Page 14 of Cockpit
“The hometown boy, right?”
“Yep.” I meet her smile for smile. “Not only is he the one who is going to win, but also he is going to put a face to this contest and give us the publicity we need to bring it to the next level. He’s the total package.”
Her laughter fills the shared office space. “That’s a pretty bold statement about the flyboy we don’t have a clear picture of.”
“I’m telling you.” I turn my chair to face hers. “We put him on the cover, and we’ll not only sell print but also increase our online presence. Step up the promotions—I’ve already been able to secure BuzzFeed, TMZ, Perez. If they’ll talk about him, we could get a rally behind him.”
“That’s pretty biased, don’t you think?” she says, pursing her lips as she leans back in her chair and studies me. “Readers are supposed to pick the winners. Not us.”
“I believe you already had your pom-poms out for Braden.”
“Agreed. But you’re the one in control. Pulling the strings. You could easily sway readers to vote for your man over mine.”
“First, he isn’t my man. And second, if it comes down to these two finalists, we could always have a cover contest. The most votes land the winner on a cover, or something like that. Let the readers feel involved.”
“Could work.” Her gaze doesn’t relent, and I know she still isn’t one hundred percent behind my turning her little parenting magazine into a hot man show. Skin sells. Let’s hope that’s true for my sake, anyway. “Let’s get a look at the new images you got of him and the new bio you have written up.”
All that bravado I just spewed is about to be shot to shit, but I fake it anyway. “I don’t have them yet.”
“Don’t have them yet?” she asks as a smile toys at the corners of her mouth. “I’m confused—wait a minute. He’s the only one who’s local, who we can meet face-to-face, and you couldn’t get a shot of him? Braden’s from Kentucky.” She points to the picture of him on the screen for emphasis. “And I was able to get plenty of new images of him. Last night he emailed about five to me. So . . .”
“It’s complicated.” Telling her he shut the door in my face doesn’t really make me seem like manager material.
“Okay.” She draws the word out with an impatient expression that says I’m a novice and don’t know what the hell I’m doing. “Then how do you plan to exploit this guy—because, let’s face it, that’s what you will be doing—if you don’t have pictures to show?”
“Like I said, it’s complicated.”
“You also said every single task was completed . . . and this was one of them.” I grit my teeth at the holier-than-thou look on her face but don’t say a word. “Listen, you’re talented. Damn talented. But that pretty little ego and stubborn streak of yours doesn’t allow you to take direction well. I’m here to help you. To teach you. Of course, I’m supposed to give reports to your father, but I know that’s a double-edged sword for me in my position. So here’s the thing—I’m tough, but fair. I can go toe-to-toe with you one minute and then brush it aside and get down to business without a grudge the next. But the question is, can you, Sidney? Your success only helps me in the long run, so we can either work together and I can teach you some things while you’re here or we can go day to day, questioning the other’s motives.”
My spine stiffens. I want to reject her words on principal and accept everything she’s said all at the same time. “Okay.” I swallow over the myriad of other things I want to say because she’s right. We need to work together.
“Good.” All that’s missing is her dusting off her hands to demonstrate this topic is over. “So, where were we? Grayson Malone. No new pictures or bio for next round. Why not?”
And just like that, she flips the switch in a way most women can’t.
“I’m working on it. He isn’t exactly enthusiastic about being a finalist.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s either a really good actor or someone else entered him without him knowing it.”
“Oh, even better.” She rubs her hands together. “A reluctant hero. Those are always the sexiest ones.”
“Sexy and then some,” I murmur as I absently run an antibacterial wipe over my keyboard. When I look up, she’s watching me with her brows raised as if to say I’m being ridiculous when it comes to germs. “You’re from around here. Don’t you know who he is?”
Her laugh is amused annoyance. “I’m a single mom with three kids all under the age of twelve. I don’t have time to breathe or take a pee without being interrupted, let alone meet other people or follow their lives.”
Her chastisement of my life—single and what I’m certain she feels is vapid and empty—rings loud and clear. “Oh.” Not many people leave me at a loss for words, and yet, on the heels of her “you’re-either-with-me-or-against-me” comments, I am. Her statement highlights the stark differences in our lives.
“I know of his family. His dad was the chief of police or something . . . but I’ve never met them. I live in Riverville and commute in to the office so . . .” Her words fade off as if to tell me that I should know this.
“I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t. You never asked.” She straightens her papers with a sharp rap against the desk before she continues. “Was his wife okay with this?”
It takes me a second to respond, my mind still on her subtle rebuke of me never once really interacting with the staff here. “Wife? I didn’t see anyone else there other than Grayson and his son.”
“Ah, a single and hot dad. Even better for marketing. All we need is his backstory—preferably something good and emotional—and he’s golden. Tell me we have that.”
