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“I’d rather bang one of the bunnies than the boys.”
“-and understood the difference between an americano and long black.” The coffee slowly creeps towards her lips. “Plus, she was willing to start immediately.”
“I was taught always be ready to hit the ice.”
Another twitch of my brow prompts my publicist to add, “You get used to the hockey talk.”
“My big bro just got traded to Dalvegan!” Her tiny white top covered shoulders excitedly bounce. “They suck but top league is top league, right?”
I wouldn’t know.
Sports aren’t exactly my thing.
Getting our brands into sporting events, however, is on the list of goals now that this merger is officially done.
Today’s signing is purely ceremonial.
“You ready?” J.T. unexpectedly inquires over my shoulder from where he’s entering the spare conference room we’re occupying at The Frost Luxury Hotel. “The Romulans are waiting.” When no one makes a retort or smiles at his statement, he unhappily grumps, “Where’s Uhura when you need her?”
“Saving seals or sea lions or something,” Evie murmurs between sips.
“Sharks,” the three of us correct in unison.
“And here’s to hoping she doesn’t get eaten by one because that’s negative press we don’t need.” Evie tips her cup in a cheers like fashion before proceeding. “And speaking of your underdressed bride to be and negative press, she needs to send me over the photos of her potential dress choices for the Morgan merger event this weekend. I’ve sent her at least sixteen reminder texts and received nothing in return.”
She still struggles to give a shit about her phone.
Where it is.
Who’s calling.
While I can honestly say it’s not a habit I typically enjoy, I appreciate that when we’re together, we’re together. She’s not busy texting her friends or coworkers or scrolling social media in search of unrealistic standards to meet.
No.
She’s present.
Purposeful.
However, when we’re not together, it would be better – for everyone – if she were a tad easier to get in touch with.
Particularly when she’s on a rescue dive on the other side of the fucking country.
“Where’s Douglas Morgan?” Inquires our publicist, eyes scanning the fairly vacant room. “We need to go over public positioning one more time.”
“It’s a simple press gathering, Evie.” My head tilts condescending to one side. “Not a prom photo.”
“And you will be doing puff pieces for practice with private prep school pipsqueaks if you fuck this up.” Her bitter smirk slides in between statements. “Find him, Jenni.”
“You got it, Coach!” A tiny cringe is flashed. “Boss.”
Once she’s out of earshot, my best friend warmly states, “I like her.”
“Don’t,” is all that leaves me.
“While we’re on the subject of don’ts,” our stiletto tapping leader interjects, “let me remind you, Wes, don’t grit your teeth, that’s not smiling. Don’t fidget, that’s not confident. Don’t fold your arms, that’s defensive. Don’t hide your hands, that’s not open. Don’t clear your throat, don’t touch your forehead, and don’t volunteer any information about your personal life. This is strictly about showcasing the unity of this merger and the growing of the Wilcox Brand.”
In spite of being overwhelmed with her notes, I force myself to nod.
