Epilogue
in the middle of work, the entire scene washed over me. Like a tsunami, it knocked everything else out of the way. The wide window of my downtown Oakland office disappeared and I found myself standing on Stan's portico again.
Rainer was on one knee, his words so soft and stressed that I had to lean forward and down to hear him. Then I reeled back, not believing I had heard him right. Rainer had to shuffle forward across the bricks to catch my hand and try to convince me he was serious.
What really caught me was his sincere offer to always be there when I came home.
No other expectations, no other old-fashioned notions of marriage, just me pursuing my career and coming home each night to find him there for me.
After I said yes, Rainer had launched from the bricks and caught me up in his arms. Instead of the molten kiss I expected, he lifted me high in the air and spun me around until the twinkling lanterns and lights of Stan's mansion flowed into bright circles.
And then we kissed.
I leaned back in my office chair, ready to draw the warmth of that memory around me like a blanket.
"Ms. Nichols?"
Topher stood in the doorway, and when I spotted him, I jumped out of my chair. "What? I mean, I'm here. What do you need?"
My assistant gave me funny little smile. "I tried buzzing twice, but you didn't answer, so I knocked."
I smoothed down my suit. "I was just deep in thought. Business, of course."
"Of course," Topher said. "Though it would be very helpful if you set aside some time to think about a wedding date."
"Yes, yes, of course." I shuffled papers needlessly on my desk. "Rainer and I have been meaning to discuss it. We just keeping getting, ah, distracted."
Topher held up his hand. "No need to explain. I have a few suggestions if it would be helpful."
"Helpful for you?" I asked my eager assistant.
He nodded emphatically. "How am I supposed to plan the perfect wedding if I don't even know what season it will be?"
"Fine, yes. As soon as these projects are a little further along, I will sit down with Rainer and we will choose a wedding date," I said. "It's just a little bit more complicated than I expected."
"How so?" Topher asked. He pursed his lips, unable to hide the irritation he felt at not being able to plan ahead.
I couldn't very well tell my assistant that every time Rainer and I sat down to talk about our wedding we ended up in a passionate tangle. It was hard to think about giving that up in exchange for a mound of details such as what kind of fish we should serve at some overblown reception.
"Well, you of all people should know that I can't compromise work at this point in my career. Things are still just getting off the ground here, and I can't lose focus." I sat down again, faced my computer, and couldn't remember what I had been working on before falling into a daydream.
"I can put in the extra hours, Tasha. Or you can hire a wedding planner. It doesn't have to be a bother," Topher reminded me.
"I know, it's just that I'm not sure Rainer is ready for such structure. Can you imagine him going to taste cakes and pick out chair covers?" I asked. The thought made me shudder.
It was enough that Rainer had agreed to come live with me in the white house overlooking the three bridges. I didn't want to push for more when we were still trying to figure out how to be happy together.
"Now, I've wasted enough time as it is. I need to get these reports finished before I present everything to the board. Please hold my calls," I told Topher.
He opened the door to return to his desk and was bowled back by Rainer.
"Surprise!" Rainer said with a smile. "My volunteer shift at the community center ended sooner than I thought. So, I thought I'd swing by and take my lovely fiancée out to lunch."
I felt like a big, wet, wool blanket dropped over me. I hadn't been joking about the reports and the presentation to the board. If my own daydreaming hadn't distracted me, I could have been done. But, now, I had to tell Rainer that I didn't have time for him. Would he regret choosing someone who always picked their career over him?
I kissed him and felt like crying. "I'd love to, I'd really love to have lunch with you, but I can't," I said. "Please don't be mad. I'm just figuring out how to manage my time, and things will get better. I promise."
Rainer nodded for Topher to step out of my office and then he took both my hands. "Tasha, I don't know why you keep hesitating about getting married. I told you that I have no problem supporting your career, but I guess I have to prove it to you."
"No." I caught Rainer's face in both hands. "I need to prove to you how much I love you, and how much I appreciate you. I'll have Topher reschedule my presentation."
Rainer shook his head. "I'm not going to let you do that, but I am going to help you with those reports. Remember, I wasn't totally useless when we worked together."
"But what about lunch?" I asked.
"Taken care of." Rainer called for Topher and my assistant reappeared with a loaded picnic basket. "It may not be our little hill above the community garden, but it's good enough for me."
I watched through blurred eyes as Rainer spread out a blanket on the floor of my office. Topher raced out the door and returned with a large blooming tree in an enormous planter.
"What's this?" I asked Rainer.
"I brought the garden to you," Rainer said. "Happy?"
I threw my arms around him. "More than you know."
"Well, you can tell me," Rainer said, "after we finish those reports."
That’s the end of the Billionaires Hook Up. Below I included 4 of my previous books to read as a free bonus.
SLEEPING WITH MY BOSS
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Asher
I glanced at myself in the mirror to see the image of a young man dressed in a subdued business suit reflecting back at me. He sat in silence on the sofa in the seating area, studying the artwork hanging on the wall next to the mirror.
It was a large piece, perhaps five feet across and four feet high. It consisted of a small red square in the top left hand corner against a white background. Countering the geometric, ordered simplicity were splashes of bold color sprayed across the entire right hand side in a chaos of strokes. It was as though all of the artist's pent-up rage and frustration had been poured out onto that canvas. It was a work of genius, really. In a way, that red square represented everyone trying to play their roles and keep the madness, and chaos, contained and controlled.
A young man approached and looked up at the artwork. He looked at the painting for a few seconds, shrugged, and then turned his attention to me.
“Hi,” he said, somewhat nervously. “Do you mind?” He motioned to the empty seat next to me on the sofa. “I have a meeting in this boardroom in a few minutes,” he added as he nodded toward the closed door to our left.
“Don’t mind at all,” I said, smiling warmly as I shifted to make more space for the newcomer. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” the young man replied, looking a bit flustered. His ill-fitting suit appeared to be uncomfortable, which only added to the somewhat flustered air he exuded. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his forehead and the sides of his neck.
“I'm Jason, by the way,” he said to me as he put down his briefcase and took a seat.
“Nice to meet you, Jason,” I said, extending a hand to the man. “I'm A—, er, Andrew . . . Andrew,” I replied as we shook hands. I caught myself before I could reveal too much. “I'm with the Sinclair Agency,” I added.
“Nice to meet ya, Andrew.”
“Are you with Winston?”
“No. I'm also with Sinclair. You been at the agency long?” Jason questioned.
I smiled strangely and nodded. “You could say that.”
“It's my first month here,” Jason said. “I was just assigned to the PR project for the Harry Winston Watch Company like three days ago. Now, here I am presenting at a brainstorming meeting. I’m a bit of a nervous wreck. Word is the CEO of the agency, Asher Sinclair, isn't too happy about the performance of the latest line of athletic watches in the first quarter of the year.”
I nodded. “I heard the same. Say, what's the word on Mr. Sinclair these days? What does the marketing department think about him?”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Uh, don't you already know a bunch about Asher Sinclair? I mean, you did say you've been working here a while. What department did you say you were with again? I didn't catch it the first time.”
“I'm with finance. We don't chat too much about the boss. I think there are too many people who have to answer to him directly.”
“Oh. Well, this might help. Check this out,” Jason said as he opened his briefcase and took out the latest issue of Forbes magazine. “There's a feature piece on Asher Sinclair in here.”
“Is there, now?”
“Oh, yeah. I've read it like three times already. The guy's like, man, I dunno, Bruce Wayne or something. I can't help wondering if he's got a Bat Cave and a Bat suit up in some old family mansion in the hills.”
I chuckled. “Maybe he does have a Bat suit.”
“He's an odd dude. It’s a little strange that almost nobody knows what he looks like. There aren't even any photos of him on social media or anything like that. I don’t know how he keeps such a low profile. But, I guess I would, too, if I were in his shoes. It couldn’t have been easy for him, the way he grew up.”
“And, how was that?”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “You really don't know? Are you sure you've been at this firm for a while, man?”
“I just like to cross reference the stories I hear. It’s interesting how different they can be. So, what is it that you think you know about how Asher Sinclair grew up?”
“Well, rumor has it that his family situation was, you know, kind of troubled. I mean, being a millionaire by 18 cannot make for an average childhood or normal teenage years. And then the big kicker: when his grandfather, founder of the Sinclair Agency, passed away, he left the majority shares and control of the company to Asher instead of Asher's father. Now come on, how many 20-year-olds do you know who not only get to become sudden billionaires, but also the head of one of the most powerful PR firms in North America? That sort of stuff has got to mess with your head a little.”
“It might, I suppose. Although, for someone with the right resolve, the right constitution, with an insatiable urge to achieve and succeed, it could be the perfect trial by fire.”
Jason nodded. “Yeah, you could be right. And by all accounts, the kid pulled through that fiery trial like a beast. According to everything I’ve heard or read, everyone was expecting the corporation to crash and burn after being thrust like that into the hands of a kid. And, I’m sure you know, but shares did initially plummet.
“Man, I don’t know what's in Asher Sinclair's blood, but there must be something superhuman mixed in. After all, here it is 12 years after he became CEO and those shares are worth three times what they were before. Three freakin' times, man! The guy's a bona fide genius. Someone even told me he's got his own personal racetrack and Formula One car!”
I grinned. “I've heard he's a decent driver, but doesn't race formally because it would put him in the spotlight, and you already said he keeps a low profile. A genius, huh? Maybe he was just lucky and made a few really good decisions at just the right time.”
“Or maybe he really is a genius.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Jason checked his watch and dabbed at his forehead again with his handkerchief, looking decidedly nervous. “Oh boy, the meeting's about to start. You know, they say Mr. Sinclair often drops in on these meetings incognito. Because so few people actually know what he looks like, he's able to do that. Man, I sure hope he's not gonna be there today.”
“Relax, Jason. I'm sure he'll be receptive to your ideas if he is.”
“I'm new here. This is one of the most prestigious agencies in the country. I do not want to mess this up. This is my dream job! And, if Asher Sinclair is in there and I mess up or something… Oh God, I don't even want to think about it. I think I'm gonna throw up.”
I placed a reassuring hand on Jason's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“Relax, kid, relax. I'm sure you've got some good ideas. Present them with conviction and passion. Chances are you'll impress the team, and maybe even the boss himself if he's in there.”
“I actually hope he isn't.”
“Just relax, Jason. Take a few breaths.”
“All right, I'm trying, I'm trying. I really shouldn't have had that third coffee before this.”
I laughed warmly. “No, you probably shouldn't have,” I agreed with a chuckle. “Come on, I think the meeting's about to get started. Let's go find a seat.”
***
I was sitting at the back of the boardroom keeping as low of a profile as I could. To that point, I'd been pretty unimpressed with anything that had been presented. The line of athletic outdoor watches from the Harry Winston Company had been performing, quite frankly, abysmally in the market. I needed to know why, and I needed to correct it.
Jason had presented a few pretty decent ideas considering they’d only given him a couple days of notice, but none of them struck me as being revolutionary or bold enough to tackle the issue of poor sales.
The problem was, as I saw it, everyone was continuing to run with the same theme we already had running—a theme I had originally conceived, but also one that had not performed as I’d hoped. I’m not immune to falling a little short sometimes. However, this particular shortcoming was proving to be costly—not just financially, but also to the reputation of my PR firm.
I was about to quietly leave through the door to my left, feeling frustrated with the lack of creative ideas, when the next presenter stood and made her way to the front of the boardroom. I couldn't help but stare. There was something about this woman that hit me like a punch to the gut.
She was beautiful—that much was obvious—but not in a traditional sense. I didn't particularly care for “conventional” women and this woman was anything but conventional. My eyes traced her petite frame, admiring the generous curves she had in all the right places.
When she turned and looked up, her striking blue eyes mesmerized me. They captivated from beneath finely-arched eyebrows and a mane of jet-black hair, which was tied up impeccably for this occasion—very businesslike, but still begging to be untied and let loose. Her sense of style was unquestionable. This was a woman who knew just what to wear to grab everyone's attention, but not in a revealing way. Everything about her was just the right mix of formal and bold with a splash of sexy. I was intrigued from the moment I laid eyes on her—very intrigued.
I leaned back in my chair and grinned, aiming the smile at her even though I was fully aware she wasn’t looking in my direction and probably couldn't even see me while the projector shone in her eyes—which, might I add, gave them an almost ethereal sparkle.
She brought up the main image of the poster and billboard campaign we'd been running for the Harry Winston watches—the campaign I had created. There was a photograph of a rugged male model, who looked like a cross between Indiana Jones and the Marlboro Man, driving a jeep through a desert with a beautiful woman under his arm and a hunting rifle situated just so on the backseat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began as she pointed at the image on the projector screen with a laser pointer, “I would like to present to you a great, revolutionary advertising campaign.”
I raised my eyebrows, as I'm sure everyone else in the room did. Then she delivered the punchline.
“Revolutionary and great if the year was 1982.”
A few uncomfortable chuckles rippled around the room.
“Allow me to be blunt,” she said flatly. “The watches aren't selling because this campaign sucks. It feels tired, it feels worn-out, it feels like it's been done a million times before. How many times have you seen images exactly like this one trying to sell products exactly like this one, only repackaged?
“And, that's what we're doing here, aren't we? There's nothing particularly revolutionary about the Harry Winston athletic watches, is there? Granted, they're beautiful and well-made, but the bottom line is that an athletic watch is an athletic watch. There's only so much variety one can have.
“And, as you all know, selling is all about marketing. It’s about the image that both the product and the company producing that product convey. That's what the customer is buying. They are not buying a watch; they are buying a lifestyle, a statement, an image. And to be perfectly upfront, right now the image and the lifestyle we're selling is the same old image that countless other advertising campaigns have tried to sell before.
“What sets this line of watches apart from those of the competitors? At the moment, not very much. That's why the Harry Winston Company pays us—the best damn PR firm in the United States—to handle this for them. And what have we done? We've let them down.”
She paused for effect, to let everything she'd just said sink in—and it did. After a few moments, she continued.
“Now that I've told you everything that's wrong with the current campaign, let me tell you what I think we can do to change it, and to make it actually work. First of all, we have to completely drop this Marlboro Muppet, Raiders of the Lost Dork shtick. It's lame, it's dated, and it's overdone.
“We need something new, something fresh, something crisp. Something that's going to sell this image, this lifestyle—because, remember, that is what we're ultimately selling the public on: not simply a watch. I've been thinking a lot about this, and I have an idea that will totally kick start the heart of this campaign. Not only revive it, but turn it into a full-on monster.”
I chuckled, I couldn’t help it. This unconventional woman had just proven that her appearance wasn’t all that was unpredictable about her. After all, she’d just thrown a Mötley Crüe reference in and I wondered if anyone else had picked it up. It seemed there was more to this woman than the serious, go-getter image she was currently projecting.
Still, as attractive as I found her, I wasn't there to think about that sort of thing. I needed to concentrate on her ideas. And over the next 20 minutes, she presented some excellent ideas on how to turn the campaign around. When she was done, I was more impressed than I had been by an idea in quite some time.
After the meeting was over, I waited at the back of the room for her to pack up her briefcase before I approached her.
“Hi,” I said, extending a hand. “I really enjoyed your presentation. You have some rather interesting ideas.”
“Thanks,” she said glancing up at me with a smile—immediately sending ripples of electricity coursing across my skin.
“I'm sorry, I don't think we've met,” she said. “I'm Lilah Maxwell, and you are?”
“Andrew,” I replied. “Tell me, do you really think Asher Sinclair's campaign for these Harry Winston watches is that, er, lame? I mean, he put it together himself and word is he’s pretty good at what he does.”
She shrugged. “Maybe he did, but I call things like I see them and I don't pull punches for anyone. Even if he is the CEO of Sinclair. And even if he is the genius everyone says he is, on this particular occasion, he dropped the ball a bit. It happens to the best of us.
“However, while it's not my company, my job is my priority and I want to see whatever company I work for do the absolute best it can. I want to do my job to the best of my ability. If that steps on Mr. Sinclair’s ego a little, so be it. After all, my career is on the line as much as the firm's reputation.
“I've taken a personal interest in this campaign, and I intend to work my fingers to the bone to turn it around. We need to rectify the damage that’s been done with the Marlboro Man wannabe persona. And you saw my presentation—there’s a lot of damage.”
“Maybe he was under a lot of stress when he came up with this campaign.”
“Well, if he can't handle the pressure, he should make way for someone who can,” she replied. “That would be what’s best for the agency.”
“Oh, I don't think he has any problems handling the pressure,” I replied. “It's just that he sometimes has a little too much on his plate. He takes a very personal interest in everything the firm does.”
“Maybe he shouldn't,” she retorted. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work to do on this campaign.”
She picked up her briefcase and turned around to leave the now empty boardroom. Before she could, I stepped between her and the doorway.
“Before you go,” I said, my heartrate starting to increase with a sudden and unexpected nervousness. “I’d like to speak with you about something.”
She looked up at me with something mysterious sparkling in her gorgeous eyes. “Oh yeah? And what might that be?”
“My name's not really Andrew. It’s Asher. Asher Sinclair. And I must admit, Ms. Maxwell, you've impressed me. I want to hire you as an aide to work in my office on high profile campaigns.”