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Before I can say anything, Jack hangs up on me.
I’m going to kill this kid. But I push the problem from my mind. What’s probably a very impressive fake ID is the least of my issues when it comes to Jack.
And no, my real concern isn’t even his flagrant disregard for the law or whether I can wrestle him into college next year. It’s how we’re going to get along once he arrives. Jack’s been in school since I took over as his guardian. The last time we lived together I was changing his diapers. And tomorrow I’m going to be picking him up from the airport and moving him into my spare bedroom.
I’ve never had to take care of anyone before. And I know that Jack’s almost an adult, but I’m not even sure there’s food in the fridge right now. I guess it’ll be the end of bringing home my occasional hookup too.
A problem for later, or, I guess, tomorrow. I let the matter rest for now and text my assistant, asking him to book the hotel and plane ticket for Jack, and then, as an afterthought, ask him to get some basic groceries delivered.
Once I’m finished, I realize that my computer is still playing footage of Kara Kon’s pop-up concert. Now it’s showing guests fleeing the scene as police swarm over the event. Ms. Kon is being bundled away by her staff but she’s not going quietly, hanging onto her turntables and trying to keep the party going to the last note. Unsurprisingly, the article notes that she’s facing legal trouble for both holding the concert and refusing to shut it down immediately.
Kara Kon looks like trouble, but apparently this is what the kids are into these days. I think back to the launch of the Seafarer. There’d been a crowd, but mostly tourists and some older locals. I’d given a small speech that had been interrupted by coughs and several pointed yawns. A disaster, by all accounts.
Now I picture inviting this madhouse onto my precious cruise ship. Another, different, disaster? Maybe. But the damages could be kept to a minimum if I hired a small army of security. The legal issues Ms. Kon is facing add an aura of danger to the event. And I can count on Kara Kon keeping herself in the news to give me tons of free advertising.
I bite my lip. It’s a good idea. It’s the right idea. The only problem?
I can’t in good conscience steal it from Evie. It would cross a moral line for me. No, if I did this, she would have to helm the project as its rightful creator.
I picture working with Evie all summer. I see her long, tan legs pacing in my office. I imagine her bending over my desk, what I assume are very perky breasts pushing against her blouse. Sarcastic words would flow from those delicious lips, continuing what seems to be a deliberate campaign to bring me down a notch. And then there’s that world view of hers, that people aren’t in fact malicious backstabbers and conniving cowards. Could I really put up with this for months? This simultaneously conflicting desire to either bend her over my desk or over my knee?
But the failure of the Seafarer is not an option. Every other ad agency has given me tired and trite ideas, and Evie Davis has handed me success in the palm of her delicate hand. I’d be a fool to let my attraction prevent success.
Besides, I’m Nick Madison. I can keep things separated. It’s always been my greatest skill. I can keep her at arm’s length, keep things professional, save the fantasies for the privacy of home.
Right?
CHAPTER FOUR
EVIE
It’s a gorgeous warm Tuesday morning in Greenwich Village. Green leaves are budding on the boulevard trees and everywhere New Yorkers hustle in shorts and short sleeves, happy to be released from the claws of winter for another year.
I should be enjoying it. I should delight in the weather. I should be packing away the all-you-can-eat seafood brunch and bottomless mimosas that Mickey’s Tinder date last night had recommended. But all I can think about is how I should have slapped Nick Madison right in his smug, handsome face.
“Have you tried the lobster rolls?” Mickey asks.
“No,” I say glumly, taking a soft bite of shrimp cocktail. “I’m not in the mood for lobster.” In fact, I’m not in the mood for seafood. It just reminds me of the ocean, which in turn reminds me of cruise ships, which… Well, you get the picture.
Mickey chews her lobster roll quietly. I can tell she wants to talk, but I can barely meet her eye, much less comment on the food or weather. I’ve been in a state of depression since the disastrous meeting yesterday morning.
At least when I’d called the office in Boston Dan was very understanding of my failure, even more so after I’d explained Nick Madison’s asshole tendencies and pointed disbelief in my abilities. I’d told Dan that I wouldn’t be offended if he wanted to send an older executive in to pitch my same idea, but he’d quickly shut down the idea.
“It was your idea, your pitch,” he said. “If this Madison jerk doesn’t want you then we don’t want him.”
At least I can count on Dan.
Mickey has also been trying to cheer me up with varying levels of success. She’d offered to do a girls’ night out (or in, depending on how I was feeling) last night, but I’d encouraged her to go on her date instead. I was in no mood to party and didn’t want to bring her down. So instead she ordered me a much appreciated pizza and gave me some space.
Now I can tell she’s trying to find some comforting words, but there’s nothing she could say that would make me feel better about what happened.
Last night I’d soaked in the giant hotel bathtub with a glass of wine and a piece of pizza, coming up with comebacks to Nick’s every barbed insult.
Where do you get off telling me that I’m not good enough to do my damn job?
You can’t be much older than thirty-five. Where are your credentials?
What gives you the right to run a damn company if you can’t even let someone a handful of years younger than you run an ad campaign?
