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"Good morning, Mr. Jenkins," Hugh says in a bright tone that doesn't match his tense expression. He listens and nods, making the appropriate noises, but he looks more anxious with every passing second. Finally, he bows his head. "Yes, I understand. It's not your fault. I appreciate that you informed me personally, and I'm grateful our companies had such a long and fruitful partnership."
Hugh hangs up. Then he slumps in his chair and shuts his eyes, letting out a long sigh that deflates him even more.
"I take it that didn't go well."
"No." He picks up a pen and twirls it around his finger, then he flings it across the room. "We've lost Jenkins Foods."
"I'm so sorry, Hugh. But you have two other distributors, right?"
"Yes." He leans forward to rest his arms on the desk and stares down at the surface. "One company distributes our products on the Scottish mainland. The other handles the islands."
"Sounds like that won't sustain Sommerleigh Sweets."
"No. We will suffer a slow and painful death."
Can we really do nothing else to save the company? There must be another way. We need to try anything and everything to stop the Duke of Wackenbourne from hammering the last nail into the coffin of Sommerleigh Sweets.
Hugh straightens and adjusts his tie. "I need to write a statement that I will deliver to our employees in person. We'll hold a company-wide staff meeting on the production floor as soon as we can get everyone here."
"That's a good idea, but don't focus on the negative news. Let your people know you're fighting for them and for the company. They need to feel you haven't given up."
"Haven't I done that? I'd be lying to them."
"No, you wouldn't." I walk behind his desk and perch on its edge. "Be honest, but also be hopeful. I know you think all is lost, but we can turn this around together."
"I appreciate having you as my cheerleader, but I can't—"
"Shush." I place two fingers over his mouth. "Listen to what I'm about to say. Really listen. Okay?"
He nods.
I remove my fingers. "You're a viscount and a businessman. Use your connections to get people on your side. You and I will do this together. We both need to start calling people, and keep calling until we get laryngitis. Everyone in the UK can't be against you. We also need to plan some special events to continue repairing your public image."
"That sounds incredibly time-consuming and exhausting, not to mention bloody pointless."
"It's not pointless." I set my hands on his chair's arms and rotate it toward me, then slant in until our faces are inches apart. "I'm not giving up on you, and I will not let you give up on yourself. Understand?"
He stares at me for a moment, then his mouth spreads into a sexy grin. "You're wonderful, Avery. I'd love to shag you right now."
"We can do that later. First, it's time to make those phone calls."
And that's what we do for the rest of the day and all week too. We dial phone numbers until our fingers start to ache and then we keep going anyway. Nobody wants to risk doing business with us, but I still don't understand why. The Duke of Wackenbourne isn't a high-powered politician, and as far as I can tell, nobody paid much attention to him until Hugh slept with his wife. Not even the members of the House of Lords seemed to care much about him. Once the Duke triggered that stupid scandal, suddenly Hugh became a celebrity of the worst sort—and everyone got to know Benedict Pemberton-Rice.
But we aren't giving up yet.
Chapter Nineteen
Hugh
Avery Hahn truly is an amazing woman. She refuses to give up, no matter how heavily the odds are stacked against us. I no longer think of my problems as onlymyproblems. Avery insists we're doing this together, and I won't argue the point. The mess I've become embroiled in affects us both, and we will deal with it as a couple. If she ever needed my help, I would crawl across a field of broken glass while naked and blindfolded if that would spare her even a small measure of pain.
She insists I am not allowed to give up, not until we have scoured every last corner of the globe. Despite our Herculean efforts, we lose the last two distributors. No one in the world can buy our merchandise until we find someone, anyone, who isn't afraid of the Duke of Wackenbourne. Maybe I should ring Kirsty MacTaggart and ask the self-professed Wiccan to cast a curse on Benedict Pemberton-Rice. Couldn't hurt, right?
But I don't do that. Instead, on Wednesday afternoon, I go to the factory floor and stand on a makeshift dais constructed from wooden boxes and give my speech. Avery helped me write it. Honestly, I could never get through any of this without her. Mum might have hired Avery to save my reputation, but she unknowingly gave me a gift that changed my life.
At the end of my speech, the entire staff of Sommerleigh Sweets erupts in cheers and clapping and whistling. Then they begin to chant, "We love Hugh." I've always told my employees they can call me Hugh, but I never imagined they would do that with so much enthusiasm. Their boisterous show of support gets me choked up, and tears gather in my eyes. I don't cry, though. I wipe away the wetness and square my shoulders, then walk into the crowd to thank each and every employee, shaking so many hands that my fingers ache. Women kiss my cheek and hug me. Blokes hug me too, but they don't kiss my cheek.
One gent, a gray-haired man, clasps my hand firmly and doesn't let go. "Your speech was brilliant, Lord Sommerleigh. I loved that part at the end about adversity. You reminded me of Winston Churchill right then."
