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Thatcher watched me, too, and though I couldn’t read his expression, I imagined him waiting for me to argue and whine like the entitled kid he’d probably heard about from my father. My confidence shrank like a deflated balloon.
Layla was wrong, but I was not going to tank my future prospects over this.
Not even if I was tired.
Not even if I was in the throes of a highly inappropriate reaction to my boss.
Not even if Layla’s hand lingering on Thatcher’s arm like it belonged there was driving me demented.
“Never mind,” I said shortly. I even made myself smile. “I can see you’ve already got the plan laid out.”
Fortunately, the meeting broke up a few minutes later. I escaped to my cubicle, where I sprawled in my chair, defeated.
So much for proving myself.
The moment I sat down, Nataly’s head popped over the wall. “Hey,” she whispered. “I just want you to know you’re on the right track. The rest of us agree with you about social media, and I think you’re doing an amazing job.”
Then why didn’t anyone say so? I wanted to ask.
“And you probably got some credit for suggesting a new take in front of Mr. Pennington,” she went on. “He was really focused on you when you were talking, and he looked intrigued… at least until Layla said no and you backed off. You’re too nice sometimes, you know?”
In a lifetime of criticisms, this was one I’d never heard… which only went to show how hard I’d been trying to turn over a new leaf.
I forced a smile. “You’re sweet. But if Mr. Pennington thought there was anything compelling in my idea, he’d have spoken up. He kept quiet… just like everyone else,” I couldn’t help adding. “How’s it possible the marketing team doesn’t believe in social media? Or the sales people? Am I that far off base here? Has PennCo tried it and failed? I don’t understand.”
Nataly sighed and tapped a chipped fingernail against the metal frame at the top of the cubicle. “You’re definitely not the first person who’s brought this up. Remember Terrance, the marketing guy who left right around the time you got here?”
“The one whose position never got filled, even though lots of other people would have loved to step up?”
“That’s him,” Nataly said, apparently not hearing the irony in my tone. “He told me on the down-low that Layla let him get as far as storyboarding a whole social media campaign before she thought better of it. He was really frustrated—felt like he’d wasted his time and effort, you know?”
“I totally know. That’s probably why he quit,” I muttered.
Nataly shrugged. “The thing is, Layla’s a great boss. You’ll see when you’ve been here a little longer. What she doesn’t know about textiles isn’t worth knowing. She’s been recruited by a bunch of bigger, flashier companies—Alena, her PA, told me that in confidence—but Layla says no every time because she’s loyal to us, so no wonder we’re all loyal to her, too, right? Like family, kinda. So if Layla says it’s our corporate policy to leave social media activity to fashion brands…” She shrugged again.
“I get that you like her. I like her, too.” Or I had, until the arm-squeezing incident, which I really needed to get over. “But this policy is really shortsighted, and we both know Layla will have to change her tune eventually. Social media’s not going away.”
“True.” Nataly’s fingernails clicked on the frame again. “Have you thought about putting together a presentation?—”
“To convince her? Already tried that. I pulled together a metric ton of data on the power of a social media marketing campaign and pitched it to her. I thought she was listening, maybe changing her mind, so I’ve been working on a new pitch with even more data, but now…”
Nataly nodded in understanding. “Even a great boss has blind spots. This is Layla’s.”
“I guess.” The wasted potential was staggering. “Anyway, I should probably get started ‘supporting the PR tour’ now. Whatever that means.”
“Just remember, no matter how bad that meeting was, you’re still having a better day than Nova Davidson. Or poor Mr. Pennington and Layla, going on a two-week road trip in winter.” She gave an exaggerated shudder before her head disappeared.
I pondered this for a second—spending way too long thinking about the and Layla part, if I were being honest—then stood to poke my head over the wall. “Hey, so what’s the deal with Thatcher not flying?”
Nataly glanced up. “You mean, why does he hate it? I dunno, officially. There are rumors he lost someone important in 9/11, but I figure it’s one of those phobias that doesn’t have a trigger, like chromatophobia. You know, fear of colors?” she explained when I looked at her blankly. She shrugged. “Anyway, what I do know for sure is that he has a driver named McGee, who is scrumptious. You’ve probably seen him around—tall guy, killer ink, looks like he could bench-press a super yacht, goes everywhere Mr. Pennington goes?”
I made a noncommittal noise. Not everywhere, I thought, remembering the hotel room last night.
But I did recall a guy like that arriving with Thatcher at my parents’ place. He’d looked more like a bodyguard than a driver, with tattoos crawling up his thick forearms to curve over his collarbone and a dangerous, I-could-maim-you-but-I-won’t vibe that would have turned my brain to mush if he hadn’t been standing directly next to the shining perfection of Thatcher. And now that I knew Thatcher wasn’t straight, I found myself wondering whether he thought McGee was scrumptious.
I rolled my eyes at myself. What are you doing, Reagan?
I sat down and opened my email in hopes there would already be enough work to distract me, and there was. Layla might have been shortsighted when it came to social media, but I had to grudgingly admit that she was good at her job and dedicated as fuck. She and her staff must’ve worked through the night in order to put a tentative itinerary together as quickly as they had.
