Page 18 of Pack Choice
Brad’s cheek twitches but he nods obediently.
“Maybe a double spread in one of the fashion magazines? Something about all four of us.” I smile harder. “Everyone’s always saying how wonderful we all look when we’re together.”
It’s true Deborah and her daughters are stunning. Classically beautiful but in that staged overdone, over-cooked, over-pruned way.
There’s nothing real about any of them. From their fake nails, eyelash extensions and straightened noses to the empathy they show Deborah’s five mates.
“It’s fashion week coming up so that may be a bit tough,” Brad says, Deborah narrowing her eyes, “but we’ll look into it ASAP.”
“Maybe if you sponsored one of the runway events,” I suggest, thinking of another of our clients, a fashion designer struggling to get exposure. “Then you’d be guaranteed front row seats.”
Deborah’s eyes positively gleam. “Maybe one of my girls could model too.”
I nod, but don’t commit to that. Runway modeling is grueling. I doubt omegas like her daughters could stomach it.
“We can organize the connections,” I say. “Now shall we take a look at your social media account?”
Brad presses a button and a slide pops up on the screen on the back wall.
He opens his mouth to run through the brightly colored graphs when a second rap on the door interrupts my day.
I frown.
“Yes?” I say.
Molly pops her head around the door, wisps of her long blonde hair falling across her face, the shadow of her chaperone lingering somewhere behind her.
“There’s a Mr. Sampson on the phone. Says he needs to speak with you urgently.”
I close my eyes in exasperation.
“Thank you Molly, tell him I’ll call him back within the hour.” She hesitates. “What?” I say, trying to hide my irritation. Number one rule in this company: don’t interrupt a client meeting. It doesn’t matter if the building is on fire. You don’t do it. Our clients need to believe they are the only ones we have. That they have our full and undivided attention. It’s the first thing Simone would have told her.
“He said he needed to speak to you NOW.”
“Molly,” I say tensely, “I will call him back. Okay?”
She nods with a frown and starts to shut the door but not before Deborah swings around in her seat and catches sight of her.
“Molly? Molly Stormgate?” she says in disbelief. “What on Earth are you doing here?” The older omega looks utterly puzzled, which is impressive considering her brow is frozen by Botox.
“I’m Mr. Turner’s new assistant.”
Deborah gapes at her. “You work here?”
“Just started today,” Molly says with a brightness I can hear is feigned.
“Well …” Deborah says, turning back around and struggling to lift her eyebrows. “Well …”
Molly makes a face at her back, one that has the younger employees in my room stifling giggles, and then disappears from sight.
“I have to say,” Mrs. Monroe continues, straightening the neck of her blouse, “I’m hardly surprised. That one has always been a troublemaker, and it’s not surprising she can’t land herself a pack. Although, I didn’t know the Stormgates were so strapped for cash they were sending their little sister off to work.” She laughs. “How absurd.”
“I take it,” I can’t help myself from saying, even though I should keep my damn mouth shut in front of my client and my team, “that Molly doesn’t want a pack. She wants to be independent, to work.”
Deborah titters. “Unlikely Colten,” she shakes her head, “perhaps you’d better watch out, she might have her sights set on you.”
This has my employees throwing glances at one another and I can tell tongues will be wagging at the photocopier as soon as we leave this room.
