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Thatcher gave a clipped nod, as friendly as a block of wood. “Ready.”
Chris began with a series of getting-to-know-you questions that I imagined were designed to set people at ease, and they seemed to work. “What were the early days of Pennington Industries like?” he wanted to know. “What’s been your greatest achievement to date? Can you talk a little bit about your companies’ commitments to sustainability and fair employment practices?”
Little by little, Thatcher relaxed into the rhythm of the questions, and as he did, his charm emerged, like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. He was self-effacing and funny, intelligent and passionate, caring and genuine. He did know what he was doing, just as he’d said.
I’d never wanted to peer into someone’s head as badly as I did at that moment. What had been wrong with Thatcher before? Why was he okay now? Had he recognized my jealousy over the brunette woman? God. Was he upset that I’d pushed him to talk about it?
The idea was horrifying. My entire purpose for being at this interview was to make sure things went smoothly. Thatcher was trusting me to do that. Do your job, I told myself firmly. Obsess about Thatcher’s potential hookups on your own time.
I spied several rows of water bottles lined up on a table in the far corner of the room, so I sidled over as unobtrusively as possible and grabbed a couple, the way my father’s PR people often did when he was in an interview. Leaning across the table, I set one in front of Thatcher and the other in front of Chris.
“Hey, thanks.” Chris shot me an appreciative grin before cracking his bottle open.
Thatcher’s eyes met mine as he lifted his chin in acknowledgment.
I resumed my place at the wall, feeling much better about things… which, of course, was when the vibe in the room shifted in a decidedly unhelpful direction.
“So,” Chris began casually as he recapped his bottle. “Let’s get down to it. Where did Nova Davidson get the Elustre shirt, Mr. Pennington?”
The question wasn’t a surprise—the Nova situation was the reason Chris had agreed to do the interview, after all—but the change in his tone was. In an instant, he’d gone from amiable to insistent, and though Thatcher’s smile didn’t waver, his eyes cooled all the way to subarctic.
“That’s a great question, Chris,” Thatcher said. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer. I’m afraid you’d need to ask her.”
Chris sat back in his seat almost challengingly. “Her team isn’t responding to inquiries beyond the ‘no comment’ they put out after the arrest and claim she’s concentrating on recovering from her injuries. Are they trying to hide something?”
Thatcher’s expression turned appropriately serious. “I don’t have the answer to that either, although we at PennCo Fiber certainly wish her speedy healing from her injuries.”
“Did PennCo Fiber send Nova the shirt?”
A sliver of unease curled in my gut. I’d sat in on dozens and dozens of interviews like these with my father. Chris should have allowed Thatcher a few chances to say our prepared responses to the Nova situation and then moved on. He wasn’t supposed to be pressing the issue like a television attorney interrogating a hostile witness.
“Not to my knowledge,” Thatcher said. “As I said, I really think the appropriate person to ask would be the person wearing the shirt.”
Chris waited several beats, obviously hoping Thatcher would elaborate and say something useful. He didn’t.
“Is it possible someone at your company could have done it without your knowledge?”
What the hell was Chris asking? Of course that was possible. Thousands of people worked for Pennington Industries. Was it probable? Definitely not, unless someone was really trying to get fired.
Regardless, did Chris actually think Thatcher was going to confess to a conspiracy theory? Hell, even if he had something to confess, Thatcher wouldn’t be fooled into doing it here and now.
“I believed we were here to discuss PennCo Fiber’s innovative new product and commitment to sustainability.” A muscle ticked in Thatcher’s jaw. “Please let me know if you have any more questions related to those topics.”
“Was this part of a plan to seek social media attention for your ‘innovative new product’? Be honest, Thatcher: were you hoping that having a celebrity wear it would snag you some free media coverage?”
I felt heat creep up my neck as I recalled Thatcher’s words about Chris Acton.
He’s a vulture.
I’d promised Thatcher Chris was a good guy. Fair. That he’d be lobbing softball questions, not repeatedly hammering Thatcher on the same point as though hoping to catch him in a lie.
Thatcher took a slow, silent breath before responding calmly. “No comment. Shall I interpret this line of questioning to be your request to end our conversation?”
Chris hesitated. Thankfully, he changed the subject.
“What’s next on the horizon for PennCo Fiber? Any exciting announcements coming in the new year?” Chris asked. Maybe the easy question was meant as a peace offering, but if so, it was too late. Thatcher was no longer smiling.
He proceeded to explain the “exciting” renewable resource initiatives the company was investing in and implied there would be further announcements coming soon. I could tell by Chris’s reaction he was less than thrilled.
