“We’ll adjust any of this to fit what Creative comes up with,” I said, in case Nate thought the strategy was lacking. Not that he’d said anything to suggest that he did.
He moved from a magazine article to a graph about the best uses of social media. “I’m not worried about it. This is Weston’s department.”
Right. Nate didn’t care. He was only in here killing time while his own department came up with an ad campaign. They’d come up with several ad ideas, and he’d shot down every one so far.
Weston, on the other hand, had left for the night. He wasn’t the type to stay late in general, I’d learned. Especially recently, when he had so much to do to prepare for his upcoming wedding, which was now only six weeks away.
My anxiety was all about me and no one else. I’d been at Reach for a month, and due to the fast pace that the company kept, I’d already seen several of my team’s marketing plans put into place. But Phoenix was the first big campaign presentation I’d been a part of. It was important to the entire firm, and nerves were high-strung throughout the staff. I’d just left a handful of my own employees in another work room, quibbling over which color of background looked better in the PowerPoint slides like it was a matter of life or death.
I let out a sigh, relaxing my shoulders as I did. “Are you confident your team will come up with something?”
Nate stroked his hand across his closely shaved beard. “A year ago we wouldn’t have even had a shot at Phoenix. An opportunity like this doesn’t come every day, and I’m going to make sure we make the most of it. That’s the best we can do.” He turned toward me. “But if we don’t get it, we don’t get it. It’s not because I don’t have a good team. Advertising is catching the right wave at the right time. Sometimes you crest high, sometimes you wipe out.”
I tilted my head and looked at him in the dim light. “Nathan Sinclair, are you a secret surfer?”
Nate was ten years older than Donovan, who already had five years on me, and except for a vague bio on the company website, I didn’t know much about the man. He seemed to like it that way. Every time I’d tried to ask him about himself, he’d evaded my questions. Either he was a serious introvert or a man with a fascinating past.
I was betting on the latter.
Tonight he had his jacket off and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows revealing tattoos extending down both of his forearms. I’d seen him riding a Harley once after work. I could totally picture him hanging ten.
But he only laughed. “Just trying to bond with the California girl.”
“In the years I lived there, I don’t think I ever became a California girl. I maybe went to the beach a handful of times.” I wasn’t even sure I’d ever gotten a tan.
“Workaholic.”
I squinted at the clock. “Says the president still at the office at nine thirty-seven p.m.”
“It’s only the second time this week I’ve been here past eight.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
There was a knock on the doorframe since the door was already open. We turned toward the sound. One of the guys from Creative was standing there.
“Hey, Nate, what do you think about the ‘American Idea’? That notion was used a lot in the last election year. Maybe we could try to leverage it as a unifying patriotic—”
Nate cut him off. “Can’t use it. The ‘American Idea’ was trademarked by Donald Trump.” He thought for a moment. “But I like the scope. Let’s keep thinking along those lines. I’ll come brainstorm with you.” The two of them left together.
“Send someone to get me when you have something,” I called after them. “I’ll be here or upstairs in my office.” Then I turned again to my boards. If the scope of the campaign were bigger, would we need to adjust our strategy to fit that?
The idea of making changes made me tired—or more tired—but I was determined. I walked backwards, trying to see the entirety of the plan better, until my thighs hit the back of the worktable.
“Fuck it,” I muttered to myself, hopping on the table. I was already here late. Might as well get comfortable. I kicked off my shoes while I was at it and brought one nyloned foot up to my knee to massage while I looked over the boards and brainstormed.
For the next several minutes, I was lost in my head, but not so lost that I didn’t notice when the air in the room changed. It felt warmer. Like the heater had just kicked in.
Someone walked in and stood beside the table.
I inhaled slowly. I didn’t want to turn my head, didn’t want to look in his direction, because I knew exactly who it was, and in this moment, he was next to me, and while I was pretending I didn’t know, I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t care.
But then he held out a Styrofoam cup of coffee in my direction, and I had to look at it.
“You’re working late,” Donovan said when I acknowledged him.
Beyond seeing him in meetings and passing him in the hallway, I hadn’t really talked to him in the month since the night he’d taken me to Gaston’s. We’d left things unsettled, and that gnawed at me when I let it, but when I didn’t, our working relationship was fine. He didn’t bother me. I didn’t bother him. He’d done as I’d asked—he’d left me alone.
That was what I had wanted, I reminded myself often. It was for the best.
And yet I couldn’t deny that his nearness now felt like a glimpse of sun after a long winter cold.
I took the coffee, wondering if it was an olive branch of sorts. “I want to make sure the plan we have outlined fits the new creative campaign when it comes through.”
After taking a sip of the brew, I set the cup down at my side, trying to ignore the way my stomach flip-flopped when Donovan looked at my work.
It wasn’t any better when he looked back at me. “You have a qualified team for that. You don’t trust them?”
“I trust them just fine.” Honestly, I did. But this was my first big deal. It would have my name all over it. I wanted to make sure every t was crossed. Every i was dotted.
It wasn’t something I wanted to explain to anyone. Especially to him.
“Let me give you some advice,” he said, pulling a chair out from the table.
“How about you don’t.” I was both intrigued and intimidated by his actions. It wasn’t like him to be on this floor. “Why are you even down here?”
Facing the chair toward me, he sat in it. “To bother you. No other reason.” He held his hand out, palm up. “Give me your foot.”
I glanced down at the foot in my lap that I was still half-heartedly rubbing. Was he offering to…? “No!”
He side-eyed me. “Come on, Sabrina. You look exhausted. I owe you a foot rub, at least.” When I still hesitated, he added, “Completely innocent. I promise. We aren’t the only people here. What could I possibly do to you?”