Once he’s out of earshot, Alex turns his stare on me. “He didn’t even acknowledge you,” he grumbles. “I’m sorry.”
“That is not a thing I’m going to lose sleep over.”
“He can’t screw with this,” Alex mutters, cracking his neck. “It’s a decision by majority vote, in the end.”But they’re voting on something else entirely.
I still don’t know whether Dougie’s enthusiasm is a good omen or the nail in our coffins. He could’ve had a change of heart; maybe he’s looking to be persuaded. Either that, or he’s indulging us as his last act as CEO.
As we settle into our seats, and the projector cues up, the secret truth vibrating around the room is also written on half the faces I read.
The presentation goes like this:
As a shoo-in for editor in chief and the original genius behindBite the Hand,Gus talks first—about the brand’s roots, intent, and niche. Editorial stuff, writerly stuff, contributors and content, website tech, distribution platforms and frequency.
Branching from Gus are Saanvi and Amanda, who talk about social media—to the fear and chagrin of everyone in the room who didn’t understand what Gus meant when he said, “No print,ever. I wouldn’t even call it a magazine. I’m not joking.” And funny enough, it’s not an age demarcation between the people who buy in and the people who don’t, because the oldest woman in the room is the wife of the late Harold Cooper himself, a man who was one half of the original duo who founded Little Cooper. She watches YouTube, made obvious when she said hello to me at the door, followed by “I also have quite a few allergies! What part of Tennessee are you from?”
Then it’s Don with the financials. Simply put, he slays.
And then there’s Alex, who takes it home. He talks about meaning, purpose, howBite the Handwill help give Little Cooper the edge it desperately needs.
“Be the change you want to see in the world,” Alex says, strolling casually in front of the projector. “An overused platitude mainly reserved for Pinterest boards and the HomeGoods sale aisle, but if Little Cooper was a family, which I’d like to think it is, thenBite the Handis your ten-year-old kid who wants to reach for the stars. And that kid deserves the best chance at success, which in this instance means an income statement, revenue stream, and editor in chief.”
He says it with all the brimming confidence of a Harvard-educated young man who knows what he’s talking about, whogetsit, and it shows. By the time Alex is through, I’m speechless. And insanely turned on.
After, Tracy Garcia and Harold Cooper’s wife start clapping. I sneak a glance at Dougie, and here’s the thing: he looks genuinely won over. He even nods at Alex congenially, who meets his eyes, then looks away—at me—and winks.
All in all, it’s a freaking grand stroke. Nobody shits the bed, and everyone important seems convinced a million times over. When us underlings walk out of that room to give the board and execs time to deliberate, a raw and dangerous hope has already started to bloom in my chest.
Maybe Dougie’s gotten a second wind.
Maybe he hates Robert enough to make LC profitable again, just to prove he can.
Maybe we’re all going to get what we want.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
In the Urban Outfitters near our office building, I say to Alex, “I don’t understand how you’re not more anxious.”
He grabs a Santa hat off the rack and fits it onto my head, pulls it down over my eyes, then adjusts it to match my hairline, tapping the white pom-pom so it jingles. I peer up at his face, which is tired but strangely serene. His eyelashes almost touch his cheekbones every time he looks down at me like this. “Nothing more I can do at this point,” he answers calmly.
“That’s no excuse to be mentally fucking balanced right now?”
He doesn’tunderstandwhat’s at stake, and I know why—because I’m being forced to keep it from him—but how could I evernotbe frustrated by his blasé attitude right now? With the holidays coming up, we may not find out the board’s decision forweeks.I’m going to be a nervous wreck until I know the outcome, and really, if I liked unknown variables, I’d be an algebra teacher.
Alex’s eyelashes go lower, and his hands travel down to my hips.“I love it when you curse. The whole sentence that brackets it gets really southern.”
“I don’t have an accent.”
He arches an eyebrow. “You do when you’re gearing up to say a curse word.” After a moment of consideration, he adds, “And when you’re hammered.”
“You wouldn’t know a southern accent if it hit you in the face.”
Alex claps back by speaking a full sentence of Korean to me.
I scowl. “Point made, asshole.”
He laughs and walks away.
We’re buying costumes for an ugly Christmas sweater party, hosted by one of Alex’s Harvard friends who is apparently an assistant art curator at MoMA (congrats to her). He texted me about it this afternoon, a non sequitur to my hours-earlier check-in about how he was feeling after this morning. I said yes to the party out of pity, thinking he’d need a distraction, but after the past half hour, I realize I’ve been duped.
