Rom-Com Collection. Kristan Higgins
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was a little tense, that was clear. The three BTR people had come in this afternoon, but only Mark and Muriel went to lunch with them … a fact that caused a pang. Usually, I was in on those client schmooze fests. Then again, maybe it was more of a … I cringed at the thought … more of a family thing. Muriel. Her daddy. Her boyfriend.
We went over to the group, who looked slightly less than adventurous and athletic. Damien, who once told me that he felt Giorgio Armani was our greatest American, looked quite ridiculous in his BTR gear, as if a pin were sticking something tender. Pete and Leila, whom I rarely saw without a computer blocking their torsos, wandered aimlessly, their hands linked, their legs shockingly white even by New England standards.
Muriel, however, looked great. Long and lean, hiking boots, tan hiking shorts and a fitted sleeveless red shirt with Bags to Riches written across the back. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail. She seemed relaxed and happy … not her usual look.
“Charles,” Mark boomed heartily, steering me over to the knot of BTR people. “This is Callie Grey, our fantastic creative director. She’s so excited about the new campaign, right, Callie?”
“Oh, absolutely!” I said, giving Mr. deVeers my hundred-watt smile as my dog flopped down and exposed himself. “It’s great to finally meet you. I can’t tell you how much I admire what you’ve done.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Callie,” he said. His eyes fell to my chest, then rose quickly back. “Very nice indeed. This is Anna, my marketing vice president, and Bill, our sales director.” We shook hands all around, smiling hard. Bill and Anna were young, fit and gorgeous. They looked like twins … highlighted hair, perfectly tanned skin, glow-in-the-dark white teeth … just what you’d expect from young executives in California.
“Mark says you have some great ideas for us, Callie,” Charles deVeers said.
“I think so,” I said, smiling again. “I can’t wait to show you.”
“I can’t wait, either,” he murmured suggestively. Hmm. Well, my own father was a flirt, too, so I couldn’t really hold that against him. He bent down to pet my dog, who immediately began to sing in appreciation. “This is one gorgeous dog you have, Callie. A beautiful dog for a beautiful woman.”
“Why, Mr. deVeers! You charmer, you,” I said, grinning.
“Call me Charles,” he said, smiling back. It was a harmless vibe, and heck. I liked men, especially the type who liked me.
“Daddy,” Muriel said, stepping between us and lacing her arm through her father’s. “Let’s get going, okay? We don’t have time to waste if we want to make it down before dark.” She gave me a cool look, then ran her gaze up and down my form, her nose twitching.
At that moment, Fleur pulled up in her British-flag MINI Cooper and clambered out. Like Muriel, she was wearing normal hiking clothes (I was the only one in skintight anything). Like Muriel, Fleur looked athletic and competent. She’d said she was bringing a guest … what were her words? Someone “with potential.” And here he was. I did a double take. It was Ian McFarland.
“Oy, mates!” Fleur said, her British having unraveled from upper crust to Cockney.
“Hi!” I called as they approached. Fleur made the introductions. As Ian shook Mark’s hand, he glanced over at me. That’s right, Ian. Me, emotional diarrhea, DMV. Yep, that’s him.
Five minutes later, we were off, down the trail and into the woods. The line was clearly ranked. First went Mark, Muriel and Charles, followed by Anna and Bill. Then came the rest of us in a somewhat tangled knot … Fred, Damien, Pete, Leila, Fleur, Ian and yours truly. Karen had been excused, claiming to have sprained her ankle while watching television last night.
“So, Fleur, how do you know the good doctor here?” I asked, glancing over at her.
“We met through Tony Blair,” she said, referring to her foul-tempered and obese Jack Russell terrier. “He ate something a bit off, yeah, and wasn’t his chippy self.”
“Huh,” I said, shooting Ian a look. Dang. I really, really wished I’d thought of something other than “The dog ate my paper.” Ah, well. Water under the bridge.
The trail began as a fairly wide and lovely path through the woods. Little stencils of a deer falling from an incline were painted on a tree every fifty feet or so to mark the path. As the trail grew steeper, it also became more narrow. Our group began to string out.
It was then that my stomach emitted the most astonishing gurgle. Squeerrrllllerrrggghhh … I jumped at the sound. What the heck? I’d eaten lunch … well, I had a couple of carrots, not wanting to feed the food baby anything fatty when Dr. Duncan’s Cleanse ‘n Purge had worked so … Squeerrrllllerrrggghh.
Oh, dear. A slight cramp bit into my left side, and I flinched. Oh, no.
“Hungry?” Freddie asked.
“Um … no,” I said. Not a lie. “I’m fine.” Gluuuurrrrggggghhh. I tried to clamp my stomach muscles down on the sound. It didn’t work. Goooorrrrggghhh. God, it was loud! Ian gave me a look, but said nothing.
Just then, Charles deVeers decided he had to have more time with me. “Callie!” he called, turning around to wave. “Join us up front and chat a bit!”
“Would love to!” I called back. Gluuuurrrrggggghhh. “Excuse me, guys. Duty calls.”
Great. Not only was my stomach making Exorcist-type noises, but I had to trot up the path thirty feet or so to join the big guns, Bowie leaping at my side. And my biking shorts were making themselves known to me. The thing about clothes made from plastic bags … they don’t breathe that well, as you might imagine. They smother, and right now, they were asphyxiating my thighs. Swatting at the gnats that danced around my head, I tried not to inhale any as I panted.
“How’s everyone up here?” I gasped when I reached the front of our line. “Aren’t these woods gorgeous, Mr. deVeers?”
“I told you to call me Charles,” he reminded me, grinning. He might’ve been seventy or so, but the man hadn’t broken a sweat. Neither had his daughter, but then again, I suspected she was half reptile. “By the way,” he added, “I loved your idea for the new logo.” Goodbye, long silly name with floating plastic bag, hello simple, stylish initials.
“I’m so glad,” I said, not daring to look at Muriel.
“Callie, I was telling Charles about the ad campaign we put together for that ski resort last year,” Mark said. He gave me a little grimace, which I read clearly. He needed help buttering up the client, and no one could pitch woo the way I could.
I smiled at Charles. “Oh, that was a great time, let me tell you, Charles.” Wwwweeerrrrrggghhh. I quickly burst into laughter to cover the gurgling slosh of my stomach. Was that one over? Apparently not. Boooorrr … I talked over it, hoping no one else noticed as our feet crunched along. “Well, we like to know our products, of course, so Mark and I went up there to get the lay of the land. Now, Mark here, he grew up on skis. Me? No.”
“Uh-oh,” Charles said.
“I love to ski,” Muriel said. “Dad, we should go to Utah again.”
“That would be fun, honey. Go on, Callie,” Charles said to me. Muriel’s mouth tightened.
Wwwwweeerrrrrgggghhh.
“Are you hungry, dear?” Charles asked, striding manfully along.
“Oh, no! Well, I skipped lunch. Didn’t want to cramp up on this lovely hike. But I’m fine!” I said, beaming, trying to suck in enough oxygen at the same time. I reached down to pet my dog, hoping the motion would somehow assuage the alien life force in my belly. Another cramp lanced through my side, making me gasp. I coughed to cover. “Anyway, Mark told me not to worry, just go up the mountain with Skip, the owner of the resort. It wasn’t really about skiing.”