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Fuck, I wanted the man. I didn’t want to, and I shouldn’t, but I did, and I was tired of trying to convince myself I didn’t.
I tugged my hand back and opened my eyes. “I’m under control. Please explain.”
Thatcher nodded once. Palms flat on the table, brown eyes squarely focused on me, he said, “Layla implied you might have been motivated to provide that shirt to Nova specifically to create a situation where PennCo would need a social media campaign. Like a firefighter setting a fire.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know. And deep down, Layla probably knows, too. She backed down immediately when January pushed back. January thinks she was frustrated and reaching for any possible explanation. It’s understandable.”
Not to me, it wasn’t. “That doesn’t make it okay?—”
“Definitely not.” Thatcher’s eyes blazed. “Which January also told her during their conversation and which I just now reiterated to her by email in no uncertain terms.” He tilted his head at the phone he’d just set down.
“Oh.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Well… thank you. But I still don’t get why she’d say that. She knows I don’t have access to clothing samples, much less marketing assets like logos. She knows everyone at PennCo is loyal to her, and they’d hate me for going behind her back, even if they agreed with my idea. Why would she think I’d do something that unethical and unprofessional?—”
“Hang on,” Thatcher interrupted. “Back up. Why don’t you have access to the samples or the marketing assets? The logos are on the company intranet. Hell, they’re probably available to the public on the internet. Everyone in PR should have access to them.”
“I haven’t been there long enough, I guess? I don’t know.” He was missing the point. “For the last month, I’ve been as hardworking and professional as I know how. I’ve done every assignment I’ve been given without complaint, even busywork so mundane that one of those feral beavers in Lake Wellbridge could probably have done it. I’ve worked on research and presentations on my own time. I’ve spoken up when I thought I had a good idea and kept quiet—well, mostly—when it didn’t work out. I turned over a whole new leaf, Thatcher. I don’t know how else to prove myself at PennCo. I still can’t get anyone to trust me?—”
“I trust you.”
The thrill of those simple, direct words made my chest tingle, though I tried to will it away. “Well, sure. Because it’s, like, a requirement of your friendship with my dad?—”
Thatcher laughed, startlingly loud and deep. “Reagan, I like your father. I do. But not enough to risk my reputation to save yours, let alone risk the stability of my company by continuing to employ you if there was any chance you caused this incident. If I had even the smallest doubt, I would have asked you about it, but I don’t have to. Being sneaky isn’t your style. And furthermore?” he went on. “From everything you showed me earlier, if you ever did decide to go rogue, you’d have engineered something a hell of a lot more effective than this clusterfuck. It wasn’t you.”
His brown eyes caught mine and held, as though willing me to see that he had faith in me.
God, I wanted to believe it.
“I trust you, Reagan,” he repeated calmly, as though he still wasn’t sure I was getting the message, and damn if that didn’t cause another thrill to race through me.
I let out a breath. “Okay.”
“Good.” Thatcher sat back and added, almost as an afterthought, “You shouldn’t have to prove yourself to anyone.”
Was he serious?
“Thatcher, that’s… very kind,” I said carefully, “but it’s easy to say that when you’re the head of the company and you’ve already proven to the whole world that you’re a business genius. A little different when you’re trying to convince people you’re not a… a fuckup or a slacker.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “Living up to other people’s expectations is a losing game, Reagan. You need to live up to your own. And if that’s not good enough for the people around you, find new people,” he argued before I could interrupt. “Success is hollow unless you’re achieving something you want. And all those folks you thought you’d impressed will be the first ones to tear you down when things go south. You might not have paid attention to the media headlines after my second marriage ended?—”
“I remember,” I whispered. “Twice unlucky in love. Billionaire heartbreak.”
He snorted. “Right. All bullshit. The more successful you become, the fewer people you let matter to you, because suddenly the whole world expects you to do or be something for them. So, do well for you. Succeed for you. Other people will be impressed, or they won’t. Don’t let it touch you either way.”
I was caught in the spell of his words, the sincerity nearly glowing in his eyes. And suddenly, I wanted very badly to know… who mattered to Thatcher? Because the life he was describing, the life of a successful billionaire, sounded a little like being a princess trapped in a tower. It sounded lonely.
Fortunately, before I could open my mouth to say something horrifyingly revealing—or, Jesus, hug the man—Thatcher cleared his throat and looked away.
“Anyway. This will all blow over, and I’m sure Layla will apologize once she’s feeling better. You’re an asset to PennCo, Reagan. You’ve been an asset to me on this trip.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “I’m pretty damn pleased I let you stay the other day.”
I had to be tired or overwrought or something because there was no good reason why those words, that disarming grin, should feel as good as they did. No reason why they should be as much of a turn-on as his bossy voice or his broad shoulders.
Thatcher clapped his hands together once, startling me out of my drooling daze. “Alright. Now, let’s post some pictures to social media. Tell me how we do this.”
This, at least, was distracting enough to keep my focus where it needed to be. We spent the next couple of hours going through the photos I’d taken at today’s event and deciding what kind of posts to make on which platform. It was kind of fun getting to explain it all to him because I finally felt like there was a topic I was well versed on that the great Thatcher Pennington knew very little about.
But I realized while flipping through the photos that we’d made a critical mistake. “We need to put you in Elustre clothing for these photos from now on,” I said, specifically imagining him in a particular long-sleeved running half-zip that would accentuate the shoulders I couldn’t stop thinking about.
