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Disaster.
I’m just not sure what form it’s taking.
“Damn. I wish we’d beat them to the punch, but any extra coverage for the town will only increase their tourism prospects. Unless...”
It clicks in my head before Bradley meets my gaze and clears his throat.
“Their exclusive trashed the entire town, Mr. Cromwell. Their affiliates are playing up a string of small-scale burglaries this summer, painting it as a second-rate, crime-ridden place to live with crumbling infrastructure and dilapidated houses.”
Shock knifes through me.
For such a tiny community looking for more revenue from outsiders, that’s devastating news.
Hell, with small-time fishing in decline, the mayor believes tourism is the only way forward to avoid the fate of so many other little island towns in Washington.
If Simone cuts them off at the balls, I’m not sure how Pinnacle Pointe survives.
Still, it doesn’t warrant a visit from the head of PR, unless he’s the only senior officer with the balls to tell me to my face.
“That’s grave news for our plans with the town. However—”
“What does it have to do with you? Or this company? Yeah, I’ll get to that,” he promises. “Mr. Cromwell, this is a five-alarm emergency. You either release your content now and say a Hail Mary it outshines Pacific-Resolute’s bullshit exposé—or you wait, and you don’t release it at all.”
My gut sinks.
“What? Why?”
“Because, sir. There’s no reasonable way your content will come across as authentic once her story gains steam. After folks hear about the robberies and see one shot of algae growing on roofs and fishing shacks falling down... well, you know what they say. There’s no second crack at a first impression.”
“Go on.” I tap my pen on my desk like a cat flicking its tail in irritation.
“The Pacific-Resolute people already interviewed one old woman whose house was broken into last spring. She didn’t have much to steal, so they took her CPAP machine. The lady saw it as attempted murder since she can’t breathe at night without it with her sleep apnea and all. How can you publish a story about this charming little town that belongs in a Hallmark movie if Granny goes viral talking about how someone tried to suffocate her in her sleep?”
My hand curls into a fist.
“They were still talking about it at Murphy’s,” I bite off. “Mrs. Smith way overplayed it, but why? The fuck did steal her CPAP. Then someone from the local church put up a fundraiser in no time and it was replaced the next day. Attempted murder? Christ, that’s dramatic. The thief was caught a few weeks later when he tried to sell it on eBay. Some dipshit college kid visiting on spring break. He partied too hard and didn’t have the money for the bus ticket home.”
Bradley goes quiet for a minute, stroking his greying beard. “You’re serious? Fucking aye.”
I nod.
“But what’s the one truth in media?” he asks.
I wait for him to tell me.
“You’re only worth as much as your reputation, sir. The truth doesn’t matter nearly as much as how believably you can sell it. Once you’ve lost your audience’s trust, you’ve lost your audience. Period. No audience means no ad sales, and no ad sales—”
“Means no revenue. I know that much.”
“So, we’re looking at the same problem. Either your tourism project goes viral before Suffocating Grandma, or it’s a total loss.”
“I’ll take care of it, Bradley. Thanks.”
“Please keep us in the loop,” he says as he stands. “My department needs to be ahead of this, whatever you decide. I’m telling everybody to stand by for a late night.”
“Absolutely. On your way out, tell Louise to assemble creative in the conference room right now. I’ll call Miss Landers.”
“Will do. I’ll be there too,” he promises.
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with this unexpected dumpster fire.
What the absolute shit?
What am I dealing with?
What does psychobitch possibly think she has to gain by trashing Pinnacle Pointe?
Does she know I’ve already scuttled her from buying Bee Harbor, and now she’s nuking the whole place?
We’re not shelving the project. Besides being a sunk cost, I’m a man of my word, and I promised the mayor and the council I’d come through for them.
This is personal now.
I’m the first and last reason Simone is going after the town, and I’m not fucking having it.
I just need to figure out her game plan.
Is the inn still a factor?
If tourism tanks and Jenn winds up left with a bed and breakfast in a dead little town no one visits, that’ll definitely hurt her own prospects. It’ll hamper her ability to make repairs, too, and the place has a list of those a nautical mile long.
I pick up my phone and hit Jenn’s contact, the mess I made this morning already a distant memory.
“Hey,” she answers cautiously. “If this is about earlier—”
“I need you in the executive conference room in ten minutes.”
