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SAWYER
“Have you heard anything yet?” I demand of my assistant as soon as she picks up her phone.
“No, Mr. Cargill.” Theresa’s soft, gentle voice is normally a comforting aspect of my job. I kept her on after Dad stepped down, both because it would have felt unfair to let her go over a situation she couldn't control, and because I could appreciate the value of a skilled, experienced employee when—let's face it—I didn't know the first thing about being a CEO. It's one thing to observe someone for years, but something completely different to take on the job yourself.
Now, she symbolizes every way in which I’ve fallen short. I'd bet she's sitting there right now reminding herself that my father would never be in this situation, taking a Saturday afternoon meeting due to an emergency he set in motion thanks to his wounded pride and big mouth.
“Let me know as soon as you get word she's arrived.” I hang up before she can remind me we've already had this conversation, then get up from my desk and open the cleverly concealed door that sits flush against the wall. This is one of my favorite parts of the office, and when I was a kid it seemed like nothing less than magic to watch Dad press the panel and reveal a hidden room.
Of course, there was never anything inherently magical about it. Then, like now, the space was used as a dressing room complete with a small bed in case work runs too late. There are times when my schedule is too jammed to afford time to go home to change, much less to drag myself back to the apartment to sleep.
Now, I check out my reflection in the mirror mounted on the inside of the door. Everything's in place, my best Armani suit, its deep gray set off by a navy tie and crisp, white shirt. My shoes are polished to a mirror shine, and my dark hair is perfectly in place, swept back from my forehead without an errant strand in sight.
As a second thought, I duck into my private bathroom and grab the electric razor from the vanity. Sure, I shaved this morning, but I don't want so much as a hint of shadow on my cheeks. A quick pass with the device leaves me perfectly smooth. The man staring back at me in the mirror over the sink is one with the world at his feet and a bright future ahead of him.
He is certainly not shaking inside at the thought of the meeting going south.
I'm not thinking rationally. Everything’s going to be fine. If Willow was able to take a last-minute meeting, she can’t be too busy to take me on as a client. There’s nothing about my situation so difficult she can’t handle it—no tawdry twists, no thwarted girlfriends looking for revenge. No ex-employees I made the mistake of harassing. It should be a cut-and-dried job.
My nerves are jangling just the same. I can't leave anything to chance, because nothing has ever mattered this much.
Normally, in a situation such as this, I might let pride get in the way. I might warn myself against showing my entire hand all at once, leaving myself at this woman's mercy.
This is not a normal situation. I am entirely at her mercy, and I'm fine with her knowing that. Whatever it takes, so long as she gets me out of this. Even sweet, motherly Theresa couldn't hide a look of disapproval when she came in this morning at my request. This isn't the first weekend she's ever had to work, so I doubt her expression had anything to do with coming in on a Saturday.
Still, that's a walk in the park compared to the raft of shit handed to me by my brother Brooks once I finally gave in and answered his call. It's not often he has the opportunity to hold something over my head since I've managed to keep my nose pretty clean compared to his rampant womanizing. You can't swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a woman he hooked up with and discarded like a used tissue.
He made me regret giving him shit over that in the past during the twenty minutes he ranted and raved. “I'm not trying to step up and be CEO,” he reminded me more than once. “I need you to get your shit together before you ruin my life along with yours.” Working as our events manager is more than enough for him, I guess, giving him the opportunity to meet and socialize with countless women looking to throw bridal showers and birthday parties at the club without the added complication of stress and responsibility.
His verbal takedown echoes in my head as I take a seat behind my desk once again, straightening what's already been straightened. The rest of the office gleams thanks to the instructions I gave to the cleaning crew. They always do a good job, but I wanted special treatment for today. The dark wood floors seem to glow, and there isn't so much as a speck of dust on the leather furniture or along the frames of the art hanging on the walls. I didn't see any need to do much redecoration when I took over this office—Dad has always shown good taste when it comes to decor, and money was no object when he first began claiming this room as his own. Everything about it fairly screams sophistication, a discerning sense of taste.
Turning in my chair, even I have to admire the familiar but no less awe-inspiring view of the harbor. It's a stunning day, the sky a deep shade of azure without so much as a cloud to mar its beauty. Brilliant sunshine makes the water sparkle as if millions of diamonds were strewn across its surface. It's like Mother Nature herself is on my side, helping me create an image of wealth, grandeur. Everything about the club screams old money, precisely the way we want it to. Image is everything, after all, and I want this Willow Anderson to know who she's dealing with from the jump.
Anyone who walked in here right now and found me seated behind this old desk might think I was running for office. I'm the very image of the sort of guy people around here would vote for as their next governor; groomed within an inch of my life, with all the right names on my resume. The prestigious boarding school, the Ivy League university. I can't pretend the idea of going into politics never occurred to me before Dad announced I'd be taking his place, but that would mean taking time away from the family business.
When push comes to shove, this is what I want to do. I want to be here. I want to put my time, energy, my blood, sweat, and tears, if it comes to it, into this club. Not only to prove myself, either, but to maintain something real for my family. For the next generation, even if at the moment there's no such thing in sight. But there's still time. Maybe one day, I'll get to a place where I can think about settling down. Considering I'm fighting for my life at the moment, that's about as far from my mind as anything could be.
Everything is perfectly in place, but I'm too fidgety, too anxious to sit still. It's useless to try to get any work done, since all of my attention is focused on Willow’s arrival. What will she be like? For a public relations expert, she has a very limited online presence. I would expect her to be all over social media, but then I can understand why she might want to fly under the radar. She probably knows all too well how easy it is to ruin yourself through a simple slip of the tongue—or of the fingers, as it were. I'm sure she's seen it all in her line of work and would rather bow out than take a chance.
Though I could tell her you don't have to be active on social media to end up crushed in its jaws.
What is taking her so long? I should have insisted she accept my offer of the helicopter, but she told me she was happy to make the drive. Every minute is another minute my reputation, my business, and my future hang in the balance. I can imagine Nathan and the rest of them lurking in the shadows, enjoying my humiliation even as they pretend to be mortified and concerned for me and the club.
Really, I'm sure they hope there's no coming back from this. It would make the process of getting rid of me go that much smoother. After all, Dad can only stick up for me through so much before even he won't be able to come up with a reason why they shouldn't kick me to the curb.
I wanted my phone to ring, didn't I? Yet for some reason, when it does, my stomach lurches and I wish I had more time. No matter who Willow has seen before today, I doubt she's ever met a client with so much on the line. So much so that I both long for and dread this meeting.
Get it together. I pick up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Sawyer, I just got the call from downstairs. She's on her way up.” Even Theresa, always so collected, lets a note of anxiety leak into her voice. We don't have to discuss the situation in specifics for her to understand what's at stake. I'd like to think she's on my side, one of the few people who are.
“Thank you.” My hand trembles ever so slightly as I replace the receiver, but I manage to make it stop before drawing a deep breath and releasing it slowly.
This is it. Everything rides on this.
All that's left is convincing Willow to do what she does best.
Otherwise, I might as well kiss this office, and the view, and everything that goes along with it goodbye forever.
