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“I was practicing my pitch for the meeting.”
“Do you do this for every meeting?”
I shake my head. “No, there’s just a lot at stake here.”
His brow furrows in puzzlement. “Why? Anything happen? Some new rumors?”
I don’t want to tell him that Amanda might get the job, that he might never have to wear a costume again, that the campaign might turn safe, boring, and probably a lot less effective.
I don’t want to tell him how much this all means to me, how it’s part of a promise that I made to my mother, how I feel the burden and the honor of living out the life she never got to.
“No, no. I just mean there’s a lot at stake at every meeting. Because we all care about you so deeply, Mason.” I smile and flutter my eyelashes at him.
He gives me a skeptical look. “Sure. That’s why you stuffed me into a duck suit.” He salutes me and saunters out of the room.
8
ROWAN
A trayof cookies sits on our conference table untouched, next to carafes of water and coffee. All of the cookies are covered in shredded coconut, which is probably why nobody has touched them. I have no idea how Mason pulled that off—did he actually reach out to our caterer? The guy’s dedicated; I’ll give him that. I have to admit I’m impressed.
And he’s sitting there with a smug smile on his face and a gleam of challenge in his eyes.
He mouths something at me, and I swear on my life it looks like he’s saying, “Mrs. Mason Raker.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Oh, it’s on, buddy.
Well, it’s on if I get to keep this assignment. I need to stop letting him distract me because it is vital that I’m at the top of my game for this meeting.
He’s drumming his fingers on the table, and I may be crazy but it almost sounds like it’s to the tune of “Here Comes the Bride.”
Note to self: never, ever hand anything to Mason that he can use as a weapon.
Other note to self: I’m upping my costume game. He will rue the day.
“All right, everyone, thank you for coming today, now let’s get started.”
Nerves jump like little live wires in my stomach as Cecelia waves her hand in Amanda’s direction. Amanda leaps to her feet. She’s wearing a bright pink wrap dress that somehow gives the impression that it could come unwrapped at any moment. She teeters on spike-heeled Louboutins.
Coach Paul Hartley and owner Ralph Talman seem riveted. Mason barely glances up from his copy of Sports Illustrated, which of course features him on the cover.
Should I have dressed more provocatively? I chose a red tweed double-breasted blazer with a white silk shell underneath and a black pencil skirt, with an unfortunate lack of boobage and leg exposure. My red pumps have low heels because I don’t like staggering around in agony for the sake of fashion.
Well, when I got dressed this morning, I didn’t even know that today was going to be Public Relations Thunderdome, but even so, I don’t think the office is the place to dress sexy. I want to be appreciated and promoted for my skills, not my ta-tas.
“Gentlemen, this is Amanda,” Cecelia says.
Amanda waves at everybody, beaming an enormous smile with Chiclet-white teeth.
“Hello, boys.” She flutters her eyelashes at them. “I’m so delighted to see you here today.”
I maintain a professional, polite expression, but inwardly wince. Boys? Seriously?
And even worse, Coach Hartley, a blocky middle-aged man with a dented nose from taking a puck to the face, straightens up, clears his throat, and smiles hugely at her. Even Mr. Talman smiles in return.
“Mason,” Couch Hartley nudges Mason with his elbow. “Wakey wakey. Meeting’s starting.”
Mason sets down his magazine and looks up. “Well, here I am.”
