Julian's Pursuit (5 page)

I listened, quietly amazed as she took the clients on a journey, making them aware that there was a gap in their knowledge and then filling in that gap with answers to the puzzle. She even took my team’s stream of interconnected ideas and crafted a story that was both effective and memorable.

And somehow, she even managed to make “reluctant” concessions so the Jensen execs felt like we were all in agreement.

I was so fucking turned on. By her confidence, her presence, her brilliance, her poise.

By the end of the meeting, I had to shift in my seat and adjust myself under the table.

She was making me so goddamn hard my cock was going to have a permanent imprint from my zipper.

Face alive with passion, keen intelligence shining in her eyes, and fire burning in her cheeks, she made the most of her time in the spotlight—and then some.

This is Sadie’s world
, I thought.
And the rest of us here are just paying rent
.

This was a person who could hold a campaign together as a one-woman operation.

This was a person who could some day become an advertising powerhouse, perhaps the next global vice president of marketing for this agency.

Or any agency for that matter. I didn’t doubt that for a second.

All in all, the meeting was a success on all counts. In the end, Jensen felt like they had been listened to, and my team and I felt that we had been heard.

All thanks in large part to Sadie Frost.

After the meeting, I hung back while Sadie tidied up her files.

Swallowing with a dry throat, I said, “Sadie?”

“Mmm?” she murmured without looking up.

“Nice job.”

“Thanks,” she said brusquely.

“So,” I said. “Do you carry those stories inside you all the time? Or do they just hatch out whenever they’re needed?”

A ghost of a smile crossed her face, coming and going so quickly I wasn’t sure I’d really seen it.

In the ensuing silence, I watched her for a moment. She looked even more gorgeous today in a crisp white blouse paired with a leather pencil skirt. I loved the dichotomy of her angelic top against the black leather of her skirt. It was refined, yet it lent her a sleek, femme fatale flair. Fierce vixen meets superhero sexy. And she saved the day.

“What if Jensen had said no to our storyboard?” I asked suddenly.

“I’ve learned that with my clients, every no is temporary. No doesn’t mean no. It just means no for now. So whenever they feel a need to say no, I let them,” she said simply. “Besides, a few well-placed no’s can create the right environment for a yes
.
”

“I see.” After a lengthy pause, I said, “So, Sadie…”

“Yes?” She looked up from her files.

I attempted a smolder. “Will you go out on a date with me?”

“No.” Her refusal was automatic.

“Lunch tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Coffee instead?”

“No.”

“Frozen yogurt?”

She looked pained. “Julian?” she said at last.

“Yeah?”

“I see what you’re trying to do.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “You’re trying to create a right environment for a yes, but it’s
not
happening.”

“Ah.” I waved her words aside. “But there’s always a chance you might say yes.”

“All right.” A beguiling smile slowly eased up one corner of her mouth. “You want to know what the chances are that I might say yes?”

I found myself nodding in response.

“Look out the window,” she said demurely and like a fool, I did. “Now look up at the sky and count the stars. That’s how much of a chance you have.”

“But it’s noon.” I frowned. “I can’t see a single star.”

“Exactly,” she said without expression. “And thank you for pointing that out, Captain Obvious.”

I was three times a fool. “You’re welcome, Sergeant Sarcasm.”

As Sadie turned to leave, I said, “Hang on a sec.” Not to be outdone, I squinted in the pallid glare of the afternoon sun. “With a telescope or a powerful pair of binoculars, I’m pretty sure I could see a million stars in the sky, even in broad daylight. So I’d say the chances of you saying yes are pretty darn high.”

She groaned in exasperation, the sound raspy and appealing in a way it shouldn’t have been. “Please stop talking.”

“Okay.” The corners of my mouth quirked in a lopsided grin. “Whatever Miss Sadie wants Miss Sadie gets.”

“You’re still talking,” she said with a slight inflection in her voice that indicated she might have in fact enjoyed our playful banter.

Chapter Five

“Are you going to the office holiday party?” Julian asked as he passed me in the hallway.

I blinked. “When is it again?”

“This Saturday.” He paused, then pointed out. “Tomorrow.”

I thought briefly, then nodded. The firm’s holiday parties were held right after Thanksgiving, almost three weeks before Christmas.

At Hall and Heinrich, they liked to ring in the celebrations early.

“So are you going?” he asked again.

“Of course,” I said with false cheer. “Miss an opportunity to watch my coworkers get drunk and act like total asshats? Not a chance.”

Julian flashed me a grin that could only be described as morose. “I’m looking forward to suffering through the indignity of forced merriment.”

Forced merriment
. Hah. I liked that. Office holiday parties had a way of living in infamy. Every business has its own culture, but advertising seems to attract a slightly more, shall I say, progressive type of person than others.

Last year, Hall and Heinrich threw a party on a yacht that was so scandalous the firm was banned from the cruise line.

So this year, I heard the firm had rented out a banquet hall in downtown San Francisco.

Truth be told, I usually showed up out of a sense of obligation, and it was an excuse for me to wear a pretty dress.

“Will you save me a dance?” he asked, his sea-green eyes intent upon my face.

I bit back a laugh. “It isn’t prom night.”

“Will you?” He continued to hold my gaze steadily.

God. He melted my insides when he looked at me like that.

“Maybe.” My body tensed with sexual awareness. I forced my voice to lightness, determined to hide my own traitorous emotions.

“Maybe?” He pantomimed a knife to his chest. “Is that a polite no?”

Smiling at his theatrics, I slowed to a halt when I reached my office and paused with my hand on the door. “Ask me again tomorrow night and you’ll know.”

I could have gone with the slightly more conservative black dress, but something inside me rebelled and I went with the long red dress with a low, plunging back and a side slit that ran to my upper thigh. It showed an indecent amount of leg.

The silky material was so soft and fluid it melted against my curves, fitting over my body like a snake’s skin.

It was bold and ballsy and it gave my confidence a much-needed boost.

Before I left my room, I stood in front of the mirror to check myself. After a quick deliberation, I removed the long onyx necklace dangling from my neck.

Taking off at least one piece of jewelry before I left the house was a habit instilled by my mom. Mom had always embraced Chanelism—a hallmark of the fashion designer Coco Chanel. I didn’t know if Chanelism was even a word, but Mom had always insisted it was. And according to her, Coco Chanel once famously said, “Before you leave the house, look in the mirror and remove one accessory.”

This rule always ensured that I didn’t overdo it. Less is more, so to speak.

By the time I was ready to leave, the doorbell rang and it was Brianna, my babysitter.

“Evan’s already in bed,” I told her. “And my mom will probably be home sometime tonight. I’ll only be gone for a few hours, but call me if you need anything. My number is on the fridge.”

“Okay.” She flopped down on the sofa, reached for the remote, and turned on the TV.

As I stood in the foyer, slipping on my strappy heels, Brianna’s lilting voice drifted over from the sofa. “You look
sic
in that dress! Are you ready to get
turn’t up
at the party?”

I was down with her slang, her lingo. “Turn’t up? Is that
turn up
to the highest degree?”

“Yeah.” Brianna nodded coolly. “You know, get wild, get loose! Get
turn’t up
at the party.”

I just smiled and shook my head.

Teenagers these days
, I thought. I felt like the old lady in the room. It seemed to me like some teens nowadays were too concerned about being
turn’t u
p. What they really needed to
turn up
was respect, intelligence, and making something of themselves.

Good gravy!
I thought
. I must be getting old. I sound just like my Grandma Constance
.

Of course I shared none of this with Brianna. If I did, she’d probably never turn up to babysit.

Because I didn’t leave my house until after Evan was tucked in bed, it was close to nine thirty by the time I arrived at the party. The lights were low, the drinks were flowing, and the music was bumping. I deposited my Secret Santa gift under the twenty-foot Christmas tree and cast a glance around the ballroom. Everyone was in a good mood, laughing, chatting, drinking, and dancing.

As I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, I caught sight of Rochelle.

She waved at me from across the room, motioning for me to come join her.

Tough as nails, warm like the Portuguese sun—that was Rochelle Bendal in a nutshell. She drank, smoked, swore too much, and scared almost everyone she met.

But Rochelle didn’t intimidate me in the least because she and I went way back. When I’d first started out at Hall and Heinrich six years ago, I was hired as her assistant.

Rochelle, an account manager at the time, had seen the steel in my eyes, my spitfire ambition. And while I’d worked efficiently, was highly motivated, and wore many hats, all my hard work never got me anywhere in the company.

The
Mad Men
era of advertising might have been over at the time, but sexual equality in the industry had yet to be reached. Women didn’t match their male peers in the management ranks. Rochelle knew how difficult it was for women in advertising, and she’d been determined to help a fellow sister out.

When I’d ask her why, she simply replied that she believed in women empowering one another rather than competing with each other.

Rochelle had started out at the bottom, too, covering the phones for receptionists on bathroom breaks. She fought hard to rise through the ranks, and she succeeded. And she wanted to see me succeed, too. And she did. Like a true mentor, she took me under her wings, showed me the ropes, supported me, stood by me, and I eventually rose to the rank of senior account executive.

“Sadie.” Rochelle smiled and leaned in to give me two air-kisses. “It’s so good to see you, darling.”

“You, too,” I said warmly. “It’s been a while.”

“I know,” she said ruefully. “It has, hasn’t it? Too long, I must say.”

Three years ago, Rochelle was sent to New York to help spearhead Hall and Heinrich’s new office.

“How have you been?” I asked. “How’s New York?”

“Oh, I love New York,” she gushed theatrically. “Love it! Over there, you’re allowed to be an asshole only if you’re interesting. You have to actually earn the privilege of being a dick. Over here, on the other hand…” She waved her champagne glass in the air, making a vague gesture in the direction of Tim Pulaski’s table. “You can just be a dick. No personality needed.”

Meanwhile, Tim was doing little to prove her wrong. He and the men at his table were rating the women on a scale of one to ten.

It wasn’t exactly hard to overhear their conversation since Tim was as deaf as a post and often spoke at full volume. “Natalie’s a four,” he remarked. “With her big ass, she looks like Barney in that purple dress.”

“Barneys New York?” Alan sounded perplexed. “The department store?”

Tim made a dismissive snort. “Barney the fucking dinosaur, you idiot.”

Rochelle grimaced with distaste. “Pulaski hasn’t changed one bit, has he?”

“Nope.” I took a sip of champagne. “Not one iota.”

“Fucking prick. And his voice!” Rochelle barely contained a shudder. “Christ, he sounds like an old Italian frog passing gas.”

A bubble of laughter escaped me. “He does, doesn’t he?”

“You know what?” Rochelle said dryly. “We should rate the men, too.”

“We should,” I agreed, my voice matching hers for dryness. “Let’s start with Pulaski.” I let my critical gaze rest on his outfit, taking in his dress shirt that was buttoned all the way up his neck, even with the top button done up,
and
he wasn’t wearing a tie.

“A dress shirt fully buttoned but without a tie.” Rochelle made the same observation. “He looks uncomfortable and ridiculous, if you ask me.”

“It does frame his chin perfectly, though,” I said wryly.

“Obviously, he’s going for the street wear hipster vibe, but that isn’t even a sixties mod shirt. It’s an ugly-ass dress shirt. Ugh, no.” Rochelle shook her head. “Just—
no
. He looks like an Iranian government official.”