“No, I insist.”
He nudged the decanter toward me. I poured myself a glass of water.
Then he poured himself a glass of water.
We drank our water in silence, not looking at each other.
Okay, this was ridiculous. So we’d sort of slept together and then sort of maybe almost kissed. We were adults! Professional adults! We could handle this. We could be pleasant. We could make light conversation and act like we weren’t two lovesick teens who’d broken up right before prom.
Right?
“The weather’s lovely,” I said. Sheesh, had I really been reduced to that banality?
“Yes,” he said, still not looking at me. A pause. “But it might rain later.”
“Oh?”
“That’s what the weather channel said.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
And then more silence.
This was all my fault. I should have handled it better when he went for the kiss. We should have had a real talk about our past when he first went for my pitch. I never should have slept with a handsome stranger in the first place—
But that was the way the cookie crumbled. If I kept counting my regrets, I’d end up moving back home and hiding under the bed while my mother derided all my life choices.
I was going to make some goddamn fucking pleasant conversation with this man if it killed me.
“The pork was delicious,” I said, trying to sound as if I didn’t have a care in the world. “How long have you had this cook?”
“Five years.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.
Goddamnit, Hunter Knox, work with me here!
“Your outfit’s nice,” I blurted in desperation before my brain could catch up to my mouth and yell, not professional!
He started slightly in his seat, his eyes darting up to meet mine for just a second. “Ah. Thank you?”
It was a tiny crack in his stony demeanor, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he was looking away from me again, as if I didn’t exist, as if he could barely bring himself to care that I was there with him, trying to forge a solid working relationship.
And the silence descended once again, like a dark curtain cutting off the connection between us.
I cast around for some neutral topic. What said professional, committed, but not interested? And then I realized what did, and I could have kicked myself for not seeing it sooner.
Work. Work was professional.
In my defense, if his shirt had been a size larger I wouldn’t have been so addled by lust that it would take a whole half hour to come up with that idea.
After all, I knew he liked my ideas, didn’t I? He’d chosen me, and he’d flown me all the way out here. He was paying money for my ideas. He’d have to engage.
“So, I’ve found all sorts of interesting information in the library archives,” I chirped. “I’m only up to the 1920s, of course, and the company stance on various issues during the sixties will be absolutely crucial to capturing the typically more liberal young adult population without alienating the senior demographic, but—”
“This is dinner, not a business meeting.” Hunter’s voice was a sharp ice spear as it slashed across mine, cutting me off. “And to tell the truth, I’m not really interested.”
I gaped, then fumed. I could feel steam started to build up, threatening to leak out my ears like an angry cartoon character. If he didn’t care about the company, then what the hell was I doing at his estate in the first place? “Excuse me?”
“You do your job. Don’t feel like you have to bother me with any details.” He sighed as if speaking to me was the most tedious thing in the world, and toyed with his fork. “I don’t think it will have any real effect anyway.”
“Excuse me?” Yep, steam coming out of my ears. Blood pressure rising. Also, the urge to kill, that was rising too.
“Today’s consumers are savvy,” Hunter said condescendingly. “They’re not going to fall for a catchy tune and a promise of good behavior from a corporation.”
I fumed, unable for several moments to even form words. My hands were clenched in fists at my side, and I could feel my stomach roiling. “If you feel that way about my plan, why’d you even hire me in the first place?”
“It was the lesser of two evils.”
I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. “Gee, thanks.”
“No offense,” he said, and for a second, his tone seemed different. Like maybe he actually meant it. “You’re clearly very good at your job, and very dedicated. I’ve just never been able to see the point of advertising. It seems like lying. Either your product’s good, or it isn’t. Outside forces shouldn’t be able to muddy the waters.”
“That’s not true at all!” I protested. I leaned forward, elbows on the table in defiance of everything my mother taught me as I let him have it. “Advertising lets people know about products they might never have heard about, about issues they might never have considered, about angles they might never have seen things from. It helps them embrace new experiences. And that’s just the consumers. A clever ad can help the little guy get an edge over a big corporation, give small businesses some crucial and much-needed public visibility, it can make dreams come true—”
“But the little guy isn’t likely to be the one getting the clever ad, is he?” Hunter interrupted, leaning forward as well, eyes fiery as he slapped his palm hard on the table.
Well, I had wanted him to engage with me.
“It’s the big corporations like McDonalds and Geico and, yes, Knox,” Hunter went on, “that can afford a big fancy think tank. A big team of advisors. The best research and focus groups. You think the little guy can compete with that?”
“They don’t have to.” I set my chin, determined to make him understand. “Those things are nice, but they’re not necessary. You only need one good idea to make a wave in the advertising world, and that idea can come from anywhere.”