Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Fortunately, McGee whipped us back onto the road immediately. I could tell by the set of his jaw he wouldn’t mind making Layla feel every miserable minute of the long drive ahead of us, but I also knew he cared enough about me to get it over with as quickly and efficiently as possible.
Layla continued talking as she made herself comfortable, taking the seat at the table that I usually claimed, and patted the bench beside her. “Come sit, Thatcher. We can make the most of the long trip by putting our heads together and discussing some tweaks to the Elustre summer launch strategy. I’ve received updates from Apex Athletics and Sierra Outfitters, and I think we should loop the folks at Zen Athletics in, too, since you had such a great meeting with them…”
Instead of taking the spot next to her, I slid into the booth next to Reagan. When he scooted over to make more room for me, I reached under the table to squeeze his leg in reassurance, and he gasped at the unexpected touch.
Layla frowned. “Problem, Reagan?”
“Er, no.” Reagan’s face went beet red, and he studiously avoided even glancing in my direction. “Not at all. Zen is an excellent fit for the brand. I’m excited to see them added to the list.”
“Good.” She turned back to me. “Now, Ron and Tanya had several ideas—oh, Reagan, make some notes while we’re talking, please.” She motioned toward his tablet. “Thatcher, I think you’ll be most excited about—”
I tried to concentrate on Layla’s words—to give her the respect and attention she deserved—but it was difficult for several reasons. First, textiles weren’t my day-to-day business, which was why I left the bulk of the decisions for the PennCo subsidiary in Layla’s hands while I focused my energy on Pennington’s more critical holdings. And second… it was hard to care about anything she was saying when Reagan was sitting beside me, taking notes like Layla’s personal scribe and growing more tense with every passing second.
The realization of how much Reagan meant to me had been sneaking through my subconscious for days now, but this situation made it impossible to ignore. I cared more about him and his comfort than I did about closing the Zen deal and for damn sure more than hearing Layla’s marketing talk. In fact, I suspected I cared more about him than anything to do with Pennington Industries at the moment.
I had no idea how I’d let that happen. I also had no idea how the hell to get my priorities back in alignment… even if I wanted to.
That was a knot to be untangled later, though. When Reagan and I were back in New York, we could make an appointment to discuss our wants and needs and challenges, rationally and without distraction.
For now, I had more immediate problems to focus on.
A quick sideways glance showed Reagan’s jaw flexed while his thumbnail flicked at the cuticle on his fourth finger. I casually shifted in my seat and, while pretending to nod along with whatever Layla was saying, moved my leg over until it lay alongside his. Air silently whooshed out of his nose, but this time, he didn’t startle. In fact, little by little, his body settled, as if I was calming him by osmosis, which settled me, too. After a few moments, his flicking fingers moved down to rest on my leg, and I pretended to scratch my leg so I could give his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze.
Encouraged by what probably seemed like rapt attention from both of us, Layla pulled out her laptop to get my opinion on some marketing images.
“I like the red one. It’s bold.” I shrugged. “But I’m not a public relations expert. Reagan, thoughts?”
Reagan and Layla both seemed startled that I’d asked, which was so ridiculous as to be borderline annoying. Hadn’t he single-handedly resuscitated PennCo’s dying social media accounts with his twice-daily posts from our tour? How could he doubt that his opinion would be wanted and valued? And why did Layla not see what I did when I looked at Reagan—a person capable of so much more than note-taking?
“Well…” Reagan said slowly. “The red’s nice, but the green ties in nicely to the sustainability vibe I’ve been using in the social media posts I’ve drafted for the launch. Not sure if you’ve had a chance to take a look at those yet, Layla? If we go with that, I think it’ll set us apart for a lot of consumers—”
“We’re not talking about social media right now. This is for print. Magazine ads, primarily.” Layla gathered her laptop toward her again. “I’ll tell Ron we like the red.”
“But why aren’t we talking about social media?” I asked. “Our accounts are getting more interaction after just a week of Reagan posting. Doesn’t that prove there’s an audience for this?” I nudged Reagan, who never failed to come to life when the words social media were mentioned. “Pull up the data—”