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I felt stupid and immature. Naive. I knew plenty about media and interviews, yes, but I’d been so desperate to prove myself that I’d let myself believe I knew better than Thatcher about Chris’s intentions.
In hopes of not embarrassing myself further, I kept my mouth closed. We were supposed to attend a formal dinner event with other high-level executives attending the symposium, but I expected any minute to be politely excused from accompanying him.
It didn’t happen. When we boarded the bus, Thatcher finally spoke, though he still didn’t look at me. “Be dressed and ready at seven. January arranged a car to take us to dinner.”
I stared at his back as he disappeared into the back bedroom and closed the door.
“Problem?” McGee asked, appearing out of nowhere and scaring the shit out of me. I jumped and nearly fell back down the stairs and out the door of the bus.
“No, not at all,” I lied. “Why do you ask?”
McGee looked at me, at the closed bedroom door, and then at me again. “You’re acting weird.”
“You’re acting weird,” I said, confirming once and for all I was an immature brat who couldn’t professional his way out of a paper bag. “Have you considered wearing sunglasses? They really help with the crow’s feet.”
“Nope.” McGee’s lips quirked. “You’re not distracting me this time. What’s up with the weirdness?” He lifted a pierced eyebrow, which was way hotter than it should have been.
Once again, I wondered how much of this man Thatcher had seen up close. Had touched. Had tasted.
This was my punishment from the Universe.
I closed my eyes and took a breath.
“I fucked up,” I admitted, opening my eyes and rubbing a hand over my mouth.
This time, both of McGee’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Really? How?”
“I thought I could trust a reporter,” I said, making a flicking gesture with my fingers. “I told Thatcher to trust him. Stupid, right?”
He reached over and pushed a button that made the door close with a whooshing sound, blocking the frigid air from filling the bus. “Meh. We all do stupid shit, Reagan. Trusting someone you shouldn’t… well, maybe it means you’re the kind of guy who wants to see the best in people. That’s not a bad thing.”
I narrowed my eyes at this frank, fair, kind reply, but I couldn’t even come up with a snarky retort. I glanced back at the closed bedroom door and let my shoulders droop. “I let him down.”
He let out a laugh. “Join the club. But Thatcher’s not an asshole. He’ll get over it, and you won’t make the same mistake again.”
“Maybe,” I said glumly. But I was starting to think making the same mistakes over and over was my dubious superpower.
I moved further into the bus to shrug out of my coat before searching my luggage for a nicer pair of pants and a button-down shirt for dinner.
While I dressed in the tiny hallway bathroom, I couldn’t help but think of McGee’s claim that Thatcher would get over my misstep. Logically, I knew he was right. One uncomfortable interview wasn’t going to destroy Pennington Industries, especially since Thatcher had managed to stick to the script, even when Chris hadn’t. And Thatcher couldn’t have been surprised that he was right and I was wrong either. After all, who’d take business advice from Trent Wellbridge’s fuckup son?
But none of those truths made me feel better. In fact, they somehow made me feel even worse.
I glanced at myself in the mirror as I buttoned my shirt. Thankfully, I didn’t look quite as young as I felt, but at that moment, I was pretty sure I understood what my parents saw when they looked at me. A whole bunch of ego and no life experience. A whole bunch of ideas and no practicality. A pretty, decorative shell.
“From now on, stop talking and start listening, asshole,” I muttered to my reflection. I made a vow there and then to stop trying to be Thatcher’s peer and remember I was on this trip as a gopher-type underling. The CEO of a multibillion-dollar corporation didn’t want or need my opinions on how to run his business, and even if he had, my opinions were clearly wrong.
I swallowed my pride and stood up straight. Reagan Wellbridge wasn’t exactly a quiet wallflower. But tonight, I’d be the best damned wallflower Wichita fiber executives had ever seen.
Chapter Eight
Thatcher
If Reagan didn’t stop whatever the fuck he was doing, I was going to scream.
We’d been together in enough business social situations over the past couple of days to have fallen into a kind of comfortable routine. He might sometimes be temperamental in private, but in public, Reagan was pure charm, engaging every person we met, from swaggering executives to the most timid assistant’s assistant, with a warm, genuine interest. He was intelligent and well researched enough to tee up conversational opportunities for me to capitalize on and to subtly remind me of why each person we spoke to was important. And he seemed to do it all effortlessly.
He’d become my secret weapon at these events.
