On its cover is a fuzzy picture of Brad Fielding, one of Flourish’s founding members and, from what I’ve heard, a professional party boy. I recognize him from the website, though this image is considerably less polished. All the important bits are blurred out, however it is clear he is very nude, and very intoxicated.
“Damn.”
“Damn is right. Unfortunately for us, Tom is the keystone to this launch and we get to fix this.”
I pause, keeping my eyes glued to the tabloid. The stress doesn’t seem worth the effort, but I’m not sure how to bring that up in a way that won’t sound like I’m being lazy.
“Are you sure that’s the direction you want to go?”
Noah frowns. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Taking a deep breath, I sit up and take a risk.
“I’ve read over the contracts. With Scented Acres, we’re parting with a hefty percentage of profits, and Tom wants more control than any other vendor in his corner of the market. I could pull at least three other potential contacts at other distribution centers who could get us a much better rate, and they wouldn’t take a second glance at what any of us do in our free time, nor would they care about things like packaging or display design. As long as the check clears, they’re happy. I know it’s a tight turn around, and finding someone else might make it even more so, but I don’t think this is ouronlyroute.”
Noah sits back, folding his arms and giving me an appraising glance. “You’re right. We could get a better cut from someone else, but I like the way Tom does business; he treats his people well and doesn’t cut corners. Something I can’t say for all of our other contacts. Some of them, maybe . . .” He pauses, glancing down at the tabloid, his jaw ticking in what is clearly a sharp bite of frustration. “Regardless, yes. I’m sure Tom is worth the extra effort of mending this mishap.”
What I’m sure is a bright pink flashes on my cheeks and neck, all my confidence sizzling away in an instant.
“Yes, of course. Sorry. I shouldn’t have questioned. I didn’t realize?—”
“Nonsense. Of course you should question. Keeps me honest and I appreciate it. Besides, how could you know about conversations I’ve had with Tom that didn’t make it into the contracts?”
His dismissal of my second guessing is so pure and void of any patronizing, it takes me back. His reasoning too, is authentic and frankly, too good for this world. In just a few sentences, he’s continued to chip away at the money bags persona I’ve subconsciously built him into. This is about more than the bottom line for him, and god damn does the integrity look good.
“Well then.” I clear my throat, banishing the flattered feelings. “Sounds like it’s time for damage control and a lot of sucking up.”
“Yes.”
I nod, pulling my computer onto my lap. This is my job. While saving face with client accounts isn’t the stuff of my dreams, I am damn good at it. I’ve sweet-talked my way out of all kinds of corners, and there is nothing quite like the rush from getting my way. My mind flits over the options, and I narrate the process.
“An official apology and maybe even a press release might be a good place to start. I’m happy to start drafting both, though it would probably make more of an impact if Brad at least signed the apology. And then, I think maybe we should appeal to Tom directly, either a phone call or a personal email, letting him know Brad doesn’t have anything to do with this launch or the new space. Unless he does?”
“No, he doesn’t,” he says, shaking his head. “His name is attached as a formality but it’s truly my name and reputation hanging on this launch, not Brad’s.”
I’m already combing through some of the materials we reviewed for Scented Acres earlier, my gaze set on the glowing screen on my lap. “Lucky you.”
It comes out as more of a mumble, but my brain is already three steps ahead and drafting the start of our apology manifesto.
“I appreciate your help,” Noah says, his voice level. “I’m not sure I have what it takes to rise above my anger at Brad, and while I’m not above groveling, I think you’re being more sensible. You’re very good at this.”
The compliment wiggles its way into the pit of my belly, squirming with the others. It’s the second time this afternoon he’s said something to push me off kilter and I’m struggling to find my footing in this mental spar. It’s not so much that I think he’s wrong, but his determination to make sure I hear the praise is unsettling.
He sounds sincere, but past experience has shown mesoundingsincere andbeingsincere are two different things. Once more, I’m stuck not knowing what to expect from him. The grumpy asshole, beer drinking version of him wasn’t handing out sincere praise, but this version of him doesn’t seem like the grumpy asshole at all. Too aware of, well, everything, I grasp fora way to release the pressure. I opt for throwing his own promise from earlier back into his hands.
“You can thank me by buying dinner.”
“I intend to,” Noah says, grabbing the green juice I left for him. He takes a sip, and his face deadpans, effectively killing the tension and making me laugh.
“It tastes like ass, doesn’t it?”
He nods slowly, and after an exaggerated swallow, shivers. “Why?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who drinks them regularly.”
Grimacing, he drops the cup into the trashcan and reaches for mine to do the same. Free of the ass-flavored sludge, we work for a few hours, drafting the press release and discussing the best ways to appeal to Scented Acres’ founders.
With half a letter hammered out, Noah looks considerably less stressed and I slump against the back of my chair. The muscles along my spine ache as I stretch and resume thinking out loud about the second part of our plan.
