THE GREEK'S TINY MIRACLE (18 page)
“Well, Bartlett made it very clear on the phone he doesn’t want to talk about business at all tonight.” Like a male Finland, he wanted to “get to know them as people.”
“Yep, I’m screwed.”
“I doubt you’re that bad. What about when you go out clubbing? You talk to people then, right?”
She gave him a long, odd look. “If you want me to flirt, we’re in bigger trouble.”
“I don’t want you to flirt.” He tried to picture his assistant as a
femme fatale
and failed. “Just be yourself. The key to good small talk is to find some common ground. Shared experiences, that sort of thing.”
“What if you don’t have ‘shared experiences’?”
“Then you put the attention back on them. People love to talk about themselves. And if you get really stuck tonight, you can always ask about beer.”
Her response was too soft to hear. “What?”
“I said we’re going to be doing a lot of talking about beer then.”
“So long as they talk about something.” He rubbed the back of his neck again. Damn muscles were as tight as rods. “I don’t have to tell you how important signing this account is. With the economy off, clients are scaling back their ad dollars in all three offices. An account Bartlett’s size would erase the deficit and keep us from having to lay off employees.”
“In other words, the agency’s financial future depends on how well you and I socialize over the next two days.”
She could have been listening in to a conversation with the board of directors, she managed to quote his father so accurately. “You’re catching on.”
“Great. So long as there’s no pressure.”
She didn’t know pressure. Yet again, the expectations his father placed on him were almost insurmountable. Thankfully this time he had an ally. So long as she didn’t clam up from shyness. If he was going to survive visiting Boston, he needed all the support he could get.
* * *
Other than the insignia flag flying over the front door, the University Club looked like all the other brownstones lining the street—stately and old. Jim Bartlett stood on the sidewalk talking with another man when the cab pulled up. If Delilah were to describe him, she would say he looked like his product. Ruddy-faced, he had a shining bald head and a body shaped like a barrel.
He greeted both of them with enthusiasm, clasping Simon’s hand between both of his. “Right on time, even with the baseball traffic. I’m impressed. I just finished betting Josh you were stuck downtown.”
“Josh Bartlett,” his companion said, sticking out his hand. He was a younger version of his father right down to the barrel shape and matching blue blazer.
“And don’t let him fool you. We were the ones stuck in traffic. It’s a pleasure meeting you in person, Delilah. My father’s mentioned you often.”
“In a good way, I hope.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice the dampness on her palms.
When she told Simon she didn’t do small talk well, she wasn’t kidding. Too many years of biting her tongue and walking on eggshells made her far better at saying as little as possible. Perhaps if she had a chance to put on the cocktail dress and pumps she packed, she might have more confidence. Unfortunately, thanks to a delay in landing, they were still in her suitcase. She was lucky to have had time to chew a mint and run a comb through her hair in the airport washroom.
Thankfully, the younger Bartlett at least acted like he didn’t notice. “Promise, he said nothing but good things. We’re glad Simon brought you out to meet us.”
“Yes, we are,” his father chimed in. “As I explained to Simon last night, I like to know the people I work with, contractors included. A lot of people can give a good sales pitch, but for me to hand over control of tens of millions of dollars, I need to know in my gut that I can trust the person. I want to know they’re going to care about Bartlett Brewing Company as much as I do.”
“In a lot of ways, Dad still runs the company like a small family business, which means going by intuition.”
“And I’ll continue running it that way as long as I’m in charge. My intuition made Bartlett Brewing Company what it is today.” He looked straight at Delilah. “I don’t care how impressive a man’s resume is. If he doesn’t sit well with me here—” he punched his breastbone “—then he’s not the right man for me.”
“Then I hope I hit you in the right place,” Simon replied.
The brewery owner gave an enigmatic smile. “We’ll find out, won’t we?” He gestured toward the front steps. “After you, Miss St. Germain.”
* * *
Delilah wasn’t sure what the inside of a private gentlemen’s club was supposed to look like, but if she were going to use her imagination, it would look like the University Club, right down to the dark paneled wood and giant lobby chandelier. A grand staircase, lined with presidential portraits—all Ivy League university graduates—led to the main dining room. Delilah tried to be blasé as she ascended, but it was hard. There were a lot of portraits.
“It’s on purpose, you know.” Simon’s breath was warm on the back of her neck, causing goose bumps to ghost across her skin.
“What is?”
“The setting. Bartlett wants us to be intimidated.”
“It’s working.” She felt more underdressed than ever. As if she’d shown up in jeans at a black-tie gala.
Her discomfort got worse as the dinner wore on. In spite of what Simon thought, small talk was not easy. Conversation centered around food and restaurants at favorite vacation spots. Her exotic dining experiences were limited to special dinner dates. Mostly, dining out meant heading to the bar near her apartment. Therefore, she mostly listened and while she did, realized exactly how few special dates she’d actually been on since moving to New York. She wished she could blame the drought on being too busy, but the truth was that none of the men she met were nearly as interesting as the man she worked for.
Simon didn’t lie when he assured her his headache wouldn’t hold him back. Not only did he match the Bartletts experience for experience, but he also controlled the flow of conversation like a conductor. She watched, impressed as he continually returned the conversation back to the Bartletts and their interests.
“Is this your first trip to Boston, Delilah?”
Jim’s question caught her off guard. “Yes, it is.”
“Pity you’re here such a short time. You won’t get to see very much.”
“I’m seeing the brewery. What else is there?”
“You have a point there,” Jim said with a chuckle.
“How about you, Simon?” Josh asked. “I’m sure you’ve been the city a number of times.”
Simon reached for his wineglass. “Actually, I haven’t been back in a long time.”
Suddenly something Delilah read in his corporate biography popped into her head. “Didn’t you go to school in Boston?”
If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her question caused his hand to stutter. “Yes, I did.” His voice sounded odd, as well. “Bates North.”
“I knew you looked familiar!”
Giving the table a firm slap, Josh sat back in his chair. “Talk about a small world. I think I might have been a few years ahead of you. You rowed, right?”
“Rowing?” Delilah asked. “I thought you were on the swim team?”
“I switched to swimming my sophomore year.”
“Oh.” From the way Simon’s jaw muscle twitched as he raised his glass, she wondered if she’d said something wrong. Surely bringing up school wasn’t a mistake though. After all, he was the one who suggested she find common ground to discuss.
Meanwhile Josh turned in her direction. “I played soccer myself. I wasn’t exactly the rowing type, if you get my drift.” He patted his stomach. “I had a couple friends on the team though. Rowed fours and eights.”
“Fours and eights?”
“The number of rowers per boat,” he explained.
“I seem to remember some scandal involving the sports teams a few years ago?” Jim said.
“Scandal?” Out of the corner of her eye, Delilah saw Simon reaching for his drink again, his lips drawn in a tight line.
Josh nodded. “Some of the teams went overboard when it came to hazing the freshmen.”
“What do you mean overboard?”
“The school didn’t share all the details, but I seem to remember something about students being asked to—”
There was a loud clatter as Simon’s glass spilled onto his plate.
Copyright © 2014 by Barbara Wallace
ISBN-13: 9781460324141
THE GREEK’S TINY MIRACLE
Copyright © 2014 by Rebecca Winters
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