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Who could blame them? Even if they haven't watched the video themselves, they know I called them all a bunch of morons with no education, class, or intelligence. I don't even know what the hell I was thinking—my ego and wounded pride were doing the talking for me. Unfortunately, I doubt that will serve as much consolation to a bunch of insulted citizens who would much rather spend their money where they feel appreciated and respected.
After thanking the hostess for her help, I close my eyes and rub my temples. What am I going to do? Dad finds out about this and I'm screwed. Goodbye CEO. Hello family disappointment.
Think, think.It's the perfect storm, really. Not only did I make a world-class jackass out of myself last night, but I'm still dealing with a hangover that leaves my brain feeling like mush. I can't think fast enough when that's exactly what I need to do. I need to think fast.
My brothers will never let me live this one down, that much is for sure. So far, I've managed to avoid returning their calls. Brooks has called me the most, and considering he's our events manager, he has good reason to be concerned. Thank God he’s out of town for a few days so there’s no risk of him storming in here. I can't bring myself to respond to his calls, not yet. I want to have at least the faintest outline of a plan in place to make up for this before I take my medicine and get dressed down by my younger brother.
Overnight, I’ve gone from a respected business owner to a pariah who managed to insult and alienate the people who pay our bills. How do I come back from this? And how do I do it quickly enough that Dad won't find out? There I was, worried at first when he announced he'd go no contact during his trip. Now I see his decision as my only hope of salvation. If I can get this cleaned up before he returns, I can move on from it.
And that's when it hits me. Jayden.
“Please pick up,” I whisper after pulling up his contact and placing a call. “Please, pick up, man.”
“Sawyer, what's up?”
I nearly collapse with relief at the sound of his voice. “I’ve got a problem. Not to bring up bad memories,” I murmur, “but I need the contact info for that PR specialist you used.”
“Oh. You get in a little trouble? I told you to stop sleeping around with the daughters of your club members.”
I wish it were something as incidental as what he's describing. “Yeah, you know me. I have to learn my lessons the hard way. Do you have her number?”
“Sure thing. I'll text it over to you, along with her email.”
“Thank you so much. I'm sorry, I don't have a lot of time to talk. I need to get through to her right away.” He sounds understanding as we end the call, and not half a minute later a text comes through with the contact information.
I can only hope she's as good for me as she was for him. Considering he got caught making a donation to a charity that turned out to be the front for a terrorist group and she was able to squelch the entire scandal in no time, I feel a reasonable amount of hope.
This isn't quite as scandalous as that, but it's pretty damn close. Especially in this town.
Willow Anderson. Normally I’d go a little internet sleuthing, check out her LinkedIn profile or something like that if only to get a look at her. There’s no time for that now. I instantly open a new email on my MacBook and begin typing out a quick but urgent plea for a meeting. I don't care what it takes. I don't care what her rate is. Money is no object at a time like this.
“Willow,” I whisper before sending off the e-mail, “I hope you're as good as you're supposed to be.”
All the while, my phone continues to buzz with missed calls and messages. A constant reminder of what happens when I make the mistake of combining alcohol with feeling sorry for myself.
This Willow had better be on her game, or else I might as well kiss my business—and my father’s opinion of me—goodbye.
