Page 12 of Faking It
“ROBERT, MATE. SO GOOD TO see you again.”
“Likewise.” Robert reaches out and shakes my hand. He’s aged well for his eighty years. Hair is salt and pepper with more salt than anything, and his daily workouts that always seem to come up in each of our conversations have kept his grip firm and his body fit.
When a man considers investing millions of dollars in your company, you make a point to talk with him about whatever it is he wants to talk about. His daily workouts are one of them.
His wife is another.
“It’s quite the kick-off party you’ve organized,” he says and takes a sip of his gin and tonic.
“Isn’t that what we’d aimed for? Enough buzz to get people asking about it . . . but not enough to make people want to know more until we’re ready for the official launch?”
“You listened.” He nods and peers around the rooftop patio.
“I always listen, Robert.” I take a sip of my Bundaberg and Coke and motion to the scene in front of us.
It looks ju
st how we talked about in our conversations. The terraced patio is strung with lights. Appetizers are being passed. Drinks are being poured at the two bars in opposite corners. My favors have been called in and the people who need to be here—the ones that tell Robert I’m in touch with this multi-million dollar industry—have arrived.
Yes, I’m playing the game. I’m wining and dining him and hoping his check will be written to me by the week’s end.
But what’s more important to me than his money are his connections. His unique experience consulting for other matchmaking platforms after he retired and his prolific background in public relations could help me get the visibility I need to launch this platform with a bang.
The man is a potential walking goldmine for SoulM8 and it has nothing to do with how deep his pockets are.
“And you have the AI program up and running? Are the glitches you encountered in the last run fixed?”
My low chuckle is a warning: hands off. “I told you, mate, leave the software, the AI, the implementation to me. All I need is your help with visibility. Your contacts with the media. Your schmoozing with the press to get us on air and in print.”
He eyes me, the warning not to overstep heard loud and clear. He lifts his eyebrows and takes a sip of his wine. “What about a spokesperson?”
I laugh, glad he listened and stepped his toes back on his side of the line. “It’s been a hard job having to look at one gorgeous woman after another, but someone had to do it.”
“It must have been taxing.” He gestures to the people milling around on the patio. “Did you have a favorite?”
“Yes.” I picture Simone. Beautiful, shapely Simone with the sexy voice who will reel in the men, the hardest demographic to engage, to the platform. “Tonight I’ve arranged for you to meet the five women under final consideration, speak with them, and then we’ll see if we agree on who our spokesperson should be. But I think we’ll be in agreement.”
“Fair enough,” he says and nods. “And you still think the carryover from the beta group will hold?”
“I do. We’ve already exceeded our preregistration goal by twenty percent and that’s before we start the promo tour next week. Once that begins and we do the press junket, I’m more than certain we’ll blow our projections out of the water.”
Robert doesn’t look my way. A habit I’ve noticed he has when he’s trying to figure out how to phrase something.
“So tell me about your experience.”
Christ. He went there. It’s not enough that I’m jumping through every hoop imaginable that he’s thrown up, but now he’s going to hold me to this crap? A one off promise I made to try and wrangle his investment that I had hoped he’d forget about.
“It was a good one.” I nod and empty my drink in one swallow.
I can bullshit with the best of them. I can wine and dine and persuade, but fuck if I’m good at lying to a man who’s going to help me win this damn contest.
“Good?” His chuckle resonates around us and several people look our way. “So you’ve found someone then?”
“Someone . . . yes.” I’m going to hell.
“And you think you have a chance at a future together?”
I nod and don’t trust myself to speak. “Mm-hmm.”
