Perfect on Paper (4 page)

Our flight to Atlanta the next morning left way too early for my taste, but luckily it wasn’t that crowded, so Kent and I each had our own row to stretch out in. It was my dream to have a client who would fly me in business class, but for now the only way I was sitting in business class was if I enrolled in one at the local community college.

Shortly after we took off, I leaned my head against the window. Within minutes I fell into a deep sleep, only to be awakened moments later by a flight attendant with very big hair asking me if I wanted something to drink. I looked up at her, half asleep. “You had to wake me up to ask that? Couldn’t you just leave some water or something here on my tray?” I said. It’s not like they were actually going to serve me
food
.

“But I need to know exactly what you want, sweetheart. We have a wide assortment of beverages on board.”

“Okay, uh, I’ll have coffee, please,” I said. I will never understand people.

After that I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I pulled out my laptop and booted it up. I ordered another cup of coffee and took a quick look at the row behind me. Kent was sound asleep.

As I saw the screen flicker to life, my thoughts turned to Aaron and the new life he’d created. He’d obviously had no trouble jumping back into the dating pool, whereas I could barely keep my head above water. Flirting? Dating? Playing hard to get? I truly sucked at it all. One day I’d even started jotting notes on my life as a born-again single woman, because it all seemed so ridiculous.

At first it was just a free-flowing hodge podge, but somehow it had morphed into something more: an idea for a line of greeting cards. Aaron’s pet name for me had always been “Honey,” and I would often leave him sticky notes on his pillow, windshield, bathroom mirror, etc. So in a feeble attempt at irony, I called the cards Honey Notes. I hadn’t told anyone about them yet out of fear of being ridiculed.

WAVERLY’S HONEY NOTE IDEAS—NOT TO SHOW TO ANYONE OUT OF FEAR OF BEING RIDICULED

Front: So, he dumped you?

Inside: Honey, he was ugly anyway.

Front: Why is it so hard not to think about a boy when he’s the one thing you’re trying not to think about?

Inside: Honey, for some questions there just aren’t answers. But there’s always chocolate.

Front: Can’t take another blind date?

Inside: Honey, if you take a few tequila shots before them, they’re a lot less painful.

Front: Know that overwhelming feeling of inertia that kicks in when you’re thinking about getting up and going to the gym?

Inside: Honey, where the hell is that inertia when you’re thinking about getting up and going to the refrigerator?

Front: Is it okay to have really long hair in your 30s?

Inside: Honey
,
HELL YES
!

(I wasn’t 30 just yet, but I was getting way too close.) I typed in the following idea:

Front: So, the ex is getting married, and you’re still on the market?

Inside: Honey, think of yourself as a prime piece of real estate—your value is only going up.

I scrolled through the rest of the list and bit my lip. It sometimes hurt to write them, but I thought the cards were funny. Would anyone else, though? I had clearly lost all perspective.

I closed my eyes to rest, and before I knew it the plane began its descent.

Pink, pink, pink. Not sure who had designed my room, but it was the hotel industry’s equivalent of a chick flick. I set my suitcase down and looked around. A vase of pink flowers on the desk. Light pink-and-white sheets. Pink roses in the wallpaper and carpet. Pink soap in the bathroom. There was so much pink that I suddenly felt myself craving cotton candy. But I really couldn’t complain, because the room was truly gorgeous. JAG was taking care of us.

I walked over to the window and opened the drapes. I gazed down at the beautiful swimming pool twelve stories below and wished it were summertime. How I longed to lounge by the artificial waterfalls with a good book and a margarita! The only times I ever stayed at fancy hotels were when I was working or when I’d been with Aaron, and when I was working I never had much time to enjoy them. And as for the times with Aaron, well, enough said.

I walked back across the room and opened up the closet.

Ahhh, there it was.

The Robe.

Fluffy, white, usually priced around $150.

I loved lounging around in The Robe.

I looked across the room. On top of the TV was a basket full of fruit, nuts, and candies topped off with, surprise, a pink bow. I opened the card from Penelope French, the firecracker of a woman in charge of JAG’s trade show logistics.

Wow. In total there would be about fifty people representing JAG at the show, and in addition to handling all our travel and accommodations, plus the thousands of details involved in getting the booth together, Penelope had taken the time to send out goodie baskets with personalized cards.

I opened up a bag of cashews, kicked off my shoes, and tried to convince myself it was going to be a fun week.

The next morning, I received a wake-up call at 6:45, which was hell enough, but given that my West Coast body thought it was 3:45 a.m., I seriously thought I was going to die. Thank God I’d preset the fancy coffee maker the night before, because the smell of caffeine was the only thing that got me out of bed.

I flipped on the lights and turned on the TV as I stumbled toward the pot. A hot shower and two very strong cups of coffee later, I was ready to face the day. As I got dressed, I listened to Matt Lauer and Meredith Vieira discuss their favorite sites for online holiday shopping. Then I recognized the voice of Scott Ryan, a field reporter I’d become friends with over the years. His report was on an 80-year-old man in Dallas who owned a hundred cats.

“A feature on a man with a hundred cats? You paid how much to go to journalism school, Scotty?” I said to the TV.

I arrived at the conference center a few minutes after eight and made my way through the massive complex back to the JAG booth. I couldn’t see Kent or Davey, but nearly the entire JAG sales department was already there. The show didn’t open until nine o’clock, but we were all expecting a rush and wanted to be prepared. The first day of every trade show is always the craziest.

The Super Show had thousands of exhibitors every year, and it seemed like each company was set on outdoing the next with a fancy booth and “extras” to attract attention. Those extras ranged from girls in tiny bikinis handing out protein shakes to tiny gymnasts performing on balance beams to promote leotards. JAG was no exception. Our booth was enormous. We had several private meeting rooms, but the icing was a huge display room in the front area that resembled a sporting goods store, plus half of a regulationsize basketball court with a ball and a real referee for impromptu guest and/or employee pickup games.

I said hello to everyone and beelined to the coffee counter at the back of the booth, where I immediately noticed that the entire catering staff was wearing the exact same outfit I was.

Nice.

“Uh, I’ll have a chocolate chip bagel and a mocha, please,” I said to the girl behind the counter as I looked at her white button-down shirt and black pants.

She handed me my bagel and yelled. “Mocha coming right up!!”

Whoa—down, girl. She was way too perky for 8 a.m.

“Good morning, Waverly.”

I turned around to face Gabrielle Simone, the icy new VP of sales at JAG. She was dressed in an expensive navy blue pantsuit and pearls, her short black hair slicked perfectly behind her ears.

She quickly looked me up and down, then over at my outfit twin behind the counter.

Crap.

“Um, hi, Gabrielle, how are you?” I said.

She ran her long skinny fingers over her pearls. “I’m fine, thank you, just eager to get started. If we’re going to hit the aggressive sales targets I’ve set for this quarter, we’re all going to have to push ourselves pretty hard this week.”

I nodded as the girl handed me my mocha. “Um, yes, it’s going to be a lot of work.”

Gabrielle fingered her pearls again. “Well, I expect that you’ll do your job well. David Mason mentioned what we’re paying your agency each month, and it is quite a bit higher than I would expect for the amount of press coverage you seem to be generating.”

There’s no good way to respond to a comment like that.

I cleared my throat. “Um, well, we’re working hard. We’re excited about all the interviews we have lined up this week for Shane Kennedy.”

She nodded. “Good, glad to hear it. We don’t want to be wasting our money now, do we?”

Again, no good way to respond.

I smiled. “Of course not.”

“I’m glad we agree. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with the CEO.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

When she was gone I looked down at my mocha. It was shaking.

I made a mental note for a Honey Note:

Front: Scared to death by your clients?

Inside: Honey, it’s better than being scared to death by your unemployment officer.

I walked into the back room marked for press interviews and sat down at the conference table. I took a sip of my mocha and heard a knock on the open door. I looked up. Shane Kennedy was standing in the doorway.

“Hi there, I’m Shane Kennedy,” he said. Like I didn’t know.

I tried to smile and look casual as I stood up. “It’s nice to meet you, Shane. I’m Waverly Bryson.” I was a little stunned at how huge he was in person. He offered his hand, which was about three times the size of mine. He had light brown eyes and a flawless complexion the color of, well, the mocha I was drinking.

Just then Davey Mason and Kent walked in behind him.

“Top of the morning, Waverly,” Davey said, looking up and down at my outfit. “And can you please fetch me a double tall latte and a scone?”

“Don’t start,” I said, pointing at him.

He laughed. “I see you’ve met our guest of honor?”

I nodded. “Yep, we go way back to about one minute ago. Hey, how was the King?” Davey and Penelope French had flown in from JAG’s San Francisco headquarters a couple days earlier to oversee the setting up of the booth, and Davey had popped over to Graceland for a visit. Yes, Graceland.

He sat down next to me. “It jailhouse rocked, Bryson. Did you get your goodie basket at the hotel?”

“Yes, what a great idea,” I said. “I already inhaled a bag of cashews. I doubt anything will be left of that basket by the time I check out on Saturday.”

He scratched the back of his head and nodded. “At first I vetoed the idea, but I changed my mind when Penelope pointed out that the same bag of cashews in the minibar would cost my marketing budget five dollars. At Costco they’re only a buck.”

I punched him lightly in the shoulder. “You’re a ruthless businessman, Mr. Mason. But then again, that’s probably why you own and I rent.”

Davey looked around the table. “So, is everyone ready? The media’s already lining up outside like a bunch of dorks in costume at a
Star Wars
premiere, so it’s going to be a busy day,” he said.

I turned to face Shane. “I guess this media crush won’t be anything new for you. Do you mind press interviews?”

He leaned back in his chair and put his gigantic hands on his humongous knees. “Not really. It can be a little draining, but I’m willing to suck it up for a couple days to get the word out on the new shoe.”

“Cool, that will make our job a lot easier,” I said. “As Davey has probably told you, Kent and I will take turns managing your interviews, and Davey will be here to answer questions regarding the design or marketing of the shoes. We’ll try to limit each interview to fifteen minutes to keep them from getting too boring. Here’s a copy of today’s schedule, and we’ll give you a heads-up on any late additions. I hope it’s not too much.”

“It’ll be a layup,” Davey said, pretending to shoot a basket.

“Got it,” Shane said. “Thanks.”

He was thanking us? Was he for real? So polite! So grounded! So unusual for a professional athlete! No multiple gold chains, and he even appeared to be tattoo-free.

At 9 a.m. sharp, the show doors opened, and the chaos began. It was like the running of the bulls as the huge arena filled up almost immediately. Kent and I watched it all as we stood at the front of the JAG booth and waited for our first press appointment to show up.

“Hey, I’m going to run to the ladies’ room for a minute. I’ll be right back,” I said.

“Don’t get lost,” he said.

I headed to the back of the pavilion and put my hand on my hair as I walked to gauge the static. Walking on trade show carpets was like a high school physics experiment.

On the way back from the restroom I grabbed a couple fun-size Milky Ways from the freebie bowl at the booth of a small exercise equipment company. I unwrapped one and popped it in my mouth, which I immediately regretted because I proceeded to start choking. I coughed and pounded on my chest a couple times until the half-chewed Milky Way flew out and into my hand. I stopped and glanced around for a napkin or a trash can but didn’t see one anywhere, so I tossed the Milky Way back in my mouth and started chewing on it again. I knew that was pretty gross, but hey, candy is candy, right?

I started back toward the JAG booth and hoped Gabrielle Simone wouldn’t see me on the way. My eyes were totally watering, and I was sure my face was red and puffy. Just then my cell phone rang. I looked at it and groaned when I saw the name on the caller ID. Now was not the time to deal with a call from my dad, the perennial early bird. Usually I had my phone off when he called at the crack of dawn back home. I sent him to voicemail and put the phone in my purse.

When I looked up, I saw a cute guy walking right at me.

A very cute guy.

“Are you okay?” he said. He was about six foot four with short, messy dark brown hair, tanned skin, and bright blue eyes. And he was smiling. Maybe even chuckling a bit.

I looked up at him, but the candy in my mouth made it hard to speak normally—not that speaking normally to such a good-looking stranger would be easy for me under any circumstances. “Um, yeah, I’m fine,” I mumbled. Had he really just witnessed me putting a chewed-up, coughed-up Milky Way into my mouth?

I was so embarrassed that I didn’t even stop. I just kept walking right on past him without even looking back. I turned the corner and headed back to the front of the JAG booth, where Kent was still standing.

“Are you okay?” he said. “Your face is all red and puffy.”

Great.

“I’ll live,” I said.

“This show is so cool,” he said. “I just saw Mia Hamm and Nomar Garciaparra, and I think I saw Wayne Gretzky, too, but I couldn’t be sure because he had a hat on.”

Over Kent’s shoulder I saw a familiar face in the crowd. “Hey, there’s Scotty Ryan.”

“Who?” Kent said.

“Scotty, or Scott, Ryan. He’s a features correspondent for the
Today
show who used to work out of San Francisco. I actually saw him on TV this morning. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.” I raised my arm. “Hey, Scotty, over here!”

Scotty turned his head, then said something to his camera crew and trotted over. “Why, Miss Waverly Bryson, what a pleasure to see your lovely face, although it’s looking a bit red and puffy at the moment. Are you okay?” He gave me a quick hug.

“I’m fine, or I will be after a date with my makeup case,” I said. “Scotty, this is my coworker Kent Tanner from K.A. Marketing.”

“Hi there, it’s nice to meet you,” Scotty said. They shook hands, and then Kent took off for the restroom himself.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here, Scotty. Your name wasn’t on the registered press list,” I said.

“It was a last-minute decision. We’re doing a story about all those protein bars on the market. They’re all the rage, you know.” He winked, his eyes more green than ever.

I touched his arm. “Hey, while you’re here, do you want to interview Shane Kennedy about his new line of basketball shoes?”

“Sorry, darling, I can’t,” he said, shaking his head.

“Are you sure? It would really make us look good to score an interview with
Today.
”

“You know, for you I’d do anything, and believe me, I wish I could, because Shane Kennedy is one attractive man, but I’m flying out in a couple hours to cover a movie premiere in L.A. Then tomorrow morning I’m back to the home base in Dallas.”

“A movie premiere? Man, you have the best life,” I said. “By the way, I saw your feature this morning on that guy with the cats. Nice piece of investigative reporting, my friend. What would your journalism professors at Northwestern say?”

He grinned. “I know, I’m a sellout. But sweetheart, if you knew what they paid me for that fluff, you’d understand.”

“Believe me, my credit card bills and I are very jealous,” I said. “So you’re really out of here today? I wish we could at least have dinner or something. And JAG is throwing a big party on Friday night.”

“Yep, I’m on a noon flight to L.A, so unfortunately I’m going to miss all the fun. Hey, I’ve really gotta run now and film this story. Keep in touch, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Scotty.”

Nearly ten hours later, we were all back in the press interview room, fully exhausted and fully complaining about it. In addition to the media, our booth had been jammed with buyers, industry bigwigs, and employees of other exhibiting companies, all of them with one form or another of business with JAG, and most of them hoping to steal a glimpse of Shane Kennedy in the flesh. We had run around all day trying to attend to everyone, and it had been absolutely crazy.