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“The redhead with the bleeding nose?” I question him. “I was administering first aid.”
“Sure you were.” His arms cross his chest. “I appreciate that you threw me a birthday party. Next time try inviting a few people I know.”
I laugh that off. “You knew at least ninety percent of the people there.”
His left brow perks.
“You knew at least half of the people there,” I amend my estimate. “I can’t help if the people I invited spread that invitation around.”
“Speaking of invites.” He drops his gaze to the watch on his wrist. “I’m here to invite you to lunch. You name the place.”
I chuckle. “I get to choose? Who are you, and what the fuck did you do with Decky?”
“Not funny,” he says with a straight face. “It’s a limited-time offer, so get a move on.”
I round my desk en route to the door. Declan falls in step behind me to pat me in the center of the back. “I stopped in to check on Callie. She’s fitting in just fine.”
I glance at his face, trying to gauge whether his interest in her reaches beyond his position as her boss.
I come up empty.
“She’s confident she’ll have something substantial to offer for our next campaign,” I paraphrase what Calliope said to me.
“Good.” He shoves both hands in the front pocket of his pants. “We need to move in a new direction. That billboard in Times Square has to go.”
I laugh in response. “I’m the CEO, remember? I get last say on that.”
“I know.” He shakes his head. “That’s how we ended up here in the first place. Name another CEO who appears in their print campaign.”
I start rattling off the names of a couple of tech bigwigs and the well-known owner of a mobile phone company.
Declan stops me with a raise of a finger in the air. “All of them had a shirt and pants on in their campaigns.”
I smooth a hand over my chest and stomach. “None of them had all of this to work with.”
He barks out a laugh. “I’m putting a hell of a lot of faith in Callie. I need you and your dick off that billboard as soon as possible.”
Chapter Thirteen
Callie
“I’m sorry.”I lean closer to where Delora is sitting. “Can you repeat that?”
“I said that Mr. Wells is the star of our current campaign.”
I swear my brain is short-circuiting right now because I’m tempted to ask her to repeat that yet again.
“Not Mr. D,” she whispers. “It’s Mr. S. That’s Sean on the billboard in Times Square.”
I stare blankly at her in response.
“I shouldn’t admit this,” she lowers her voice yet again. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d make a move on him.”
I shake my head. “Are you telling me that Mr. Wells is the model?”
“Bingo!” She nods. “It’s unorthodox, but when we were searching for a model for the campaign, Sean kept telling me that my choices were shit.”
I cringe.
