She stares. “The way I…?”
“I’m promoting you,” I say. “Head of the training line. You’ll lead the design team on the NFL collection and the associated training wear. I want to hit both markets: athletes and fans. Wearable merch that isn’t just jerseys. Things people want to buy. You’ve shown you’re exceptional at that.”
For a second, I think she didn’t hear me. Then her mouth opens. “You’re…what?”
“Promoting you,” I repeat. “To head of the line.”
“I—I must have misheard you.” She shakes her head sharply, sending a damp curl flying. “I’m a junior designer. I’ve only been here?—”
“Four years,” I supply. “I’ve been looking over your file. In that time, your concepts have outperformed every other designer on your level. Half the best-selling pieces in the last two drops started on your sketchpad.”
Her cheeks flush again, but this time it’s not embarrassment. It’s something warmer, half bewildered, half proud. “Those were team efforts,” she protests weakly.
“I’m not discounting the team. But I’m also not going to pretend I don’t know where the success is coming from.” I tap one of the sketches. “This is you. I need that at the front of this thing, not buried in busywork.”
She presses her lips together, like she’s physically holding back an argument. “Why me?” she whispers. “You could’ve picked one of the senior designers. Someone who?—”
“Has more years on paper?” I finish for her. “Maybe. But they’re not doingthis. You are.” I nod at the spread of pages.
She looks at me like she’s trying to find the trick. “Is this real?” she mutters. “You’re not—this isn’t some kind of test?”
“I don’t test people with their careers,” I say. “It’s real. HR will give you the paperwork.”
Her hand flies to her mouth, fingers pressing against her lips like she’s holding something back. Her eyes water suddenly, and I feel a flicker of alarm.
“Hey,” I say. “If you don’t want it, we can?—”
“What? No. Yes. I mean—yes. I want it. I just—” Her voice cracks. “I really needed some good news.”
Something in my chest tightens. “Then I’m glad I could give you that,” I say quietly.
She swallows, nods too many times. “Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Sparkks. I won’t let you down. Promise. Oh mygod.”
“I don’t plan for you to.” I pause. “And in here, you can call me Grayson.”
Her brows knit. “What?”
“My name,” I say casually. “In this office, at least, use it. Elsewhere, I don’t care.”
“Oh.” She seems thrown by that, like I’ve asked her to solve an equation. “Right. Okay. Grayson. Thank you.”
My phone buzzes on the desk between us, the screen lighting up with a notification. I grab it and flick open my texts.
Ellie:
Hey, I’m so sorry to do this again but I’m not feeling well. I don’t think I can pick up Pen this afternoon. Or stay late tonight. :(
Another buzz.
Ellie:
Maybe all week. I think it’s the flu. I’ll let you know.
A string of tight, silent curses runs through my head. Of course.Of coursePen’s nanny would call out again on the day I need her the most.
I scrub a hand over my face, the beginnings of a tension headache pressing behind my eyes.
“Everything okay?” Carly asks cautiously.
