Page 30 of Bulletproof

“I think people don’t want to be lied to. I think if their event sucks or the idea stinks, you owe it to the client to say, No, it’s crap, and this is why, and not just go along with it and point at it later and say, At least it wasn’t your idea, so it ain’t your fault. Because you produced the train wreck, no matter how you slice it, so if it sucks, then by all rights, you do too. Just spit it out—that’s my motto.”

“Mr. Har⁠—”

“No, wait,” I corrected myself, thinking. “That’s Dane’s motto. Mine is, When in doubt, throw it out ’cause if it’s really important, you can ask someone to fax you another one.”

“Mr. Har⁠—”

“And that’s only my work motto, mind you. At home, I keep stuff. Some stuff. Not like newspapers or crap like that—I’m not a hoarder. I just mean, like, old records or pictures—you should never throw away pictures.”

All three people were staring at me like I’d grown another head.

“What?”

“Okay.” Mr. Riggs smiled wide, and I saw him let out a breath and become a completely different person. He suddenly got comfortable right there in front of me. “I like honesty, I like that people are told what to expect, and if they don’t want to be, I don’t want them as clients. Mr. Har⁠—”

“Jory,” I corrected him.

“Jory,” he repeated. “Excellent. I think you and Fallon will do well with us. Let’s talk some numbers and see if we can put together some sort of package.”

Mrs. Pearlman offered me a breadstick and told me that she’d wanted me to work for her since she’d attended the Price event at the Four Seasons a year ago.

“Oh, the Saturday Night Fever party,” I said, grinning at her.

“Your master of ceremonies quit at the last minute, and you had to fill in.” She smiled at me. “Mr. Har— Jory, I have not laughed that hard in years. I was crying all over my husband.”

I took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back.

“Oh,” she said quickly, almost startling herself, and we all looked at her. “I just put it together what you said a minute ago about Dane. Are you related to Dane Harcourt, the architect?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s my brother.”

Whatever she had liked about me seconds ago was made even better, bolstered as I was by my brother and his flawless reputation.

“Dane Harcourt is the most amazing, intriguing man. He’s just really…”

“Something,” I offered.

“Yes,” she breathed out.

And the way her voice did that thing when she said his name let me know everything I needed to know. She was in love with my brother. Not in the way where she didn’t love her husband, just the way every woman I knew crushed on him a bit. And that was okay. Dane’s wife didn’t mind that. The all-out flirting—that was the only thing that irritated her.

I still remembered the night Aja and Dane had met. It was a black-tie fundraiser, and she crossed the room to ask him to dance. And it was not that she was the first woman who had ever asked, but it was the way she spoke to him. Confident, powerful, but warm, all at the same time. She knew who she was, she knew what she was about, and she knew she was looking at her future husband.

Dane—who needed a partner, an equal—found most women wanted to surrender up their lives to him, wanting him to lead. Aja Greene was different. She wanted to join her life with his, not disappear. She didn’t need him to take care of her; she could take care of herself. She was never jealous or possessive, certain that she was the one for him. Dane had been in agreement after their first words were spoken. Aja was not the first woman to ever ask him to dance, but she was the last.

“Jory?”

“Sorry,” I said with a cough. “It’s nice to hear that you like him ’cause, really, he’s kind of a jerk.”

She chuckled, nodding, squeezing my hand before she let go. “Is he?”

“Oh my God, yes,” I was adamant.

“Well, let’s talk about you now. Let’s see if we can come to terms that will work for you and Mr. Strauss,” she said with a sigh.

Two hours later, I was standing outside in a monsoon under the canopy, waiting for a cab with Fallon Strauss. In one month, because the company was moving offices from one building to a more centralized location downtown, on a Monday, we would meet with Mr. Riggs and Mrs. Pearlman again, and they would have a package ironed out for us. It was the promise of a job without a signed contract, but because of the reputation of the company, we were sure to be the newest creative team at Benchmark Limited.

“I don’t know what to say,” I told him, “which is a stupid thing to say since saying words at all means I did say something.”