“What else do you callhim?”
“I’ll ease you in with Sebbly—a.k.a. Silly Seb. I also call him Hump Day Hottie on Wednesdays since he was dumb enough to use that in a piece once, or when he’s in a mood, he’s Se-beast-ian. I think he secretly likes thatone.”
Justin was the definition of a class clown, but it seemed as if he was also a great friend. “How did you feel about theexposé?”
“It sucked. Made us sound like a bunch ofassholes.”
“You guyscancome off as assholes,” I pointedout.
“That’s the whole idea. Not to look like assholes, but to project an image men want to emulate—cars, parties, women. It doesn’t mean we’re actually these people. For Seb, it started in college. Networking came in many forms, and for a guy like him, it was crucial to his success. He’s mild compared to the bros that went to colleges like ours. It’s a wonder we turned out sowell.”
A guy like him? I was familiar. Luciano often called Neal a slimy salesman, but even before he’d sold insurance, he could get a “yes” out of almost anyone. In Sebastian’s world, it sounded as if networking meant schmoozing, and sure—that was a necessary evil for getting ahead if that was important to Sebastian. It wasn’t what you knew butwho, and all that. “You went to Harvardalso?”
“Penn State,” Justin said. “But it was the same idea. Without a tough outer shell, you got squished by others on their wayup.”
As the article had said, from Cambridge to New York City, the world was Sebastian’s playground—and women likely let him off the hook for everything. I hadn’t necessarily pegged Sebastian as the silver-spoon type, but Justin described behavior stereotypical of a wealthy, attractive, Ivy League-educated man. They’d never had to work very hard for anything, and that explained why Sebastian hated having me around to monitorhim.
“I’m not here to step on anyone’s toes,” I explained. Now that I had more facts, I could use them to stay in Justin’s good graces—and hopefully work my way into Sebastian’s. “I like to have fun at work. We can goof around as long as we meet our goals—goals we settogether.”
“The atmosphere around there is important to Sebastian. He protects his team fiercely, sometimes at the jeopardy of his ownjob.”
Sebastian was one of the more passionate businesspeople I’d worked with. Would he actually risk his position for his team, or did a privileged life simply make him feel he was invincible? Either way, it explained why my presence frustrated him so much. Conviction, fear, or both—they were powerful motivators. “Hehasbeen atModern Mana long time,” Ireasoned.
“His whole career,” Justin agreed. “It was his first internship out of college. The magazine was going under when he took itover.”
That much I knew from my research, but the fact that Justin wasn’t making a joke of it only emphasized that this was more than a job for Sebastian. In a way, as dramatic as it sounded, it was his life’s work. He wouldn’t let me take over without afight.
“It must suck coming into a workplace where nobody wants you around,” Justin said. “I get that you’re here tonight to be one of the guys, and I think it was the rightchoice.”
My smile faded. Was I that obvious? Being a consultant could be a lonely job. My teams always came with an expiration date. It was my responsibility to come in, make them function better, then release them into the wild while I watched from the sidelines. I preferred it when they liked me, which was why I worked so hard to fit in, but it didn’t always play out that way. Being “one of the guys” would make life easier, but it was proving to be as difficult to achieve as I’danticipated.
“Keller doesn’t have a drink,” Garth yelled from Sebastian’s end of thebar.
All eyes turned to me—even Sebastian’s all-knowing greenones.
The owner, Santino as he’d been introduced to me, nodded. “What’ll it be,guapa?”
On the spot, with everyone waiting, I couldn’t think of a single drink, not one. More tequila? Could I order a Guinness, or would that be an insult to Mexican beer? What was a good Mexican beer again? Oh, God. What was wrong with me? All week, I’d not only had the attention of the whole staff—I’dcommandedit. Why couldn’t I speak now? Or think? That was the problem—I wasoverthinking it and making things worse. All I heard was Luciano in my head, telling me to choose somethingflirty.
“Lemon drop,” Iblurted.
“What the hell’s a lemon drop?” Albertasked.
“It’s a fuckinglemondrop,” Sebastian said from his post. “Is this your first time out in public with awoman?”
Albert scowled. “Go tohell.”
Ugh. I could not have chosen a more feminine drink. On a scale of one to girly, I was currently Barbie in a dream house waiting for Ken to pick me up in a convertible. I didn’t evenlikelemon drops—Luciano did. I’d been raised in a Guinness-drinking household, my dad a typical Irishman and my mom an Italian spitfire. I just hoped my parents never found out about theorder.
“Good choice. I make a mean lemon drop,” Santino said, getting to work. “It’s lethal. None of these guys could handleit.”
I smiled. The rest of the men ordered bottles of Corona and Pacifico, Mexican beers I’d forgotten despite ordering them myself countless times. There wasn’t a Guinness in the bunch and that gave me some comfort. I could certainly take on a gang of non-Guinness drinkers easier than thealternative.
Santino served me a frosty yellow martini glass, and I immediately took a sip. For a lemon drop, it wasn’t half bad, only mildly sweet. As the team debated whether Sebastian should get a globe for his office—pros: it looked distinguished; cons: globes were huge and who needed one when there was Google Maps?—it was the crack of a baseball bat that made me look up. I’d almost forgotten about tonight’s Yankees game. The Mariners’ center fielder caught a fly ball for the Yankees’ firstout.
“Oh, come on,” Isaid.
“This season could go either way,” said a man in a suit sitting alone at one end of the bar. “Which means weneedthese guys on theirgame.”
