gesture. Friendly. No one, including Thatcher, seemed to notice. But it sent a tidal wave of unwanted, unexpected jealousy washing through me, so forceful I had to slide my hands under my thighs against the urge to walk over, forcibly remove those squeezy fingers, and declare, “Mine!” in front of everyone.
Not mine, I told myself firmly. In no realm. Not even a little.
“For as long as anyone can remember.” Thatcher gave Layla a soft smile, then sobered. “It’s going to be a logistical nightmare, though, coordinating this kind of travel on short notice,” he warned. “Winter storms will make it even more complex?—”
“Leave that to me and my people.” Layla swept her free hand down the table. “We’ll have everything ready by the end of the day, and I’ve already cleared my schedule.”
“That’s not necessary,” Thatcher insisted. “You said it’s my presence that counts most and that you’re at a critical stage with the launch. With so much to coordinate, surely we shouldn’t both be out of the office?—”
“Nonsense.” Squeeze, squeeze. “Team effort, remember? I’ll be on hand to help write your speeches and make sure you’ve got a background on everyone you meet at the events so you can focus on doing your own work and handling your meetings remotely. Let me take care of everything else.”
“Okay.” Thatcher gave a firm nod.
“It might even be fun.” Layla shook him lightly. “Just like the good old days.”
Thatcher huffed out a laugh. “You might be overselling it a bit, but we’ll make it work. It won’t be the first time I’ve worked from the bus.”
The bus?
My confusion must have shown because Nataly leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Thatcher doesn’t fly. That’s his thing.” She shrugged. “He only travels a few times a year, and when he does, he travels in a tour bus like a rock star. Apparently, it’s super luxurious.”
Oh.
I chanced another glance at Thatcher, who was engrossed in a discussion of his itinerary with Layla. He didn’t fly? Since when? And why? How was I just learning this?
I’d always assumed the Penningtons had taken a helicopter to visit my family in Maine like most of my parents’ friends. Had Thatcher really been driving hours roundtrip to New York each time? Was it possible that someone as steadfast and calm and dominant as Thatcher was… scared? How many other details about him had I missed? And why did this only make him more fascinating?—?
I wrenched my gaze away and focused firmly on my tablet. Not fascinating. He was a jerk this morning, and we don’t waste our fascination on jerks.
Layla coughed again before continuing. “Alright, then, people. We’re going to need all of our sales, marketing, and communications folks to pull together and assist PR with this…”
As she droned on, I stifled a groan of frustration. Layla was strong on corporate-speak and weak on details. One thing I did note was the decided lack of any social media component to their “multipronged” strategy, which still seemed like a total oversight.
I hesitated but decided I couldn’t stay silent any longer. This time, instead of interrupting, I raised my hand like I was in elementary school and waited for Layla to acknowledge me, which didn’t happen until several people had already begun collecting their belongings and preparing to leave.
“Reagan?” she said at last.
“Who’s responsible for creating the social media response?” I asked. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to take the lead on that?—”
Layla inhaled as if gathering her patience. “Once again, Reagan, I appreciate your… enthusiasm. But as I believe we’ve discussed, the textile industry is old-school, and none of the major players are active on social media. That’s not where our partners will be expecting to hear from us, so putting our energy there would be unproductive.”
“I hear you, but athleisure-wear consumers are talking about Nova Davidson on social media, so I thought…” I glanced up and down the table, but every face seemed carefully blank. No one met my eyes. No one spoke.
