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Layla continued talking as she made herself comfortable, taking the seat at the table that I usually claimed, and patted the bench beside her. “Come sit, Thatcher. We can make the most of the long trip by putting our heads together and discussing some tweaks to the Elustre summer launch strategy. I’ve received updates from Apex Athletics and Sierra Outfitters, and I think we should loop the folks at Zen Athletics in, too, since you had such a great meeting with them…”
Instead of taking the spot next to her, I slid into the booth next to Reagan. When he scooted over to make more room for me, I reached under the table to squeeze his leg in reassurance, and he gasped at the unexpected touch.
Layla frowned. “Problem, Reagan?”
“Er, no.” Reagan’s face went beet red, and he studiously avoided even glancing in my direction. “Not at all. Zen is an excellent fit for the brand. I’m excited to see them added to the list.”
“Good.” She turned back to me. “Now, Ron and Tanya had several ideas—oh, Reagan, make some notes while we’re talking, please.” She motioned toward his tablet. “Thatcher, I think you’ll be most excited about?—”
I tried to concentrate on Layla’s words—to give her the respect and attention she deserved—but it was difficult for several reasons. First, textiles weren’t my day-to-day business, which was why I left the bulk of the decisions for the PennCo subsidiary in Layla’s hands while I focused my energy on Pennington’s more critical holdings. And second… it was hard to care about anything she was saying when Reagan was sitting beside me, taking notes like Layla’s personal scribe and growing more tense with every passing second.
The realization of how much Reagan meant to me had been sneaking through my subconscious for days now, but this situation made it impossible to ignore. I cared more about him and his comfort than I did about closing the Zen deal and for damn sure more than hearing Layla’s marketing talk. In fact, I suspected I cared more about him than anything to do with Pennington Industries at the moment.
I had no idea how I’d let that happen. I also had no idea how the hell to get my priorities back in alignment… even if I wanted to.
That was a knot to be untangled later, though. When Reagan and I were back in New York, we could make an appointment to discuss our wants and needs and challenges, rationally and without distraction.
For now, I had more immediate problems to focus on.
A quick sideways glance showed Reagan’s jaw flexed while his thumbnail flicked at the cuticle on his fourth finger. I casually shifted in my seat and, while pretending to nod along with whatever Layla was saying, moved my leg over until it lay alongside his. Air silently whooshed out of his nose, but this time, he didn’t startle. In fact, little by little, his body settled, as if I was calming him by osmosis, which settled me, too. After a few moments, his flicking fingers moved down to rest on my leg, and I pretended to scratch my leg so I could give his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze.
Encouraged by what probably seemed like rapt attention from both of us, Layla pulled out her laptop to get my opinion on some marketing images.
“I like the red one. It’s bold.” I shrugged. “But I’m not a public relations expert. Reagan, thoughts?”
Reagan and Layla both seemed startled that I’d asked, which was so ridiculous as to be borderline annoying. Hadn’t he single-handedly resuscitated PennCo’s dying social media accounts with his twice-daily posts from our tour? How could he doubt that his opinion would be wanted and valued? And why did Layla not see what I did when I looked at Reagan—a person capable of so much more than note-taking?
“Well…” Reagan said slowly. “The red’s nice, but the green ties in nicely to the sustainability vibe I’ve been using in the social media posts I’ve drafted for the launch. Not sure if you’ve had a chance to take a look at those yet, Layla? If we go with that, I think it’ll set us apart for a lot of consumers?—”
“We’re not talking about social media right now. This is for print. Magazine ads, primarily.” Layla gathered her laptop toward her again. “I’ll tell Ron we like the red.”
“But why aren’t we talking about social media?” I asked. “Our accounts are getting more interaction after just a week of Reagan posting. Doesn’t that prove there’s an audience for this?” I nudged Reagan, who never failed to come to life when the words social media were mentioned. “Pull up the data?—”
Layla sighed. “Thatcher, I don’t need to be convinced. I…” She closed her laptop and spread her hands on top. “Look, the truth is, I’ve been working behind the scenes to put together my own social media campaigns around the Elustre launch. I didn’t want to share with you until things were perfect, and in our business, perfection requires coordination with our marketing partners… rather than going off willy-nilly and posting all sorts of random things for the world to see.” She darted Reagan a look. “We won’t have a clean slate to launch from now since some eager beavers were determined to have their way. But when it’s finished, Thatcher, I think you’ll be quite impressed at what a professional social media campaign looks like and the impact it will have.”
I stared at her—at the tidy auburn hair and bright smile of a woman I’d known and worked with for decades—and impressed was not at all what I felt.
“Let me be sure I understand,” I said slowly. “When you were specifically asked about social media in your meeting with Reagan weeks ago and in the leadership meeting last week and in our subsequent conversations about this, you said it was irrelevant in the textile industry. A waste of time. Now you’re saying that you’ve secretly been working on it all along and keeping us in the dark?”
“Not in the dark.” Layla blinked, genuinely confused by my outrage. “This is the way we’ve always worked. You let me handle PennCo my way—coordinate with my people, make my own timeline based on the needs of the organization—and I come to you with a finished product for your approval. Right? I admit I haven’t been entirely forthcoming, but I felt… well, cornered. Pushed to discuss the topic before I was ready to make an announcement.” Another look at Reagan. “But I assure you, that’s only because I have the company’s best interests in mind, and I wanted to make sure all my ducks were in a row before I brought my ideas to you.” She reached across the table and clasped my hand earnestly. “PennCo is my first and last priority,” she vowed. “Just like Pennington is for you. Nothing has changed.”
But things had changed for me, though I didn’t know how to quantify the change just yet.
I couldn’t blame Layla for sticking to the status quo and caring about PennCo, exactly as I’d encouraged and expected her to do all these years. And still, thinking of the effort Reagan had put into the campaigns he’d drafted, the pride and passion he’d displayed while doing work that Layla now seemed to imply was wasted effort—was enraging.
And this is why conflicted priorities don’t work, I reminded myself. Because what was good for PennCo and what was good for Reagan in this instance might not be the same thing.
“You created a campaign all on your own?” Reagan asked softly. His face was inscrutable.
Layla tilted her chin up. “Yes. I have been working with some of the graphic artists in Marketing to flesh things out, but I came to them with the concepts, as I’m sure they’ll verify.”
“No one doubts that, Layla,” I assured her.
“Of course not,” Reagan agreed. “But I’d love to see what you have so far. What a professional campaign looks like.”
The edge in his tone was clear to me but apparently not to Layla. She smiled slightly. “I told you, it’s not ready yet.”
Reagan held up his hands, the picture of innocence. “Of course, of course. I know it’s a rough draft. I wouldn’t expect perfection.”
