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And while her spark is—strictly speaking—annoying as fuck, I don’t want to be the grumpy asshole that squashes it.
On the other hand, the realities of running a business might douse that spark even faster. I learned the hard way you can’t gamble on a wish. You need to be coldly realistic, and work for every inch, if you want to succeed.
“Hey,” I say, my fingers catching Amelia’s wrist as she stands and gathers her things to leave. “Don’t be in too much of a hurry, with your company. You’ll get there. But running your own business is harder than you think.”
For a second she holds my gaze, and I feel something strong and restless stirring inside me.
And then she yanks her wrist away, a spot of color on her cheeks. “How would you know?” she tosses over her shoulder as she leaves. Her smile is deliciously impudent. “Doesn’t your dad run yours?”
I all but growl.
Amelia leaves, but the restless feeling she stirred up stays.
5
COLE
Idon’t spend any more lunch meetings with Amelia. Instead, we pass notes through my assistant Lucinda, who manages to find reasons to lurk in areas where Amelia will be. The hallway, the cafe, even the women’s restroom once. I give Lucinda edits and additions scribbled on folded notes. Amelia gives her flash drives with updated files.
Technically I don’tneedLucinda as an intermediary. But it’s more efficient to avoid Amelia. Even when Amelia’s on task, working with me, she tends to suck up more time than I want to give her. She’s the black hole of graphic designers.
And hey, the system works, I think, as I hang up the phone on Reinbold, one of the swing vote board members, and add another tally to my whiteboard. With Amelia and Lucinda’s help, I’ve moved more board members than I honestly thought I’d be able to.
The satisfaction is short-lived though.
I stare at the whiteboard, hands on my hips. I’m still two votes short if I want to keep my dad from buying a failing company and shifting all our current high-revenue digital marketing accounts onto them.
Hell, even one vote would help. That would get me to a 50/50 split, which isn’t ideal, but I could probably at least convince the board to postpone the decision in that scenario.
My phone buzzes. I answer it. “Yes, Mom?”
“Cole. I need to confirm your attendance at the L’Art gala.”
I briefly close my eyes and pray for patience. The L’Art gala is the last cause my parents share. Other than this gala, they’ve pretty much avoided each other since the divorce. My mom supports the small, exclusive museum because she loves contemporary French art. My dad supports it because he likes seeing his name in the papers.
I show up every year because I’m not going to leave my mom alone to deal with everyone fawning over him.
“When have I ever missed it?” I ask.
“I’m not calling to confirmyou,love,” my mom says. “I know you’ll be there for me. I’m calling to confirm your date.”
Crap. I don’t have a date yet.
“If you don’t provide them a name soon, they’ll list her place setting as ‘guest,’” she reminds me. “And that’s uncomfortable for everyone involved.”
I sit back on my desk and stare at the whiteboard, only listening with half an ear. There’s plenty of women I could call, but I try to avoid taking the same woman to more than one public event. It tends to prompt speculations I have no interest in humoring.
Especially with my ever-hopeful mother.
“I’ll have the name for you soon,” I promise. “She’s, uh, checking her schedule.”
I look at the whiteboard, wondering if I could shift one of the remaining board members by taking someone’s niece to the gala.
My mom sighs heavily, like she knows I’m lying. “Cole.”
“It’s just this board vote coming up,” I try to explain. “It’s taking my focus. But I’ll find a gala date soon. Promise.”
“Would it help to talk about it?” she offers.
