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He didn't say anything.
“Do I need to repeat that?” I asked.
“What? You think I can't handle something so simple as taking down a name?”
“Not what I meant, Nick,” I said, trying to dial it back a notch.
“Sure, douchebag,” he responded.
“How much longer is this gonna take?”
“It takes until I'm ready.”
“How do I translate that into days?” I asked.
“Look, Liam, I told you I'd call you when I was ready. I haven't called yet. Even a college weenie like you should be able to figure out that means I'm not ready yet. You have two choices here. We can do it quickly, or we can do it right. I thought you wanted it done right.”
I took in a calming breath. “Nick, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything.” The last thing I wanted to do was inflame my relationship with Nick right now. I’d lose the company and my sister would kill me the next time she saw me.
“Listen, I don't mean to be a jerk.”
I didn't dare tell him that's exactly what he sounded like.
“Katie said this is important to her, and for that reason, I'm gonna do the best job possible. That translates into not missing a single email account or phone connection before we start. I know you're in a hurry, but we may only get one chance at catching this guy when we go fishing.”
I appreciated his thoroughness. “Thanks, Nick. I owe you one.”
He laughed. “I’ll tally it up when we're done with this, but I can guarantee you, it’ll be more than one.”
I laughed. “You got it.”
I thought we hung up on better terms than we’d started. My fingers were crossed.
* * *
Josh stompedin a half hour later with the sourest expression he’d carried in a long time.
“You have a problem?” I asked.
He threw the tabloid paper on my desk. “No,wedo. My contact at Springbok just called to alert me to this.”
The headline blared:Can any woman tame Boston’s most notorious bachelor?The photos were a lovely walk down memory lane with pictures of me with four women on different evenings, one-night stands all of them——Mindy, Celeste, and two others whose names escaped me at the moment.
“Old man Schmulian has seen this,” he shouted. “And that means the Springbok deal is fucked, and so are we.”
“Sit down,” I told him sternly as I went to shut the office door.
He took a chair with an even worse frown than when he had entered.
“Look,” I started. “I’ll fix this.” I didn’t know how at the moment, but I had to.
“Didn’t I fucking warn you? This is Boston. Half the business families here are members of the Daughters of the American Revolution. They vote republican in a democratic state.”
I let him vent.
“They don’t want modern, they don’t want hip, they certainly don’t want to sell their business to a Hollywood playboy type who ends up all over the fucking tabloids.” He huffed. “They want understated, conservative, and un-newsworthy.”
I scanned the paper again. “That fucking little bitch,” I said.
