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“Lipstick,” Jess said.
“You’re a sainted woman.”
I wiped the smear of pale pink from my chin, smoothed my rumpled blouse, and put my suit jacket back on. “How do I look?”
Jess beamed. “Coleman, Cross & Bensonhas a nice ring to it.”
She was right, it would be something to see my name on the letterhead…and on the front of the building, and on basically everything our agency touched. My stomach rolled and it wasn’t the hangover. It was all so very…permanent. The kind of move you can’t take back.
I heaved a breath and tugged my suit jacket down. “Okay, I’m going in.”
I strode across the offices and blushed to my newly touched-up roots as my coworkers rose to give me a standing ovation. The Nestle account meant millions, and they all knew it.
I smiled modestly, concealing all evidence of the thundering headache pounding behind my eyes, and stood before my favorite boss’s door. The other door readCynthia Crossand was closed. The agency’s second partner was in Manhattan locking up the establishment of a second office; my recent victory was sure to seal the deal.
I knocked on the door, then peeked in. “You decent?”
“Come in, Faith.”
Terrance Coleman was pacing behind his desk, rubbing his chin in thought. He resembled Idris Elba—sharp and handsome as hell in his gray Brioni suit and maroon tie. But his expression reminded me of my vice-principal at Roosevelt High—gravely serious and mildly disappointed to see me in front of him after whatever trouble I’d gotten myself into. Again.
“Everything okay?”
He gestured. “Sit. We need to talk.”
I sank into the plush seat across from the immense glass and chrome desk.
“What’s wrong, Terry? Why do you look like it’s someone’s funeral? Mine, specifically.”
Terrance pursed his lips. “Cynthia and I want to make you a partner.”
I held my breath.Here it is. Everything I wanted. Isn’t it…?
“But I might have to fire you instead.”
I gripped the back of the chair in front of his desk, the air going out of me. “Uh, wow, Terrance. That’s quite a spectrum to lay on a gal. I heard Nevinson signed.”
“He did. A multimillion-dollar, three-year contract for us to handle their online, print, and overseas marketing for the entire Pacific Northwest. We’ve been trying to land them for years. Thanks to you, we got them.”
“So clearly, I should befired.”
Terrance folded his hands on the desk, his gold wedding band glinting as brightly as his Patek Phillippe watch. “You’re brilliant, Faith.”
“Thank you—”
“But you’re too damn flaky. You’re charming and fun, and I enjoy working with you. We all do. But we can’t trust you.”
I blinked. “You can trust me to land multimillion-dollar accounts. Nestle is my third this year and it’s only April.”
“And imagine what you could be doing if you actually kept a normal schedule like everyone else? If you came in on time, stopped taking three-hour lunches, stopped showing up late for client meetings…” He leaned forward. “Imagine if you actually worked full-time like we’repayingyou to.”
“The American workweek is overrated. They’ve done studies…”
“They tell me you kept Stan Nevinson waiting for forty minutes. This isn’tMad Men,Faith.You’re not Don Draper. You can’t just come and go as you please.”
“Don Draper landed all the big accounts,” I protested weakly. “That’s what I do, Terrance. I’m your ringer.”
But out loud, the words sounded like the pathetic, sorry excuses they were. The yucky feeling I’d woken up with that morning in the bed of yet another stranger hadn’t gone away but had followed me into my office.
