Page 35 of Anti-Hero

Collins adds the notes to the proper stack on my desk without any coaching from me. She’s picked up my sorting system—picked upeverything—with impressive alacrity.

“You’re working on the pitch for tomorrow?” she asks, nodding toward the legal pad.

I sigh. “Yep.”

“They’re a big deal?”

“Honestly? No. There’s potential. But little capital and barely any distribution. They need money to increase inventory and circulation. And advertising. But mostly, they need an overhaul. Time and dedication to cultivate a unique brand, which can be a more valuable investment. And a riskier one.”

“Why’d you pick them, then?”

“I didn’t,” I admit. “My dad did. So, if we acquire them and they succeed, it’ll be thanks to him. If they don’t accept our offer or they do and then sink, it’ll be nepotism’s fault I failed.”

“You’re more cynical than you used to be,” Collins comments, reaching toward the pad. She sinks down into one of the chairs opposite my desk and starts scanning my handwriting.

“Thanlast week, when we met for the first time?”

Collins manages to roll her eyes while reading, which is actually quite impressive. “This is for the makeup company? Beauté?”

“Yeah,” I respond, surprised. She wasn’t at the initial meeting with them.

She hears the question in my voice. “They emailed you a copy of the presentation and included me on it. I was curious, so I looked through it.” She flips back to the first page. “If you want them to sell you their company, which they’ve presumably invested a lot into, you need to offer them something they can’t find somewhere else. And avoid phrases like ‘not a big deal’ and ‘risky investment.’ You’re good at making outlandish ideas enticing. Focus on that. Tell them to dream big and then explain how you can make it a reality.”

“Did you justcomplimentme?”

She reaches for my pen and circles something. “You should start here. Suggesting specific improvements to their current marketing strategies. It shows you’ve done your research—you’re flattering them by praising decisions they’ve made—and also allows you to share concrete examples for what Kensington Consolidated has to offer. Constructive criticism. Do you have the numbers for what they paidfor advertising last quarter?”

“Yeah, I do.” I flip through some papers, then hand her the spreadsheet. “You’re good at this.”

She tilts her head as she scans the numbers. “You’re not the only one in this office with a business degree, Kensington.”

I stare at her. “You majored in music.”

Too late, I consider it’s strange that I know that.

Collins doesn’t appear to notice. Or care. “Andbusiness. As you know, it’s possible to double major. My parents didn’t think playing the piano was a practical career choice. And they were right. I lasted six months as an accompanist at a local school, giving home lessons once a week, and played at the bar of a fancy hotel a few evenings a week, barely scraping together enough to pay rent, before I started applying for office jobs in Chicago.”

“You did it though. For six months, you did it.”

She runs the tip of the pen along her lower lip. I decide not to tell her I was doing the same thing ten minutes ago, so we’re essentially making out right now.

“I guess,” she finally says in a contemplative tone that makes it clear she’s never considered that perspective. That she saw it as a simple failure.

“What was the office job?”

“Good to know you looked at my résumé before hiring me.”

I smile. “You came highly recommended. I didn’t need to look at your résumé.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I was a paralegal at a law firm.”

I resist the urge to ask if she preferred it to her current job and question, “Why Chicago?” instead.

“I went to college fifteen minutes from the house I grew up in—a free ride to an Ivy was too good to turn down. After graduating, I wanted somewhere different. Boston and New York both felt too close. So, Chicago made the most sense. Same city feel, more distance.”

“Did you like Chicago? Aside from your ex?”

“It was … okay.”

---