Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
From the moment we became friends in kindergarten, Avery has always loved her rich-kid-of-Miami lifestyle. She doesn’t have a dream job because she’d never waste her dreams on labor. She’s got a flighty attitude and a quick wit but, most importantly, a heart the size of Texas—the reason she gets away with the rest of it.
She and her family are the backbone of everything significant in my life, and I love them more than words can express, even when Avery is a royal pain in the ass and Beau is witnessing Neil repeatedly ask me about my pussycat.
“Sorry about that, Marcus,” Mr. Banks apologizes to the Marcus Hughes as soon as Natalie and Beau get the conference call connected. Every relevant social media app you can think of these days is owned by him, and the revenue that landing one of his accounts could bring Banks & McKenzie is overwhelming. Sickening, really, if you’re the one potentially screwing it all up.
Oh God. Three deep breaths through my nose do nothing to ease the rage of my nerves, and I have to put a hand to my stomach to stave off a potential upchuck.
“This is a firm full of thinkers,” Beau chimes in, his voice a charming balm of confident charisma. “You can’t tell me any other firm has had the forethought to break the ice on some serious negotiations with kittens.”
“No,” Marcus responds on a laugh, his voice full of a levity I’m not expecting. “I can’t say that they have. Let’s just hope some of that ingenuity rubs off in our favor.”
“Oh, I can assure you it will,” Neil hedges. “Chris’s flight from New York was delayed this morning, but he should be here shortly, and I’ve got a boardroom full of young creatives, ready to hear about your latest development.”
Almost thirty years ago, Neil Banks and Chris McKenzie founded this Miami-based marketing firm that now has hundreds of employees on its payroll. Brick by brick, they built it into one of the topmost-performing ad agencies in the country. Beau joined on when he graduated college several years ago, worked his way to the top of the totem pole, and now spearheads numerous campaigns as one of the principal ad execs in the company.
The road could have been easy for him, but I know it wasn’t. He’s worked for everything he’s gotten despite the obvious nepotism, and I aspire to do the same. I could’ve worked for my father’s real estate empire—the world-renowned Perry Enterprises—with little to no effort and astronomically high pay, but I’d rather flip burgers at a fast-food joint than do that.
“Midnight is our latest social media app that we’ll be releasing early next year,” Marcus Hughes explains, and I quickly pull my phone out of my pocket and start taking diligent notes. I’ve got a major redemption arc to write for myself if I want to prove I’m anything other than Avery’s ditsy friend who can’t figure out fucking Zoom filters. “Think of it as an app meant for dating and conversation, but you can stay anonymous while you do it.”
“Anonymous?” Neil questions, tilting his head to the side. “You think that’s what people want these days?”
“It reminds me of that reality show, Love is Blind,” Beau chimes in, and I hate how fixated my gaze becomes on his mouth as it moves. The plush lips, the white teeth, the hard jaw—he’s just so perfect.
“That’s a great comparison,” Marcus agrees. “Social media these days is all about showing everything, about allowing viewers into your private life and private spaces. We follow people in their homes and their jobs and to their Brazilian waxes, for shit’s sake. But Midnight is the opposite of that. It’s discreet. It allows users to maintain a sense of privacy and anonymity while still experiencing a depth of conversation that gets to the heart of things.”
“Mm-hm,” Beau hums, pulling my wanton slut of an attention span right back to him. A few strands of his wavy, dark hair edge toward his eyes as he leans into his own laptop to check his prep notes, and his long fingers reach up to swipe them away. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, willing myself not to stare at his broad shoulders beneath his suit jacket or linger as his biceps flex when he lifts his elbows to the table. “And what interface are we dealing with here? Gusta or Veronix?”
As I add a few more notes into my phone, a text message flashes across the screen. I discreetly open it, but no one is looking at me anyway. Now that I’m not intimately entrenched in causing massive stress, I’ve faded quite nicely into the background. The far corner of the room, to be exact. Honestly, if I could’ve buried myself into the soil of the big potted plant beside me without my new coworkers thinking I’m off my rocker, I would’ve done it.