Page 48 of Love What's Left
James looks me in the eye. “I haven’t read your proposal.”
It’s one thing to clown around believing no one needs you. It’s something else to know people are counting on you to give everything you’ve got and then not even find a seat at the table. An entire team worked full-time for weeks to put this together.
I sit back and manage to keep the frustration out of my voice. “Would you care to explain?”
“The word is, you’re taking over Henry’s responsibilities.”
“McRae Property Development has been mine for seven years. I’m the majority shareholder at MPD, so I’m not sure what my brother’s choices with the rest of my family’s holdings have to do with this.” Henry sacrificed everything for this family, and me, for years. Now he and Franki want to start a family. It’s time for the man to enjoy his life, not continue to hold my hand.
James spears me with a blue gaze that sees too much. “You’re young.”
“I’m nearly thirty-two. Young in this industry? Yes. But my brother was significantly younger than I am now when he took over. Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you twenty-nine when you became CEO at Harcourt?”
James runs a hand through his dark hair. “And I had some growing pains as a result. I also came into the position with bad press following directly on my heels. I’ve been where you are.”
He shows me the electronic tablet that, no doubt, holds the proposal I sent him. “This could be an ideal partnership on paper, but you have a reputation that could take on a life of its own and affect the viability of this project. I can’t be the first person to say this to you.”
I force my hands to relax. “You’re talking about ancient history.”
James frowns. “When people hear your name, they don’t think of someone they’re willing to trust.”
My jaw flexes before I regain control and smooth out my expression. “I have a solid track record professionally and an excellent portfolio. I assure you, bad press is the last thing you or your stockholders would have to fear with MPD. I run an ethical company.”
James shakes his head. “New press, you mean. In the absence of something interesting to talk about, they’re more than happy to recycle the old stories.”
I steel myself against gut-churning disappointment.
“I admire the way you’ve gotten your life together. You have a strong work ethic, and a great mind for business,” James says.
Here comes the“but.”
“But I can’t sell this to my board of directors because they still see you as the person you were. You need to take active steps to repair your reputation before I could reasonably consider any partnership with your company.”
“Beyond getting my life together, having a strong work ethic, and a great mind for business?” I cover my bitterness with a wry smile. “How many years does it take to live down a reputation for drunken debauchery?”More than seven, obviously.
“It’s about more than years.” He rubs his jaw. “Clarissa likes you, Gabriel. Which is why I’m giving you this unsolicited advice. You’ve done the work, but, in this business, you have to do the PR too.”
I don’t bother to hide my distaste.
James grimaces. “I hate it too. Believe me. But people remember you for the last thing they know you for. You have to provide them with something else to focus on.”
“Public appearances just give them a reason to rehash the old stories.” I speak from bitter experience.
James nods. “At first, yes. It takes repeated and regular PR to offset something like this. It’s not a one-and-done. None of it has to involve you giving speeches or interviews. I wouldn’t answer questions about your past at all, but you need to start living and stop hiding. Start a charity for something you care about. Take your niece and nephews to some baseball games. Attend social and business functions. Put a ring on Sydney’s finger and make whatever the two of you are doing official. She’s downright wholesome. The press will love her. Show up in the public eye often enough for your name to become associated with good things.”
I huff a laugh. “Just like that?”
His expression turns sardonic. “Pick and choose the ways that work for you.”
Some bridges, once burned, can never be rebuilt. I’ve tried. She stands on the other side, soaks the boards with kerosene, then drops a lit match the moment I take a step to cross it.
Before the meeting started, I’d turned my phone to Do Not Disturb, but, from my pocket, it emanates a distinctive text tone that I’ve set to always let through.
I don’t pull it out. I don’t want to know. Not tonight. If she takes that douche who’s been hanging around home, it’ll be the end of me.
James clears his throat. “You can check your text. It seems important to you, and we’re pretty much done here.”
That he can tell I’m wound up is a bad sign. My mask isn’t just slipping; it’s missing in action. I school my features into pleasant interest and nod my thanks, then pull the phone out.
