Page 16 of Flirting with 40

“Hormones, wondering if boys like you or not, the pressure of everything . . . it’s a lot for a fourteen-year-old to handle. I understand, of course, because I feel the same way most days.”

I laugh to hide behind the joke, but I know she sees what I keep hidden most days—the doubt of how I’m coping, the embarrassment and failure of not being able to make my marriage work, and more than anything, my loss of self-worth.

Her expression softens, and she looks at her wine for a beat before meeting my eyes again. “You need to let loose, B. You need to say fuck it to everything you never would have done before and just try it. What’s holding you back? Sure, you’re divorced, and damn straight, you’re flirting with forty, but you aren’t dead. You’ve dropped that ball and chain, and it’s your turn to fly.”

My raised eyebrows and heavy sigh are the only response I give her.

“Say yes. The answer is always yes.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Blakely

“That’s just an outdated way of thinking and marketing. We need to—”

“I have years of sales data to back up the success of this marketing campaign. In the past, we’ve made a point to run the campaign sporadically, so when we do use it, it hits with a maximum punch,” I say, trying to tamp down my frustration. Heather catches it. I know she does. And the slightest smirk ghosting on her mouth says she really doesn’t care.

The worst part? The fifteen other attendees sitting in the product campaign meeting can see the look and can infer she doesn’t trust me.

Either that or they figure she feels threatened by me.

“We can definitely add it to our list of options, but it’s an old approach when we want to be progressive. The world is moving on, and yet, you . . . you seem to like the past.”

Her eyes hold mine, and the condescension in her tone has me gripping my pen so tight my fingers ache.

There is an uncomfortable silence as others shift in their seats, and all I can do is nod in appreciation that she put my idea on the list.

And then I sit there and listen as every other person pitches ideas that lack substance or really even creativity.

“Okay, let’s get to it,” Heather finally says with a faux fist pump, probably tiring of hearing her own voice. Then again, maybe not. “Blakely, stay a sec, will you?”

Oh, joy.

“Sure. Not a problem.” I plaster a smile on my face and sit back in the seat I just stood from, my laptop and notebook still pressed against my chest. “What can I do for you?”

“Moving forward, if you can’t stop showing me up at our creative meetings, then I’ll have to have you sit them out.”

“I’m sorry . . .” I shake my head. “Show you up?”

“Yes. We all know you’ve been here forever. I don’t need you bringing it up constantly in front of all the new people I’ve hired. Frankly, it makes you look dated, and when I’m the one constantly trying to fight for you, it makes it that much harder to do.”

Fight for me? Does she think I buy her bullshit when I’m incessantly afraid to turn my back to her?

My pause is simply to make sure I have a lock on my cool before I speak. I need this job. I love this job. I’ve weathered incompetent bosses before. I can do it this time too.

Or so I hope.

“Experience doesn’t make me dated. My knowledge of how certain marketing campaigns and sales affect the Glam brand, which I know inside and out, should be looked upon as an added value.”

She purses her lips as she stands there, arms crossed over her chest, disdain written all over her face.

“I’m not sure how we got off on the wrong foot,” I say as I rise from my seat again and make my way toward the door where my boss of a whole four months is standing. I guess it’s up to me to be the mature one in the room. “But somehow we did. I love my job, and the last thing I want to do is show up anyone—least of all you. Besides, if I get the promotion, we’ll be sharing this responsibility so it behooves us to iron out these wrinkles.”

Our eyes hold as the silence stretches, and my palms grow clammy at the disdain etched in the lines of her face. Why does she make me nervous?

Because I’ve spent my whole career working toward the vice president of marketing position, and now that it’s just within reach, she’s the only one who can take it away from me.

“Perhaps it’s something we can work on at the team bonding retreat.” Her smile is quick and holds even less warmth. “I look forward to seeing you and your . . . husband?” She waves a hand in my direction. “I’m sorry, I forgot. You’re divorced. It’s okay if you come single. We have a few who are. We can modify some of the challenges so you aren’t alone the whole time.”