All I Ever Wanted(54)

But more than that, I hated myself, because that voice still had an effect, dammit all to hell.

He came a little closer. “Callie, come on,” he whispered.

“What?” I snapped.

“Callie, look. Turn around. Please.”

I took a slow breath and obeyed.

Mark tilted his head and looked into my eyes. “Muriel is not a threat to you. She’s just cutting her teeth. She’s got some talent, she really does.”

Right, I thought. I’ll just bet she does.

“Please don’t be upset. I’ll be taking your ideas, too.”

“Whatever, Mark. You own the company.”

“Yes,” he said. “I do.” There was a warning in his voice. “But, Callie, you’re an important part of this place, you know that.”

“Yes,” I answered, my fists clenching. “I do know that. And I just spent three and a half days coming up with two new campaigns, pulling the art department off everything else, just to replace a perfectly good ad campaign because your girlfriend wants to play creative director.”

Good for you, Mrs. Obama cheered. I didn’t feel so triumphant. Christ, what if he fired me right now? I never talked like this! I never had to.

Mark stepped closer to me. Unlike the rest of us, he didn’t have glass walls. My heart rate kicked up, and I felt my cheeks prickle with heat. “You’re right,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry. About a lot of things, Callie.”

My throat tightened in helpless anger…and other things. Sorrow. Heartache. Memories of feeling so stupid for so long. Don’t cave now, the First Lady urged. You’re doing great.

“Look at me, Callie,” Mark said softly.

Ah, shit, Michelle sighed. Here we go again.

Mark’s eyes were ridiculously appealing. Dark, dark brown with thick, long lashes. It wasn’t fair. I totally understood the old expression, damn your eyes. As if reading my mind, Mark smiled, just a little bit, and that was what broke me. For a flash, it felt like we were back in that closet in Gwen Hardy’s basement, and a hot wave of longing surged over me. It just wasn’t fair.

“No one can replace you, Callie,” he said quietly. “No one.”

I took a shaky breath. Confusion and anger and, yes, hope—dopey, immortal hope—churned around in my heart. “I appreciate that,” I whispered, blinking back tears. “But I’m not sure this is going to work for me, Mark.”

“Don’t you even think about it,” Mark said, taking my hands. “Trust me. Things will settle down. Muriel will find her place. Be patient, okay? Please?” His thumbs rubbed the backs of my hands—gently, slowly, before he let go. “Now I’ve made my best girl cry,” he murmured, going over to his desk. “Let me find you a tissue or something.”

He’s using you, Michelle told me.

The thing was, I already knew.

MARK AND MURIEL LEFT FOR their meeting with Hammill Farms at 9:00 on Friday morning. Damien went, too, to help set up the presentation and take notes. The morning seemed to last forever. I fussed, I did busywork, I e-mailed clients and subcontractors, I deleted old files. I could barely sit still.

Finally, around two, they returned. The rest of us fell silent, waiting for the verdict while pretending to work. Our first indicator was Muriel, who stomped down the hall in her tight black skirt and slammed the door to her office. She didn’t spare me a glance. Mark and Damien came along next and went straight to Mark’s office, closing the door behind them.

A half hour later, Damien crept out of Mark’s office. A few minutes later, he sent me an e-mail. Callie shoots, Callie scores. Hammill went with your original idea. Damien.

CHAPTER TWELVE

AFTER WORK THAT DAY, I dragged Damien to the Whoop & Holler, ye olde Vermont townie bar. “I’m not sitting there,” he said, giving our booth a disdainful once-over. “I’ll get crabs.”

“Oh, stop,” I said. “We couldn’t go to Elements, because Dave works there, and since you guys are still broken up…” Damien sighed, and I continued. “Besides, I’m meeting someone here later.” Another attempt at eCommitment’s offerings. “And,” I continued craftily, before he could insult me over my anemic love life, “they have the best apricot sours ever.”

Damien’s perfectly groomed eyebrows bounced up at the mention of his favorite drink. “Okay. For you. On this day of days,” he said, sitting down gingerly.

“Two apricot sours, Jim!” I called, doing a double take when I saw my brother at the bar. “And don’t serve Freddie! He’s underage!”

“You little shit,” Jim said, cuffing Freddie. “How dare you come in with a fake ID!”

“I turned twenty-one in April!” my brother yelped. “My own sister might not remember, but it’s still true!”

I paused and did the math. “Oh, that’s right, Jim. Sorry!”

Freddie gave me the finger and grinned.

When our drinks came, Damien took a sip and then, mollified by the yumminess, told the whole story, with plenty of embellishment and snark, just as I’d hoped.

First, John Hammill had been surprised not to see me, as he was under the (correct) impression that I was the genius of the operation. Secondly, he’d been confused and slightly disturbed by Muriel’s idea.