Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Nailed it. That’s exactly what happened.
“But,” she continues. “Not only can I bring this ad campaign back to life from the dead, we can have one hell of a launch.”
Turning away from me, bent over enough on the bench that her pert little ass is directed right in my line of sight, Peyton digs through her bag on the floor.
I take that moment to observe her backside—the same backside that is still the wallpaper on my computer. Firm and heart-shaped, begging for my fingers to press into it. Squeeze.
From the other side of the table, Hunter coughs loudly, covering his mouth and kicking me under the table like he did when we were in middle school.
Busted again.
He shakes his head at me, disgusted. “You really do need a babysitter,” he hisses just as she’s sitting back up.
For the next half hour, Peyton presents us with multiple campaign ideas—all varying slightly, but centering around the main focus: outdoor adventures for every woman.
Novice. Intermediate. Expert.
Stay-at-home moms and cross-trainers. Hikers, backpackers, and someone wanting to walk in their neighborhood.
I don’t know how she managed it, but the whole thing is fucking brilliant and it chaps my ass that I didn’t think of any of this myself.
Or that no one else on my payroll did either.
Smacking his hands together, Hunter stands—makes a giant production out of stretching his hands over his head—yawns, and makes an audible sound. Why is he so damn dramatic all the time?
“Damn, this is some good stuff, Peyton.” Another fake yawn.” I’m sure the boss already has which one he wants to choose in his head. I approve all of them.”
Not that it matters.
His approval means jack shit to me right now, especially after the half-assed performance reports he recently turned in. He can have an opinion when he gets his work done properly.
He checks his watch—a Roam, Inc. brand with thick, waterproof leather wristband that can be submerged up to one hundred feet—and declares, “Well, kids, playtime is over for Uncle Hunter. I have to get going. I have a dinner date that I don’t want to miss, but first I should take a nap.” He wiggles his eyebrows and taps the tabletop. “Nice work, Peyton. Should have hired you for marketing, not all that social media bullshit. Now we have to outsource you and really pay you the big bucks.”
He gives us a two-finger salute, clicks his heels, and takes off.
Smug bastard.
And because he left early, Peyton and I are stuck sitting awkwardly next to each other, on the same side of the table. We look like that couple—if we were a couple.
Avoiding my eyes, Peyton takes a dainty sip of water. Caps the bottle. Sets it down.
Clears her throat.
Fingers a few pictures that have been laid out on the table in neat little rows, and finally says, “Can you say something please? I’m kind of dying over here.”
I scratch the side of my jaw, my stubble coarsely scraping my fingertips. “Are you looking for more compliments?”
She turns toward me, vulnerability in her eyes, my approval important to her. She is beautiful, extremely talented, witty, and dynamic, yet my approval is important to her.
“I’m looking to see if I did a satisfactory job. Did I present you with something you would feel confident using? Did I give you any kind of idea that you could be excited about?”
Excited. Just the way she says it . . .
Hell, I’m excited about the tank top she’s wearing, how I’ve seen the cup of her lacy bra five times in half an hour. Yeah, I counted. And yeah, I’m excited.
That she’s here and that she brought me a proposal we can definitely work with.
The campaign is going to be amazing.
Still, I cannot help giving her a hard time. “I’m going to have to think about it.”
She blinks a few times, shock registering across her face.
“Oh.” More blinking. “Yes, of course.”
She slowly and methodically begins gathering the materials laid out on the table, gently placing each photograph in a folder labeled “visuals.” Takes a few hand-drawn commercial boards and slides them into a leather portfolio. The papers go in yet another folder, along with a few articles from our competitors and their ad campaigns geared toward women.
When she’s done collecting her materials, Peyton rises from the table, too, slinging her bag over her shoulder and hands me a blue folder.
My fingers take it, keeping my gaze fixed on her down-turned head, all confidence washed away in seconds.
I desperately want to tip her chin up, force her to look at me, to see that I’m just playing hardball, but I don’t. This is business, and even though I’m going to easily hire her and take her on, she needs to learn not everything comes so easily. If she wants to succeed, then she needs to see this side of the business, the desperation.