One Mad Night (3 page)

“Hi, Ian,” she said, her voice a little giggly. “Yes, you had a call. Just one moment.” She cut over to another line before Ian could ask her who had called. It rang five times before hitting the message box. “
You've reached the voice mail of Brad Paulson…
”

Brad was the managing partner, and Ian's pulse ticked up a notch when he heard his voice. He left a message in Brad's box that he'd returned his call and then went back to his cubicle to ponder why Paulson would be calling him on the eve of the presentations. And in the midst of wondering, Ian was suddenly struck by the vision of Chelsea's sparkling green eyes. Was she
right
? Paulson could be calling about any of his accounts, but Ian quickly thought through them—there was nothing going on in any of them that would rise to the level of partner. Had Chelsea really been promised this account? Had they lured him over here only to give a big car account like Tesla to someone else? Why else would Paulson be calling him? It wasn't as if they were working together on any particular thing.

Ian couldn't concentrate with that hanging over his head, so he detoured and went by Paulson's office and caught his assistant as she was donning her coat.

“Oh hey,” he said. “Is Brad around?”

“He's in a meeting.” She glanced over her shoulder, and so did Ian, to the windows. The snow was really coming down.

“Could you please tell him I understand he's looking for me and that I dropped by?”

“Sure, I'll leave him a message. But I'm getting out of here before it gets too deep.”

“Thanks,” Ian said. “I appreciate it.”

He went back to his desk. He could see Chelsea across the room, still in the conference room, still walking back and forth, reviewing her pitch.

Okay, Ian could at least admit to himself that he was a little worried now. It just seemed a little too coincidental that Chelsea was feeling so confident and the managing partner was trying to get in touch with him on the eve of the presentation. He decided to take a look at his pitch again.

Farrah stuck her head in the conference room door. “I'm going home. It's snowing.”

If Chelsea hadn't been so laser focused on getting her pitch just right, she would have mentioned to Farrah that it snows a lot in New York and that most people didn't leave at three in the afternoon because of it. But she didn't have the energy or the patience to explain it this afternoon. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, if the trains are running.” Farrah was also an eternal pessimist.

Chelsea looked toward the window and noticed the snow was coming down pretty thick. Great, just great. She didn't have boots with her, only a pair of raggedy tennis shoes. The right one had a hole forming in the big toe. She had the pumps she'd worn to work, but those were cheap and would not hold up in the snow. Why couldn't she remember to leave some boots at the office, for heaven's sake?

And speaking of shoes, an hour of wearing the insanely expensive ones she'd bought for the presentation had made her feet numb. She kicked them off and turned the page of her notes. She was ready. She'd reviewed her pitch many times and had practiced saying it all aloud. The best use of her time at this point was to review her ad once more and see if there were any last-minute refinements she could make in the pacing.

She left the conference room and noticed that the floor looked deserted. She could see Caden Trent, his head bent over a light board. Sarah Fedrovsky was still at work too, probably on her new paper products account. Across the floor, the light in Jason's office was on, and Chelsea assumed he was there, tossing that damn Nerf ball around. Just outside his door was Ian Rafferty's cubicle. It seemed like every time she'd walked by Ian's cubicle in the last few months, he was leaning back in his chair, his suit jacket off, his tie loosened at the throat. He generally had one leg propped up on his desk and was gabbing away into the telephone. It didn't seem to Chelsea that Ian worked as much as he talked.

The other thing Chelsea had noticed about his cubicle—in addition to the papers and books and sports bags everywhere—was the award on his desk. It was a flying magazine in bronze, won for some print campaign. Yeah, well, it wasn't a Clio, which was what Chelsea was after. She was determined to win one and put it in her new corner office.

Chelsea moved on to the media room and queued up her ad.

Good-looking man with silver-streaked hair and a woman with fashionable gray hair and equally attractive come out of a restaurant and wait for the valet to bring their car around. It's a Tesla. They drive off into a starry night. Camera cuts to images of their life—grandkid's car seat in back, tennis rackets, a ski pass hanging from the rearview. They drive up the Pacific Coast Highway, talking and laughing. An approaching car swerves around behind a truck; driver reacts quickly and veers out of the path. Woman looks back, her hand on the man's arm. They exchange a look, a shared lifetime flashing before their eyes. Camera pans out, Tesla zipping down the highway. Tesla: Superb handling. Because you expect it.

It was a good ad, a
great
ad, and Chelsea was excited about presenting it. But she thought that the ad could use a tiny bit of tightening in the middle and spent a bit of time with that until she was satisfied it was perfect. And because she believed no one could overprepare, she ran through her presentation and ad one last time.

It was rock solid, and Chelsea smiled to herself, very happy with her work. She would definitely get this account; there was no question in her mind. She'd done everything she could possibly do to prepare. There was nothing else she could do to improve it—it was the perfect ad for a perfect car.

She'd lost two out of three accounts to Ian in the last few months, but that was not enough to pull her spirits down. Jason had told her this was her account. No one could argue that her idea didn't hit the sweet spot of advertising. How could they
not
give it to her?

Full of optimism, she fairly bounced out of the media room, surprised to find the floor almost completely deserted at only four o'clock. The only lights she could see were coming from Ian's cubicle and from Sarah's.

Had everyone bailed because of the snow? Chelsea wondered if maybe she should head home too.

In her cubicle, Chelsea gathered her things, taking care to include everything she would need to prepare for tomorrow. Attention to detail, in her mind, was what had made her successful in this business. By the end of next week, maybe she would be in the empty corner office that overlooked Gramercy Park. Well. Not
overlooked
it, exactly, but if you stood in the corner and leaned right, you could see the edge of the park. And you didn't see the CVS on the corner at all.

Okay, maybe the vacant corner office didn't have much of a view, but it was an
office
. It had a door, and the door could be closed, and quiet could reign. She could talk on the phone without Farrah overhearing everything she said. She could
think.
The raise Chelsea would get was great, but that office…that was the best part of the whole thing.

Chelsea pulled on her old tennis shoes and stuffed her Manolos into her tote bag in the allotted shoe spots. She donned a jacket, a car coat over that, and then a raincoat over that. Next came her earmuffs and the hat with the orange fluff ball on top—not exactly the chicest thing Chelsea owned, but definitely the warmest. Last, but certainly not least, she had her mittens in hand. She managed to wedge her tote over her arm and onto her shoulder and started for the elevator.

She stopped by to say good night to Sarah, but Sarah was gone. She'd forgotten to turn off her light. Chelsea did it for her. Now, the only light was Ian's. She made a slight detour to go around to his cubicle.

“Oh,” she said, mildly surprised to see he was still in the office when she stuck her head around the wall.

Ian started. “Hi.” He took in her outerwear, tapping a pen against a blank legal notepad. He looked up at her hat and the orange ball and said something. Chelsea was fairly certain he said
nice
hat
, but with her hat and earmuffs, it was a little hard to tell.

She pushed back her earmuffs. “So, everyone took off a little early, huh?”

“Looks like it,” he said. “The snow's gotten pretty bad.”

“Aren't you going home?”

“Not yet.” He tossed the pen down and stretched his arms high before folding them over his chest. “I've got a few things I want to do first.”

Chelsea couldn't resist. “You look a little anxious. Maybe I can help you punch it up. Your pitch, I mean. You're worried about your pitch, right?”

A slow smile of amusement moved across Ian's face. “Thanks…but I'm not sure you can offer anything that could improve what I've got. It's solid.”

“Wow. No improvement possible. That must be some pitch.”

“I didn't say it was impossible to improve it. I said it was impossible for
you
to improve it.”

Chelsea laughed. She tried to fold her arms. But given the number of pieces of outerwear she was wearing, her arms bounced back to her side. “Just for clarification, which pitch is it that doesn't need improvement? I mean, out of the three.”

Ian's smile broadened, and when it did, his blue eyes sparked, putting Chelsea back on her heels a bit. The man had a very nice smile, which, if she were being honest, she would admit that she had noticed before today. Many times, actually. But up close and directed at her, it made him look…super hot. Hot enough to maybe torch a few things. Build a fire. Flambé a decadent dessert. Scorch an entire forest.

“If you'd like, I could teach you how to come up with three complementing ads after I land this account.”

“Oh…you wish,” Chelsea said, and she snorted. When she did, her tote bag slid right off her arm and hit the floor.

Ian instantly moved to pick it up. He stood up, straightening to his full height, all six feet two of him. He was so close to her that she could see that the spark in his eye went much deeper than she'd ever noticed before this very moment. “You know what I wish, Chelsea?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, his eyes mesmerizing.

Chelsea could not help her gaze sliding to his mouth, and she dumbly shook her head.

He leaned closer still and took her hand in his. “I wish you the best of luck tomorrow.” He slipped the handles of her tote over her hand and then up her arm to her shoulder, wedging it on there, and then leaned closer—so close that for one mad, heart-fluttering moment, Chelsea thought he was actually going to kiss her. “
Because
you're going to need it
.”

He faded back. Chelsea was momentarily speechless. He had just used his über sex appeal to zing her. Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “Oh, I won't need it. But
you
will, buster.”
Ha
.

Ian grinned a little lopsidedly, and his eyes, good Lord, his eyes radiated sex. “You sure about that?”

Something warm and fluid snaked down Chelsea's spine. She could feel the pull of his orbit, and she could imagine how many times he had used that sloe-eyed look to lure women to him. She stepped back, out of the gravitational force field around him. “I'm
very
sure. This is some of my best work. And I didn't need three ads to nail it.”

One of his brows arched higher than the other. “You know, that can be a turnoff for some guys. But for me? That cocky overconfidence is a definite turn-on. Want to come over to my place?”

“I am
not
overcon—” She suddenly realized what he was doing. “That,” she said, twirling a finger at him, “will not work on me.”

Ian propped his arm on top of his cubicle wall. “Seriously, Crawford, your smack talk could use some work. I'd be happy to help you with it.”

She took another step back. “News flash—in about eighteen hours from now, I won't need to work on anything but this account. Play your cards right, and maybe I'll bring you along to work on it with me.” She smiled, pleased with herself for that one.

And then she bumped into his cubicle wall.
Again.

Ian chuckled.

Chelsea straightened herself, readjusted her tote bag, and with a jaunty two-fingered wave, she went out of the office, rolling her eyes at her inability to successfully engage in a bit of baiting.

Or make a powerful exit.

She had no trouble getting an elevator and, in fact, was the only one aboard for the thirty-one-story plunge. When the doors opened on to the lobby, she was surprised to see only the security guard. He was at his desk, a small TV blaring just beneath the counter. He was buttoning up a down jacket. “Hope you can get to where you're going. The mayor is advising everyone to shelter in place.”

“What? You're kidding,” Chelsea said. On the security guard's little TV, she could see a swath of blue across the entire East Coast. She hurried to the front of the building to peer down the street toward the subway. The snow was so thick she couldn't see it. The coming and going from the building had created a path, and the mounds of snow on either side looked a foot high.

“How is that possible?” she said to the security guard. “It was hardly even snowing at lunch.”

“Big storm,” he said. “Snowpocalypse they're calling it. Supposed to dump another foot tonight.” He shut off his television and turned the collar of his coat up. “It's climate change, you know. When I was a kid, we never had snow like this, not this late in the season.”

Chelsea didn't care about climate change in that moment—she cared about how cold her feet were going to be by the time she got home. She wondered how quickly one contracted frostbite.

The security guard walked with her to the door. “Have a good one,” he said, and he went out, walking in the opposite direction of the subway and quickly disappearing into the blizzard.

Chelsea adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder, pulled her hat low over her eyes, and went out, trudging in the direction of the subway.

That train was going to be stuffed like a burrito.