That New York Minute. Abby Gaines
why you bothered to come in when you’re so, ahem—” sarcastic, fake throat-clearing “—unwell. Get real, Garrett, and get out of here. You don’t have a serious shot at this partnership.”
He eyed her for a long, silent moment. “You remind me of someone,” he said. “Someone I don’t like.”
Ow. That definitely qualified as a shark-nip. One she deserved, if she was honest—she shouldn’t have let him rile her.
But you should never show weakness to a shark.
“Your opinion won’t matter when I get the partnership,” she said. “I’ll be your boss.”
His hands slid into his pockets and he leaned back against the wall. Instead of being scared off by her splashing about, she had the distinct impression The Shark was beginning to circle.
“Protesting too much, methinks,” he said.
He couldn’t really believe he would beat her, could he?
The intercom buzzed. Rachel lunged for the answer button. Garrett reached it first; her fingers, clammy with sudden anxiety, pressed against his. She whipped her hand away.
“How’re you folks doing?” the operator trilled. “Just wanted to let you know we’re almost done fixing you up. We’ll have you out in that beautiful New York summer day in just a—”
“Jiffy,” Rachel muttered. She pressed the off button. “Thanks a lot, Doris freakin’ Day.”
Garrett said, “My mother used to love Doris Day movies.” Something flashed across his face, maybe shock that he’d told her that much about himself.
“So your mom has bad taste,” Rachel said. “She probably likes you, too … though if she’s ever seen you hungover and surly she might think twice about—”
She stopped. His face had shut down so completely, it was as if he was no longer in the elevator.
Uh-oh. “Um, Garrett, when you said your mother used to love Doris Day, was that past tense because Doris Day retired, or—” she cringed “—because your mom died?”
He stared at the stuck doors as if he could see right through them. Now he rode the elevator like a proper New Yorker. “Both.”
Damn. “I’m sorry,” Rachel said. It felt inadequate, when she’d been sniping at him the last fifty-six floors. “How did she—how long ago …?”
His gaze cut to her. “Today’s my birthday.”
She grabbed the non sequitur gratefully. “Happy birthday! So, that champagne last night …”
“It’s also the anniversary of my mother’s death,” he said. “So, yeah, I’m hungover and surly, as you so delicately phrased it, but I have my reasons.”
His skin looked suddenly pale in the elevator lighting. Rachel opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“And, yeah,” he continued, “maybe Doris Day is too perky and not to your taste, but when my mom was dying of cancer, those movies were the only thing that kept her smiling through months of chemo. Doris Day was the difference between an unbearable day and an okay one.”
Man, she had totally screwed up. “Garrett, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Rachel stretched out a hand, half thinking he might bite her arm off. Half wanting him to because she felt like such a jerk.
Before she could get within prey distance, the elevator doors hissed open.
Garrett shot her one last disgusted look, and left.
CHAPTER THREE
RACHEL PULLED THE END OFF her croissant and shredded it into tiny pieces.
She’d far from sparkled throughout breakfast, which should have been an opportunity to impress those partners she didn’t work with. She’d been distracted first by Garrett’s presence, then by her guilt over dissing his mother. On the anniversary of her death. Which happened to be Garrett’s birthday.
She groaned inwardly.
Her one weakness in her work was that she wasn’t good in unexpected situations. Give her a creative briefing and a week, and she could come up with a fabulous pitch. Ask her to spout ideas off the cuff and she was hopeless. This morning’s breakfast … it wasn’t a pitch, but she’d prepared for it in the same way, thinking hard about how she could outshine Clive Barnes, anticipating questions.
She hadn’t imagined Garrett would wreck her relationship last night, then show up like a hungover nemesis this morning. Or that she would say something so tactless as to leave him looking utterly bleak. No wonder she had zero spur-of-the-moment techniques for outclassing him in the eyes of the other partners.
At the far end of the Key Bowen Crane boardroom table, Tony Bowen, chief executive officer, pushed himself out of his maroon leather chair. An immediate hush fell.
“I hope you all enjoyed your breakfast,” he said.
Rachel murmured her appreciation for the shredded croissant on the plate in front of her. Garrett hadn’t eaten, either, probably more from nausea than nerves—he’d drained a couple of cups of black coffee. Only Clive had tucked into his food with gusto.
“It’s time to get down to business,” Tony said. “We don’t call this the partnership shortlist announcement breakfast for nothing.”
Rachel laughed politely.
“So I’m delighted to announce that our three candidates are Clive Barnes, Garrett Calder and Rachel Frye.”
Why did he say my name last? Please, let it be alphabetical.
A round of applause from the existing partners. Only one of them was female. Definitely time for another woman on the team.
“It’s been some years since our last partnership vacancy, but the selection process hasn’t changed,” Tony said. “All three candidates will be required to prepare a new client pitch, with the help of their team. And I’m delighted to say that this year, we have an opportunity that’s worthy of your best efforts.” He paused for effect. “Brightwater Group.”
Wow. One of the largest private education providers in the country was looking for a new ad agency? The account would run into tens of millions of dollars.
Rachel took quick stock of her rivals. Clive’s expression was neutral—he was strongest in sports advertising, so this wasn’t his forte. Farther down the table, Garrett’s eyes were closed. Was he asleep, or was his shark-brain already devising some incredible campaign that would blow hers out of the water?
Not on my watch, buster. When it came to expensive fragrance or luxury cruises, Garrett might be hard to beat. But for campaigns aimed at the family market—Aunt Betty’s pies were a prime example—Rachel was the go-to gal. Brightwater was exactly the kind of account where she excelled. Its facilities might be private, but it was targeted firmly at lower income families.
The confidence Garrett had managed to puncture with his stabs at her creative ability surged back. I can do this.
“We want all of you to have every chance to impress us.”
Tony was talking about the partnership; Rachel steered her attention away from The Shark.
“That’s why we’re going to be up-front about the reservations we have about each of you as partner material,” Tony said.
Reservations?
“Ladies first.” Tony nodded at Rachel.
Oh, yeah, the not-good-at-thinking-on-my-feet thing. She tried to simultaneously sit up straight and look flexible. Garrett smirked.
“Rachel, you’ve been with us a long time, and your loyalty means a