“I’m trying.” I grab my iPad out of my drawer. “Why don’t you head out and I can meet you at your place after this, if it isn’t too late? If that’s okay with you, of course.”
Because “friend” or not, he’s still pretty much my boss and my job still depends on our ability to work together and get things done.
“That’s fine,” he says. “Just give me a call when you’re finished.”
“Will do!” I call over my shoulder as I start to run down the hall. “And start thinking of a statement we can send to the players union! They’re pissed!”
I don’t turn around to see his reaction, but even without looking, I know there’s a glare on his face. So even though I hate running, I run to Mr. Mahler’s office with a smile on my face.
“Hey Gemma! Sorry about the emails,” I yell as I blow past Mr. Mahler’s secretary and barrel into his office. “Mr. Mahler, I heard you need me.”
I’m out of breath when I say this and I can feel the edges of my hair beginning to curl from the sweat. I really need to work out more often.
“Yes.” Mr. Mahler leans forward on the table, steepling his hands in front of his face. “I wanted to make sure you were still committed to the fundraiser I need organized. I know the other night was a bit . . .” He pauses as he tries to find the word he’s looking for. “Hectic.”
Hectic? Out of everything that night was, hectic wouldn’t have even registered with me . . . and I fucking kissed Quinton!
“Um, yes.” I humor him. “A lot happened”—understatement of the century—“but I do remember agreeing to this and I’m looking forward to helping you create a wonderful and successful event.”
“I knew I could count on you.” He leans back into his leather chair and slaps a wrinkled, unnaturally tanned hand against his bare desk. “Take a seat, let’s chat for a moment.”
Satisfaction that I’m making myself known—and needed—within this organization causes a wave of pleasure that makes my skin flush.
I sit in the chair across from him—the same place I was sitting when he told me my job was on the line—ready to prove just how valuable I am. I swipe open the iPad screen and go straight to my notes app.
“Now, what exactly is this event for? Once I know that, we can come up with a theme and let ideas begin to form from there.”
I love the details and even the technical aspects of an event, but the beginning stage, where I can let my imagination run wild, is my favorite part.
“Actually, my dear,” he says, and I hope I hide the way I cringe from a person in power calling me by a term of endearment. Gross. “I can’t tell you anything about this event until you sign an NDA. We want to make sure everything about this stays under lock and key until it happens.”
I’m sure a nondisclosure agreement would throw most people, but I’m not most people. And as someone who has been on the other side of these situations, I understand the need to keep the details of a high-profile event under wraps.
To be honest, I always thought the people who signed them—no questions asked—were a little nutty. But now that I’m on the other side, I get it. It’s kind of thrilling to be in the know on something so secretive and important. And after the way Quinton just stepped up to the plate, I can’t wait to see what Mr. Mahler does next.
“Not a problem, Mr. Mahler. I understand your discretion and I have no problem signing an NDA.” I sit up as straight as possible and hope my posture helps me come across as assertive. “But while we wait, basic details—like if it will be a formal sit-down dinner or more a cocktail hour with passed hors d’oeuvres, and what the anticipated guest count will be—will at least give me some kind of starting point. The date would be the most helpful. I can’t even begin looking for a venue if I don’t know when I’ll need it.”
“Oh, well, I guess I don’t see the harm in that. The event won’t take place until the first week of January. We want it to be a Friday so we won’t have to worry about it interfering with the playoffs. It will be small, I’d say somewhere between thirty to forty guests. We want to keep it intimate.” He folds his hands on the top of his desk. “I know you people love a big loud party, but sometimes it’s better to keep it small.”
My fingers stumble across the screen. You people? What the fuck? I’m hoping he means millennials. He has to mean that. Right? I tap the information into my notes, keeping my thoughts to myself, sure I’m turning his words into something they’re not.
“Got it,” I say when I’m finished. “When the nondisclosure is ready for me to sign, please let me know and I’ll take care of that so we can get started planning immediately.”
“Oh yes, very good.” Mr. Mahler stands behind his oak desk, the corners of his mouth tilting up in a way that’s anything but comforting. He’s always reminded me a bit of a Disney villain, but even more so now as he reaches his hand across the table to shake my hand. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
I want to remind him that we already work together. Literally. He’s my boss. But I don’t.
“So am I.” I stand from my seat and return his firm handshake. “Thank you for this opportunity.”
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine.” The smile on his face tenses a little bit as his fingers tighten
