Love Interest(76)
“Okay. Noted.” Alex looks at me thoughtfully. “What about forty-eight uninterrupted minutes? I’m begging.”
I laugh. “No, I want to. More than forty-eight minutes, I mean. Miriam’s schedule has been insane, and honestly, I’ve been alone a lot recently.”
“Yeah.” He shifts in his seat. Sighs. “Me too.”
* * *
The day of the presentation, I wear a navy blazer from Chico’s that Jerry’s mom gave me last Hanukkah and pointy, uncomfortable black shoes. My hair is tied back in a serious-girl bun. I’m not speaking in front of the stakeholders, but I get to be in the room, and I want to look the picture of professionalism. Meanwhile, Alex is wearing a blue tie with white snowflakes, and Christmas tree socks beneath his slacks. I catch glimpses of them as he paces in the boardroom. His hair is combed, suit pressed, and other than the bags under his eyes, he looks perfect. That first-day smile is fixed on his face.
He makes his way over to me. “Nervous?” I ask.
The gold in his irises is warmed up today, almost sparkling. “Not for this. Never for stuff like this.”
I want to ask what, in that case, he does get nervous about, but the boardroom doors swing open, and Dougie Dawson walks inside.
I’m halfway expecting him to look at Alex, grimace, and escape to the other side of the room, but when he spots us both, his eyes light up and he comes straight over.
And then he … smiles. Gleefully.
“Alex Harrison.” Dougie sticks out his hand, the gruff tenor of his voice slipping over me like a warning. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve been working on.”
Bewildered, Alex accepts Dougie’s handshake. “It took a village,” he says—probably reminding him that if he tanks this project, it’ll devastate more people than Alex.
“It really is a shame your father couldn’t stick around to see this,” Dougie says, his tongue running over the top row of his yellow teeth. “Guess you’ll have to settle for me instead.”
Alex doesn’t say a word, but his shoulders square and his posture straightens. He cocks his head just slightly. The stare he aims at Dougie is so intense that Dougie is the one to blink first.
“Like I said.” Dougie starts to back away. “Looking forward.”
Once he’s out of earshot, Alex turns his stare on me. “He didn’t even acknowledge you,” he grumbles. “I’m sorry.”
“That is not a thing I’m going to lose sleep over.”
“He can’t screw with this,” Alex mutters, cracking his neck. “It’s a decision by majority vote, in the end.” But they’re voting on something else entirely.
I still don’t know whether Dougie’s enthusiasm is a good omen or the nail in our coffins. He could’ve had a change of heart; maybe he’s looking to be persuaded. Either that, or he’s indulging us as his last act as CEO.
As we settle into our seats, and the projector cues up, the secret truth vibrating around the room is also written on half the faces I read.
The presentation goes like this:
As a shoo-in for editor in chief and the original genius behind Bite the Hand, Gus talks first—about the brand’s roots, intent, and niche. Editorial stuff, writerly stuff, contributors and content, website tech, distribution platforms and frequency.
Branching from Gus are Saanvi and Amanda, who talk about social media—to the fear and chagrin of everyone in the room who didn’t understand what Gus meant when he said, “No print, ever. I wouldn’t even call it a magazine. I’m not joking.” And funny enough, it’s not an age demarcation between the people who buy in and the people who don’t, because the oldest woman in the room is the wife of the late Harold Cooper himself, a man who was one half of the original duo who founded Little Cooper. She watches YouTube, made obvious when she said hello to me at the door, followed by “I also have quite a few allergies! What part of Tennessee are you from?”
Then it’s Don with the financials. Simply put, he slays.
And then there’s Alex, who takes it home. He talks about meaning, purpose, how Bite the Hand will help give Little Cooper the edge it desperately needs.
“Be the change you want to see in the world,” Alex says, strolling casually in front of the projector. “An overused platitude mainly reserved for Pinterest boards and the HomeGoods sale aisle, but if Little Cooper was a family, which I’d like to think it is, then Bite the Hand is your ten-year-old kid who wants to reach for the stars. And that kid deserves the best chance at success, which in this instance means an income statement, revenue stream, and editor in chief.”
He says it with all the brimming confidence of a Harvard-educated young man who knows what he’s talking about, who gets it, and it shows. By the time Alex is through, I’m speechless. And insanely turned on.
After, Tracy Garcia and Harold Cooper’s wife start clapping. I sneak a glance at Dougie, and here’s the thing: he looks genuinely won over. He even nods at Alex congenially, who meets his eyes, then looks away—at me—and winks.
All in all, it’s a freaking grand stroke. Nobody shits the bed, and everyone important seems convinced a million times over. When us underlings walk out of that room to give the board and execs time to deliberate, a raw and dangerous hope has already started to bloom in my chest.