Sweet Talkin' Lover Read online

  Heat flashed through Caila’s body. She dropped her hands into her lap, not flinching when her nails scored her palms. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  Kendra’s expression firmed. “In the past two months, you’ve been late to several meetings, failed to promptly turn in that final revised budget, and missed when one of your teams attached an old timeline to their client status report.”

  Ten years of near-flawless job performance were suddenly rendered irrelevant by a few oversights?

  “With anyone else, these would be forgivable lapses. But you’re not someone else. We’re not anyone else,” Kendra said, gesturing between the two of them. “We have to be better, and that has never been a hardship for you because you are. I knew it from the first time I interviewed you at your business school. It’s the reason I offered you a position on the spot. And you’ve never made me regret that decision.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Caila said, humbled by her boss’s words, though disappointed to be hearing them in this context.

  “But I can’t continue to ignore what I’m seeing and I definitely can’t risk screwing up the new rollout, especially in light of your behavior last night.”

  Crap. She had heard. Caila dipped her chin to her chest, not wanting to meet Kendra’s dark brown gaze. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never acted like that before. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Take some time and figure it out.”

  Cold fingers compressed Caila’s lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Her head shot up. “Are you firing me?”

  “No. But it’s become clear that you need to process your feelings about your grandfather’s death.”

  No offense to Kendra, but she didn’t know dick-all about Caila’s feelings. Caila had made a couple of mistakes. No one was perfect. Why did everyone persist in making a big deal about Pop-Pop? He’d died. End of story.

  “Work’s important, but it’s not everything. Somewhere along the way, you seem to have forgotten that.”

  Caila hardened herself against the memory of Pop-Pop’s dismayed words. “I can’t sit around my condo and do nothing. I’ll go insane.”

  “I know. And that’s why I have a job for you.”

  She already had a job. Why couldn’t she continue to execute that one?

  “Endurance is in the process of acquiring Flair,” Kendra announced.

  Flair was one of the oldest cosmetics companies in the country, founded in 1855. Their classic ingredients and products were lauded by industry professionals, but their emphasis on old-fashioned customer interaction and brick-and-mortar stores over social media and selling on a website meant declining sales and a diminished market presence.

  Caila straightened in her chair, interested in news that hadn’t gone company-wide. “How quickly do you plan to integrate them into the Endurance brand?”

  Kendra tilted her head to the side. “What’s the case for not making that play? For reviving the company instead?”

  Caila pursed her lips, considering her mentor’s question. “Barriers to entry into the beauty industry have been lowered and brands are being created at the speed of light, and most leave just as quickly. This increase in independent brands shows consumer tastes are changing, creating a competitive threat to established brands. With a takeover of Flair, we have the opportunity to leverage their historical strength with the passion and creativity of a new independent brand.”

  Kendra’s proud smile bloomed bright, and warmth expanded in Caila’s chest. For the millionth time since she’d accepted her job offer, Caila thanked God for the other woman’s time and mentorship. Black women made up less than two percent of senior-level executives in the Fortune 500, so to find one in her chosen field willing to mentor her was a stroke of blessings she planned to make the most of.

  And you almost destroyed it.

  “We’d like to announce the acquisition soon, but there are some financial issues that must be cleared up to make this deal viable for us.” Kendra swiveled her chair to face the large computer monitor on her right. She tapped some keys on her wireless keyboard, and the screen bloomed to life.

  “Such as?”

  “One of Flair’s co-packers is a manufacturing plant called Chro-Make located in Bradleton, a small town in central Virginia.”

  Caila nodded. A co-packer was a company that packaged and labeled products for their clients. Some corporations handled packaging in-house, while others contracted the service out to private firms.

  “Over the past few years, the costs associated with Chro-Make have skyrocketed almost twenty percent, making it financially undesirable for us to come to an agreement with the factory in that condition.”

  Caila held her breath as she sensed what was coming.

  “We’re sending you to Virginia.”

  No, no, no, no—

  Caila exhaled an audible breath through her nose. “You’re giving me an assignment that I’d normally delegate to an analyst right out of B-school?”

  Kendra arched a brow. “Would you like entry-level work or no work?”

  Valid point.

  It’d been years since she’d been sent on one of these restructuring evaluations. She couldn’t muster any excitement about a weeks-long hotel stay in an unfamiliar city where she’d spend countless days inside a small, windowless office, poring over reports and talking to members of each department, in order to decide how best to increase the company’s viability.

  But Kendra’s next words doubled-down on Caila’s unwillingness.

  “Flair is adamant that we agree to continue using most of their factories, barring proof of financial hardship. We don’t need to determine whether eliminating the relationship with Chro-Make will be a condition of the deal moving forward.” She paused. “We’ve already come to that conclusion.”

  Caila winced. This wasn’t an evaluation; it was a hatchet job. She wasn’t being sent to find a way to make the factory more productive. They were sending her in to find the evidence they needed to justify their decision not to renew the contract. Damn. She was ride-or-die for Endurance, but interviewing people about their jobs when you knew they were soon to be unemployed? It left a sour taste in her mouth.

  Worse than the one caused by her hangover.

  “So it’s a bit more delicate than something we’d assign to a marketing analyst right out of B-school,” Kendra said, throwing Caila’s words back at her. “But if you feel it’s beneath you, I can give the assignment to Gerald Thorpe.”

  Fucking Gerald Thorpe. Heat rushed into Caila’s cheeks. She knew when she was being given a choice that was no choice at all. “When do I leave?”

  Kendra’s lips curled in a knowing smirk. “As soon as possible, no later than the end of next week. I’ll have my assistant email you the file and all of the relevant information. I can’t stress enough how important your performance on this assignment is. I’m an important ally but I’m only one of five. If you do a good job with this, it’ll go a long way toward showing them you’ve dealt with your recent . . . issues and you’re back on track.”

  Caila’s jaw tightened but she suppressed her annoyance, knowing the woman in front of her really had her best professional interests at heart. “Will that put the promotion and national rollout back on the table?”

  Kendra’s head jerked back. “How about you concentrate on successfully completing this assignment first?”

  Caila shrugged her shoulder. “I had to ask.”

  Kendra winked. “I know. I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t.”

  Realizing the purpose of the meeting was over, Caila stood and made her way to the door.

  “Oh, and Caila?”

  She turned as Kendra produced a beautiful shoe from a drawer. The Swarovski crystals encasing the four-inch heel caught the sun reflecting off Lake Michigan and cast a spectrum of rainbow-colored lights across the desk.

  “Workers at the hotel found this hooked into a light sconce next to a bank of elevators outside
of the restaurant. Is it yours?”

  Without hesitating, Caila looked her boss in the eye. “I’ve never seen that shoe before in my life.”

  Chapter Three

  Wyatt Asher Bradley IV, mayor of Bradleton, leaned forward in his leather executive chair and studied his fellow council members seated around a U-shaped birchwood table on the platform beneath him.

  “All those in favor of funding the expansion of West Main Street into Happy Creek Plaza, raise your hand. All those opposed?” He banged the gavel on the sound block. “Motion denied.”

  A smattering of applause from the audience in the gallery. Ah, such appreciation for the workings of the council. He winked at the older woman seated in the first row. Color bloomed in her cheeks and she returned his smile.

  Wyatt glanced at the secretary. “Let the record reflect that Councilman Randall from Ward One was the only person who voted in favor of the motion.”

  Vince Randall curled his lip and crossed his arms over his striped polo–clad chest. Not much different from how he’d looked when he didn’t get his way back in elementary school.

  Shaking his head, Wyatt looked down at the paper in front of him, and excitement floated in his chest.

  They were almost done.

  Not that he didn’t enjoy running town council sessions. They were fairly easy; sometimes they practically ran themselves. At agenda meetings, they finalized the agenda for the upcoming regular meeting. At work sessions, they informally reviewed materials for and discussed items on the agenda, though no official decisions or conclusions were made. Regular meetings, like tonight, were open to the public, and they formally discussed and decided upon those agenda items.

  The following month, the process would start all over again.

  There were times when the council needed to consult with the town’s attorney regarding judicial action or administrative procedure. Or when they had a closed session to discuss which bids to accept on town contracts. On those rare occasions, Wyatt enjoyed being able to flex his mental skills, to utilize his Ivy League joint JD/MBA degree.

  But most of the time, it was the same. Simple and easy.

  Every once in a while he wondered what would happen if he skipped a meeting. It wasn’t as if the sessions wouldn’t go forward. In his absence, the vice mayor could chair any town council sessions. And Wyatt could have some much-needed free time.

  Take tonight, for example. The shipment of black walnut he’d been waiting for had come in that afternoon, and his palms itched to smooth along the lumber. He’d wanted to try his hand at making a serving buffet, but he couldn’t get ahead of himself. The wood usually spoke to him, told him what it would allow him to create. Taking a chisel to a piece of wood, he entered an almost Zen-like state. He’d lose himself in the smell of the shavings, the intricacies of the details . . .

  But he’d never shirk his responsibilities. He’d shown up tonight and presided over the session, just as he had each month before.

  Like his family expected him to do.

  Like the town required its mayor to do.

  “Before we end this meeting of the town council, we’ll open the floor for citizen comments,” he announced.

  He waited, exercising immense control to keep his leg from bouncing beneath the desk. A large part of him hoped no one would take him up on the offer to share their concerns with the council. The clock on the wall indicated he had half an hour until the hardware store closed. If he could make it out of here in the next fifteen minutes, he might have a chance.

  But—

  Something was going on. The mood had been slightly off-kilter from the beginning of the meeting. The air had been still, heavy, like the entire council chamber had been holding its breath. He’d initially chalked it up to his own eagerness for the meeting to be over, but now he wasn’t sure.

  He studied the assortment of people who’d assembled to watch the council spend the past ninety minutes discussing sewer connections, funding allocation, and development in Bradleton’s historic downtown area. He realized that hum of restlessness he’d sensed hadn’t been internal. It had emanated from them. People shifted in their seats, crossed and uncrossed their legs, whispered to their neighbors, fidgeted with their clothes.

  He narrowed his eyes. The crowd was larger than normal, too. Some were regulars. Wyatt appreciated anyone interested in what the town was doing, but these meetings weren’t exciting. He often wondered if some of them saw it as entertainment; a small-town dinner theater. There were times when discussions got heated. Last month, two council members got into a shouting match over whether they should increase the enforcement of jaywalking downtown. The week following the melee, the gallery had been filled, but attendance had dropped off again when another altercation hadn’t been forthcoming.

  When he saw Earl Creasey stand and make his way to the wooden podium, Wyatt understood the undercurrent of anticipation he’d discerned. He knew Earl’s gripe; the old man wasn’t shy about making his feelings on the subject known. At least here, versus at Turk’s, there was a time limit.

  Still, Wyatt knew there was no way he was getting out of here in time to get his shipment tonight.

  “The floor is yours, Earl,” Wyatt said.

  “Thanks, Mayor. I want to talk about something important to me and most of us here in Bradleton.” Earl brought his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “The football team hasn’t made it onto the state playoff bracket in over fifteen years. Not since the team the mayor and Chief Dan played on. I don’t know about y’all, but I’m sick of losing.”

  Wyatt glanced over to where Daniel Yates, his best friend and the town’s chief of police, stood with his back propped against the wall, his arms crossed over his dark blue uniform shirt. Dan flicked his gaze upward and shook his head slightly.

  “I don’t think this new coach is gonna cut it,” Earl said.

  People seemed to lean in, their faces shining with excitement.

  And there it was. The reason they were all here.

  Football.

  He didn’t blame them. Football was the most important religion in the South. More people watched games during the season than showed up at Bradleton Baptist Church on Sunday mornings. Finding out through the grapevine that there might be a discussion about firing the new high school coach? How could people resist? The drama imagined would be better than regular old dinner theater. They were anticipating Hamilton-level entertainment.

  “I understand your frustration,” Wyatt said, his voice holding no hint of his inner amusement, “but give the man a chance. He just started. He’s doing the best he can considering the circumstances.”

  Vince spoke up from the council member’s bench. “Y’all should be grateful we got someone with his pedigree and experience. His recommendations were impeccable.”

  “Or at least thank God his mother-in-law lives one county over and his wife wanted to move closer to her,” Betty Lou Dannon said from the front row, over the rapid clicking of her knitting needles.

  There was no such thing as gratitude and thankfulness in football . . . unless you were winning.

  “I knew it!” Earl said, his Feed ’n’ Seed trucker hat jostling on his head. “The only reason you hired him is because he came from up north and you were hoping he knew some magic techniques. The rules don’t change north of the Mason-Dixon line!”

  Wyatt steepled his fingers in front of him. “Don’t rush to judgment. It’s going to take time. It’s not like he inherited the best-case scenario or that we had a lot of choices.”

  “Who’s rushing? We’re three games into the season, sitting at oh and three, and Coach had the nerve to bring his family into Luciano’s on Tuesday night. Laughing.” Earl almost spat the word. “Can you believe that?”

  “If he has time to whoop it up, how ’bout he get some extra practices in to shore up that O-line,” Clyde Roberston added. Clyde had been sitting next to Earl, partners in troublemaking ever since Wyatt could remember. “I know the paren
ts won’t mind. I saw Rondale Jackson’s father at the bank last week and he said he was surprised the team wasn’t doing two-a-days.”

  “If they keep playing like this, we’ll never make the state championship,” Earl said, smacking a hand against the podium.

  “Time,” the secretary called out.

  Wyatt straightened in his chair. “Earl, I appreciate your comments. However, the time allocated for citizen comments is over.”

  The older man squinted his faded eyes. “What’re you gonna do about Coach Alvin?”

  Asked as if he’d just successfully argued his point before the Supreme Court.

  Wyatt spread his hands. “I’m going to continue to show up to the games and show my support for the coach and for the team.”

  “Is that it? You’re not going to fire him?”

  “Of course not. We didn’t hire him. That’s between you and the school’s athletic director.”

  Earl’s mouth dropped open. “You mean I sat here for two hours for nothin’?”

  Wyatt raised a corner of his mouth. “Afraid so.”

  “Son of a bitch! C’mon, Clyde.”

  The two moseyed down the aisle, grumbling under their breaths about the “damn bureaucracy” and getting a mayor who was poor and would listen because their “tax dollars pay his salary.”

  “And with that, ladies and gentlemen, this meeting is adjourned.”

  Wyatt banged the gavel again and pushed back from the desk. If he left immediately and hustled, he might make it to the shop and pick up his package before they closed.

  “Mayor Bradley?” The feminine voice was Northern and a tad nasal.

  Dammit.

  Reining in his frustration, he turned and conjured a smile for the pretty woman before him. “Holly, how many times have I told you to call me Wyatt?”

  “I know.” Holly Martin, Bradleton’s newest resident, laughed and shrugged one shoulder. “But I like calling you mayor. There’s something so . . . authoritative about it.”

  Hey now.