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Reaching for the intercom, I bark into it. “Where is the marketing team right now?”
George, unfazed as always, replies, “Ms. King and her team are currently on the floor with the photographer.”
“Photographer?”
“Yes, Mr. Moore. Campbell is getting a backlog of images for the new social media launch.”
Campbell. My uptight, holier-than-thou, millennial administrative assistant calls our new marketing exec by her first name, but I’m still Mr. Moore.
“What floor?” I grind out.
“Their schedule shows that they should be in menswear on level two, sir. If running behind, they’ll be in shoes. Same floor, other side of the escalator.”
The intercom button cracks ominously under my finger. “Yes, George. I know where the men’s department is. This is my family’s store, after all.”
“Of course, Mr. Moore.”
Forcing my index finger off the intercom, I take another deep breath before standing and grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair. At this point, I’m going to hyperventilate before the end of the day.
I take my time smoothing the jacket arms, making sure my shirt cuffs peek out the appropriate amount at the wrists. Raymond always said if you look confident, you’ll feel confident. And though I’ve overheard him tell that to numerous men throughout the years while guiding them into spending thousands of dollars on a new wardrobe, it doesn’t make the saying any less true.
When I’m done adjusting my suit, I don’t need a mirror to assure me I look my best. I know I do. Especially when every woman turns to check me out as I walk down the hall. One or two men, too.
Ghost me, will she? We’ll just see about that.
22
BELL
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
The scents of rich leather, warm wool, and Denise’s pungent perfume fill my sinuses. But it’s either that or pass out. Because if I don’t remind myself to breathe, I may stop, just for relief from Denise’s constant nagging. I’d be laid out on the hard tile floor, but it would totally be worth it not to hear her grating voice anymore.
“The angle you asked for is all wrong. You need to get the photographer off that ladder.” She rolls her eyes. “This isn’t Project Runway, for god’s sake.”
This is the first time Denise has deigned to convene with my team since the meeting between Warren and Baron and King Marketing. Oh, there’ve been plenty of group emails circulating, conference calls, etc. Denise’s only responses thus far have been negative comments. Loud negative comments. Even in her emails, her vitriol screamed from the screen. I have to give it to her, that takes talent.
“Move to the right,” Denise commands the poor man on the ladder. “God, this is such a juvenile approach. I thought you’d at least hire professionals.”
The photographer doesn’t even pause at Denise’s voice. Not at this point. He tried to accommodate her suggestions (Demands. Suggestions. Same thing, right?) at the start of the session, but quickly got on board with the rest of us by ignoring her.
No matter how loud and annoying she got.
“I don’t know, seems like a pretty cool idea to me,” a smooth, sexy voice calls from somewhere behind me.
Not moving, I track Chase’s saunter over to the group from the corner of my eye. He nods to Ben, Chris, and Alice before turning and giving the three employees from Warren and Baron the same greeting.
In. Out. In. Out.
I’ve done my best to stay out of his way, going so far as to sweet-talk his assistant, George, into giving me a copy of Chase’s schedule. Well, sweet talk, and tickets to the Yankees–Astros game. Who knew the stodgy fellow loved baseball that much? But it was worth it to ensure I am anywhere but where Chase will be at any given moment of the day.
Like right now, Chase is supposed to be in his office catching up on emails and calls from the weekend. A weekend I spent holed up in a sub-par hotel just in case he decided to come find me.
I should’ve splurged for season tickets and had George put a GPS tracker in his pants like I first suggested.
“Chase, dear. I didn’t know you’d be joining us today.” In an instant, gone is Denise’s sour attitude, replaced by a cheerful suck-up-ing-ness.
What? It’s a word.
