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Well, at least he had manners.
She slid by, praying she’d remembered to put on deodorant that morning. She really couldn’t recall, but she could feel the anxiety seeping from her pores. Like literally.
“This way,” he said, his voice all rich and yummy, like a vanilla cupcake—a particular favorite of hers and one of the reasons her bottom was a little jigglier than it should be. He might be aloof, but his voice had a warm timbre, the kind made for reading bedtime stories. Maybe naughty bedtime stories.
She dashed the thought from her mind and followed him to a room labeled Boardroom B, where Mr. Malcolm Henry, Jr. stood holding something aloft. Below him sat an adorable red dachshund, balancing on his back legs with front paws waving in begging fashion. Mr. Henry tossed the dog something, which it caught neatly, then turned to them with a sparkle in his bright blue eyes. “Miss Gentry, my own sweet Spirit of Christmas. You made it.”
The older man looked much different than he had last night. The dapper navy suit with a whimsical red bow tie complemented his tanned skin, and the cordovan loafers had to be Italian—only because that’s what they always were on the wealthy men in the books she’d snuck from her mother’s bedside table.
“Good morning, Mr. Henry,” she said, moving close to the little dog looking up at the older man with expectant, beaded black eyes. “What a precious pup.”
She bent and held out a hand and the dog trotted to her, sniffed her hand, and allowed her to pet it.
“Her name is Izzy,” Mr. Henry said, bending down and bestowing a kiss on the animal’s head. “She’s a good girl, aren’t you?”
A full minute was spent in admiration of Izzy, who rolled over and gave them her belly to scratch.
“I love dogs,” Mary Paige said, dutifully scratching Izzy’s satiny chest. “I had a golden retriever growing up. Toby was the best dog ever. He’s buried under our pink dogwood because he always loved that tree best.”
“Ahem.” The sound came from above them.
Mary Paige stopped prattling and glanced at Brennan Henry.
He appeared disgusted. “Do you two mind?”
“Sorry,” she said, standing and tugging her skirt. Again. “Never could resist a sweet face.”
Brennan pulled a chair out from the table for her as his grandfather headed around to the armchair at one end. The dog loyally trotted after him, curling at his feet with an adorable doggy sigh.
“Brennan isn’t fond of dogs,” Mr. Henry said with a secret smile.
“Well, you wouldn’t be, either, if you’d been humiliated at your tenth birthday party by a clown’s dog.”
Mr. Henry laughed. “That dog went to town on your leg, didn’t he?”
Brennan glowered. “I don’t think we need to bring that up. This is a meeting.”
Mary Paige sat—glad the chair had armrests to cling to—and tried not to smile as she pulled hand sanitizer out of her purse. She squirted some in her hand, rubbing them together as Mr. Henry retold the story of his meeting Mary Paige, to which his grandson said a grand sum of…nothing.
Just as he’d finished talking about crazy stunt, the boardroom door opened and an older woman wearing an ivory suit entered. She carried several folders and a travel mug. “Apologies for being late. Don’s barking up my tree on these reports.”
The woman set her things opposite Mary Paige and held out a hand. “Hi, I’m Ellen Bivens, vice president of communications and community relations.”
Mary Paige shook her hand and introduced herself, glad to have another woman to break up the testosterone oozing from one end of the boardroom table. Ellen looked to be around fifty years in age with a long face and quick smile. Mary Paige liked her on sight.
Mr. Henry cracked his knuckles. “Okay, time to talk turkey. This young woman is exactly the kind of person we wanted for this campaign. We’re pulling out the stops for this—TV, radio, and print. Hell, we’re even using that social media everyone’s talking about. It’s time to bring goodness back to Christmas. Rip down the sparkly tinsel and self-serving commercialism. I want the world to know that Henry’s embraces the spirit of service as part of the season.”
Ellen nodded, flipping through a folder. “This campaign should work well. With so many other companies embracing ‘me,’ it’s a good strategy to focus on this season being a time of sharing with others, reveling in the spirit of community, a time—”
“For making lots of money,” Brennan added.
Mary Paige glared at the sexy grandson with his fingers tented in front of him.
What an ass.
“Excuse me,” Mary Paige said, scooting her chair back. “If this is only about making money, I’ll have to decline.”
Brennan cocked his head. “Decline?”
