The Do It List (The Do It List #1) (8 page)

I return texted:
Meet u @ 10th Ave Pizza.

“I’VE DISCOVERED A new kind of kink.” Sarah did a happy dance in her chair. “I had no clue I was a voyeur.”
 

“Should I be blushing?” I ran a knife down the middle of a giant wedge of Spinach cheese pizza, making two, slices.
 

“Oh yeah, you two were hot together. Bradley was so cute about it. And OMG, Gracie, you should have seen his face—the way he looked at you.”

I forked into my half slice. “Sarah, I was half naked.”

She shook her head. “Uh, uh. It wasn’t all lust. It was… I don’t know.” She sighed, dreamy-eyed. “Someday, a man is going to look at me like that.”

I smiled, sitting back in my chair. “I’m still amazed he was able to wrangle the tape away from security.”

“It cost him two Knicks tickets, four rows up from the bench.”

I stared at my sweet funny friend. “That’s…quite a sacrifice.”

“He said something as we watched the tape, then swore me to secrecy on penalty of beheading by Her Majesty’s Royal executioner or American equivalent.”

I blinked at her. “There was never an American equivalent. What did he say?”
 

“He had that look on his face…” Sarah leaned across the table. “He said he had no idea he was walking around half-dead. ‘She made me feel alive again’.”

I stopped shoveling salad into my mouth long enough to contemplate Bradley Craig’s actions and words.
 

And his Knicks tickets.
 

A new and uncomfortable affection percolated inside me. Then I imagined myself on the end of a hook being reeled Scary. “So…you erased the worst of it—the most embarrassing bits?”

She shook her head. “I added visual static on a separate track. Something the security guys can’t correct, but the men in black can filter out.”
 

I exhaled a huge sigh of relief.

Her mischievous grin was infectious. “We wouldn’t want to get Bradley in trouble with the Feds, would we?”

“I owe you and Bradley.”

“Big time. He ran the tape back down to security. Only one of the guards even knows it went missing for thirty minutes.”

“Yeah,” I sighed, “the one with two Knicks tickets.”

Sarah and I spent the early afternoon working on concepts for the A/X Spring Collection, but when three o’clock rolled around we split up. Sarah hurried off to put out a client revision fire, and I was late to Bradley’s research briefing.

I changed back into designer fatigues and skulked into DEFCON 5. This particular creative conference room featured a floor-to-ceiling nuclear hazard symbol painted on the wall, but no conference table. Just a long leather couch, a pile of beanbag chairs, and a foosball table. A central power station provided the link to the flat screen on the wall and charged all manner of electronic devices.
 

I sidestepped a tangle of smart phone cords and plopped myself down on an unoccupied radiation-yellow beanbag. There were good reasons why I wore jeans or fatigues to work. Like, tell me how it’s possible to sit in a beanbag chair—in a dress—and not give every man in the room an upskirt shot?
 

“You’re two for two, Gracie.” Bradley turned back from the presentation screen and stared directly at me. “Two meetings—late twice.”

I stared him down. “Luckily I’m smart enough to catch up.”

He broke his gaze and surveyed room. “I’ve been briefed, at some length, on the problems and issues of the past. My charge going forward is to get research and creative working together. And I want to start by assuring all of you, my job is to help facilitate great advertising, not stand in the way of it.” His gaze connected with each face in the room, ending on mine. “Breakthrough messaging that is fresh and compelling creates sales, which makes the client happy and keeps the agency in demand, which means new business and large bonuses.”

His presentation was concise and his delivery style relaxed. It seemed pretty clear that we were all going to go out on the street, conduct individually styled interviews, then compare and contrast. He had also used the word “list” twice. Once indirectly, but the second time went something like this: “As for your intercept questions…” His gaze never left me. “Compile a list and email them to me by Friday end of day.”

Tentatively, I raised my hand.

 
“Yes, Gracie.”

“I get it and I’m on board, just tell me we’re not going to test creative.”

Bradley’s gaze shifted away, then returned. “The client isn’t going to spend nine point two million dollars for Super Bowl spots, and not do pre and post testing.”
 

My stare narrowed. “Copy testing or a disaster check—a simple thumbs up or down?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Will I have to incorporate dynamic keywords for maximum purchase optimization?” I admit I laid on the sarcasm pretty thick, but I needed to know what sort of man I was up against, personally and professionally.

“We’ll determine the kind of testing once we narrow down the creative. Axel wants to test at least one humor spot because of high memorability ratings, plus humor gets the most post game press coverage. Hot flesh is next. A Sports Illustrated swimsuit model eating anything juicy.”

“How about my dick slathered in Héros body wash?” Mark offered.

“Maybe Kobe Bryant’s dick.” I glanced up at Bradley. “I’m sorry, I thought you said big and juicy.”

Sarah plopped down beside me, sharing the beanbag.

Bradley’s gaze moved past Derek and landed on Mark. “How about you stand in the corner while I spank her?”

Derek looked up from his tablet. “Don’t take the deal, Mark. If you stand in the corner, you can’t watch.”

Bradley’s gaze shifted to Derek and lingered just long enough to be uncomfortable. “Humor, hot flesh and…” Bradley pressed a key on his laptop and advanced the PowerPoint presentation. “Heartfelt.” A picture of Clydesdales frolicking in the snow appeared on screen.
 

“Those are your three, admittedly loose directions. Let’s call them themes for now until we analyze the interviews.” Bradley pivoted back toward Sarah and me. “Look, I will be the first to admit, testing is going to be tricky. We need killer breakthrough ideas that can stand up to testing—”

“Please save us the if-it’s-a-such-a-great-idea-people-will-recognize-it speech, because they don’t. That’s bullshit and you know it.” I had blurted out the remark and now it was too late to take it back. The very idea of testing Super Bowl spots made me crazy.

 
“I was about to say…” Bradley stared at me with angry eyes. Like he really wanted to put me over his knee. “When something is truly fresh it often tests poorly. We’re not exactly sure why this happens, but we do know that consumers are often more comfortable with the familiar, even the predictable.”

He relaxed a perplexed frown. “However, when you go deeper, research also indicates that fresh and original imprints, has staying power. The message appears to resonate longer.”

Randall, our group metadata analyst, chimed in. “We might consider invoking the Super Bowl Exception. We all know the creative bar is set higher for Super Bowl spots. Which means the audience is predisposed to be more open and accepting of a unique or unusual message.”
 

Sarah snorted a laugh. “Did you just make that up?”
 

Randall shrugged. “It’s worth a try—see if we can get creative testing down to a simple thumbs up or down.”

“Might even be bloody brilliant. Let me think about it.” Bradley scratched a shadow of stubble along his jawline. “Straight away, we’re going to want a naming system for the body wash scents. Keep it directional with brief copy, or visual examples. This is wide open—trust your gut—let’s see how far out you can go.”
 

His quick scan of the room ended on me. For some perverse reason, I wanted to provoke him again. “Be careful what you wish for, I can go pretty far out.”
 

His ice blue gaze flashed a bit of fire. “Bring it, Gracie.”
 

A number of phone alarms went off at once, which meant that people were off to other meetings or headed for home. Bradley wrapped up the meeting, with a reminder that he needed our interview questions by end of day Friday.

A quick check of my e-mail and I was good to go. As there is no graceful way to get out of a beanbag chair I reached out to Derek and he pulled me up.

 
“Thanks.” I had plans to leave directly after the meeting for dance class and could hardly wait to get there. I needed to work off the frustration of last night as well as the tension of being here in this room with Bradley Craig.

I shoved my tablet into my messenger bag and looked around for my jacket. As luck would have it, Bradley and I were the last two people in the room. He stood beside the sofa with his shirtsleeves rolled up. A light mat of brown hair covered muscled forearms, not too much, not too little. I liked a man with a little fuzz on him.
 

He loosened his tie. “Do you always dress as if you’re about to raid a compound in Abbottabad?”

“I change it up.” I pulled on my Scottish piper jacket with its broad epaulets and brass buttons. “It’s dangerous to wear skirts. Men want to fuck me in elevators.”

He shot me a half-lidded sultry gaze. A reminder of last night when my dress had pooled around my hips. “You do have a certain style about you.”

I made it as far as the open door before I turned around. “I never got a chance to thank you for taking care of the security tape. You risked a lot.”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

“You could be deported—or they could toss you in Guantanamo.”

“I’m a dual citizen. I have constitutional protections.” He scanned the ceiling carefully. “I suppose”—he lowered his voice—“we could be shot down by a drone.”

My gaze cooled. “Don’t say I didn’t thank you.” I turned to leave.

“Close the door, Gracie.”

I checked the hallway through the floor-to-ceiling glass by the exit. No one was about. Coworkers were in their offices, filling out time sheets, getting ready to call it a day.

I shut the door with a soft click.

“I believe there’s a light switch on the wall.” He used a huskier voice, more like the elevator Bradley. The man who had asked politely if I wanted to be held, then boldly stated his desire to fuck me.

I pressed the controls and the conference room dimmed. We wouldn’t be seen by passersby as long as we kept things quiet.

Nose to the door, I stared at the matte-black surface. “I know things got a little heated—” I stopped myself and cringed. Was I talking about last night or the testy words between us several minutes ago? And since when weren’t things heated between us? I sucked in a calming breath and exhaled silently.

It occurred to me, this attraction to Bradley might well be the hottest, most erotic experience of my life. I pivoted away from the door to face him. “Sorry I can’t be more enthusiastic about testing, it’s just that I’ve been screwed by research in the past, and not in a good way.”

Bradley flopped down on the sofa and raked me over with his gaze. He patted the seat next to him. “You and I need to build some trust.”

I approached slowly. “Have you any idea how many focus groups I’ve sat through where smirking research geeks underlined every word or phrase that didn’t test high enough—some of them the best words and phrases I’ve ever written in my life?”
 

I dropped my bag on the floor for emphasis. “Just once, I’d like to believe research has my back.”

He clasped my wrist and tugged. “Since we’re going to be working closely together…” He pulled me lower.
 

I settled a knee to each side of his thighs and straddled him. It was about time I climbed on the man. “How close?”

“Intimate close.” He easily worked through the buttons of my pants.

“You’re staring at my belly button.”

“You have a piercing.” His gaze turned darker, hungrier—as if I were a mocha chocolate truffle and he had a craving for Godiva.

I looked down at the diamond dangling from its white-gold post. “I took it off last night so it wouldn’t catch in my dress.”

“You are a beautiful woman, Gracie. And you’re beautiful here as well.”

 
He grabbed my hips and lifted. Using his tongue, he swept the jewel between his teeth and tugged gently. The surrounding flesh trembled, sending a shockwave of desire through me.

 
“Bradley.” I exhaled his name, as he kissed and licked his way down to the edge of my panties. He had me aching hot for him in what—two seconds?

He eased me back onto his lap. “Was that Bradley, please more?” He laid his head against leather cushions. “Or ‘Bradley, please lower’?”
 

“More like I want to see you naked, Bradley.”
 

I shoved his tie aside and unbuttoned his shirt. Even with clothes on, it was obvious he had a trim, fit body, but this was lovely. A nicely muscled chest and ripped abs were proof that he took care of himself.

I ran my tongue over a pec muscle and circled his nipple. His eyes closed as he caught his breath. My fingernails moved lower, picking up the trail of fuzz that disappeared under his trousers. He exhaled a ferociously sexy groan.
 

“Did you see the look on Derek’s face? He thinks I’m being hard on you.” His erection pressed into me, divinely hard and insistent. “Am I?” He thrust forward. “Being hard on you?”

I let my hips answer him.

“Easy—“ He sucked in a bit of air. “You’re going to make me explode.” His stare was unrelentingly fierce and sexy.

I was on the verge of ripping off my fatigues and impaling myself on that thick cock of his. “If I didn’t need to get to Chelsea Studios, I’d throw the biggest hump on you.” I forced myself to ease back and catch my breath. “I have dance class in”—I checked the time—“half an hour.”

“No.” He growled.

“Yes.” I climbed off him. “And I have Hannah. This is my usual night to take her.”

 
Reluctantly, we both buttoned up.