Rudy passed a drink to another coworker. “And what is that, ma’am?”
Morgan frowned with annoyance. “A sugar-free caramel mocha, half-soy, half-almond milk, no whip with a dash of cinnamon.”
He scurried away, and Morgan’s attention snapped back to me. “It’s a very big account, I’m told. Giant.” She stepped into my space and grabbed some napkins. “The first phase of the Coalminers’ campaign is wrapping up, so it’s the perfect time for me to take on a new project.”
“Right.” I thanked Rudy and accepted my drink, letting the warmth of the cup seep into my hand.
“And what is it you’re working on?” Morgan barely paused for time to answer. “Oh, yes. Ozark Mountain Dog Food. How was that photo shoot with all the hunting mutts?”
I’d gone home covered in so much dog hair I looked like Sasquatch, and my ears rang all night with the shrill cries of beagles. “Perfectly delightful.”
“We all have to be put through our paces, right?” She lifted her cup in a salute. “Your day for the big account will come. Eventually.” With that, Morgan—the intrepid, seasoned elder—made her exit, leaving a trail of residual perfume and condescension.
ChapterThree
OLIVIA
I racedup the steps to the third floor, not even bothering with the elevator. I had to get this costume off before the meeting. Even with a collection of planners I followed obsessively, it was so hard to keep up with all the events around the office. Pie Day. Tuba Awareness Week. Dress Like a Favorite Martyr Monday. It was exhausting. I didn’t need forced efforts to generate fun and camaraderie. All I wanted was function and efficiency in my workplace. And less dog hair.
I’d just made it to my office, rounded my desk, and removed my pearls when Celeste’s assistant stuck her head in the door. “Meeting in the green conference room right now.”
I pointed at the billowy gown. “But I need to change.”
“Celeste’s in a mood,”Berta warned. “No time for that.” Her eyes tracked me as I packed up my laptop and joined her at the door. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“Someone who needs a day off.”
“Like you’d ever take one,” she muttered.
With coffee in one hand and my laptop in the other, I scurried to the meeting space, dodging two dogs and a Persian cat. Last week Milo Riggins brought his albino snake, and Celeste had sent them both home. She had her limits on boundless fun.
The green conference room was an ode to sustainability and Mother Earth. It featured walls papered in bamboo, lights powered by a solar panel that rarely worked, and a giant table surrounded by fifteen chairs all constructed from cardboard. The room smelled like compost, and I couldn’t wait until the whole design was recycled.
Celeste did a double take as I entered but proceeded to set up her materials for a presentation.
“Celeste looks furious,” Elton whispered to me as I sat beside him and FeeFee. “That doesn’t bode well.”
“Good morning.” Celeste waited for the room to quiet, which did not take long. The woman merely had to blink to command attention. My gosh, she was incredible. Her leadership was on par with anyone running a Fortune 500 company. Her ideas were van Gogh levels of art and genius. I’d seen grown men cry in her presence and countless standing ovations in her honor. She resembled Viola Davis with that same captivating blend of elegance and intimidation.
“Before we get to our original agenda for the meeting,” Celeste said, “we have something very serious to discuss.” She leveled those eyes on every single person in the room, like a mother making good on her threat to pull the car over for a scolding. “This morning at four a.m., Tinesha Drake was arrested for stalking and breaking and entering the home of world-renowned architect—and our client—Tyrone Phillips.”
Gasps filled the fragrant room. Exaggerated looks of shock took over faces. Even FeeFee whined in misery.
“As of the time of her booking, Tinesha is no longer an employee of Flair.” Celeste tilted her head back, squeezed the bridge of her trim nose, and released a shuddering breath. “Counting last month’s debacle with Brett, this is two Flair scandals in as many months. I will not stand for even one more step out of line. Not one teensy-weensy smidgen of impropriety or drama. Am I clear?”
Last month our marketing specialist, Brett Hargis, had gotten fired for double-billing a client. That client had not only found the embarrassing discrepancy, but he’d also found Brett in the hot tub with said client’s wife.
“Word is already out regarding how unstable Flair looks,” Celeste all but shouted. “An hour ago I received a call from the folks that handle the HGTV remodel show that films here, and they’ve terminated our contract. They will be pursuing another marketing company. I have five messages to return from other clients, and I dread those conversations, as I’m sureFizzle to Fabulouswon’t be the only one to opt out. Our reputation has been nuked. Do I need to remind you that how you conduct yourself reflects heavily onmycompany?” Celeste did not wait for a response. “So now this firm that serves world-class PR needs its own PR. How horribly ironic.”
She paced the front of the room as I sat in my ballgown and tried to process it all. I ate, slept, and breathed this company. Stick me, and I bled Flair. If we didn’t change our logo every four years, I would’ve proudly tattooed Flair somewhere on my person. It devastated me to see our company brought so low by the thoughtless indiscretions of others. And it certainly pained me to watch my hero, Celeste, in agony over the fallout.
My boss resumed her tirade. “We are being scrutinized like never before. So for the next year—at least—if even one of you steps out of line and brings negative press to Flair, you will be fired on the spot.” She slammed her manicured hands on the table. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” we said in vehement harmony.
She let her gaze travel across each of us, searing her threat into our brains one frightened employee at a time. “You keep your personal lives private, and if you have some crazy lurking inside you, I want you to stick it in one of those packing cubes, shove it in a suitcase, and send it far, far away. I do not ever want to know about it.”
That would not be a problem for me. I, Olivia Sutton, upholder of the ironclad calendar and ten-year life plan, was as scheduled and straight-laced as it got. And nowhere in that life plan I so carefully crafted would you find “crossing the line with a client” or “getting myself arrested.” I detested drama and would never so much as dip a toe in its waters.
