Page 1 of That Fake Feeling

1

CONNOR

Ifwe have to have an emergency board meeting, why the fuck does it have to be at nine in the morning?

Iwouldn’t have even known about it yet if my assistantSandy, who’s up at dawn to help take care of her grandkids, hadn’t called and woken me an hour ago to be sureI’dseen the email the chairman sent at ten o’clock last night.

Ofcourse,Ihadn’t seen it.I’dalready been at the bar for an hour by then.Imet some friends, or at least peopleIknow, and we ended up going to a club.Itwas around 3 a.m. whenIcrawled into bed.Alone.

Now, my worse-for-wear senses are assaulted by the brightly colored pictures of our biggest-selling educational toys that line the top floor hallway ofBigBrainToys’Manhattanheadquarters.Thecandy-colored floor and walls don’t help either.Itoss back a painkiller and take a slug of coffee.Sandyhad thrust both into my hands asIwalked in the door.Shetakes almost as good care of me as she does of those two little girls.

Atthe end of the hall, dark-suited bodies move around behind the frosted glass wall of the meeting room.Dreadsits heavy in my stomach.AllIwant to do is turn around, go home to sleep off this headache, and let them deal with whatever the hell the problem is.

Butsince this is my company,Ikind of have to be here.Andthere’d better be a fucking good reason.

Iclose my eyes, push my still shower-damp hair off my forehead, take a deep breath, and pull open the door.

“Ah,”Jorgesays.Hiseyes flick to the clock on the wall. “You’rehere.”

It’sonly five after nine, for fuck’s sake.

Hestands at the head of the table, the official chairman of the board position, surveying the four other directors who emit a murmur of “Morning” as they fill their plates from the executive breakfast spread.

Jorgethrusts his hands into his pockets, draws himself up to his full height, which is about six inches shorter than mine, and rocks back on his heels. “Gladyou could make it.”

Iwheel out the large white leather chair at the opposite end of the long table, drop into it, and plant my coffee down. “Morning, folks.”

Theothers, their plates loaded with gourmet croissants, mini quiches, and tropical fruit salad, shuffle to their seats without making eye contact with me.

Jorgefinally sits and clicks his pen a few times.

Anotherswig of coffee brings some welcome warmth to my throat, chest, and stomach in the final second beforeJorgelaunches into whatever irritating corporate problem we have to deal with today.Makingtoys that help kids learn was supposed to be a fun business.Butapparently no business is fun.

“Thankyou all for coming,” he says.

Theothers chew and nod.

“It’simportant we address the sales issue.Thismonth’s figures are following the same pattern as the previous quarter.”

Hetaps his laptop and a graph appears on the large wall-mounted screen, showing a red line zigzagging downward.

Isthis all the meeting’s about?Jorgethinks this is an emergency?He’smaking a mountain out of a very small molehill made by a tiny baby mole.AndIcould have slept in till noon.

Igesture at the graph with my cup. “Itmight not look great, but it’s only a recent thing.Ablip.”Ishrug. “We’restill very profitable.Justnot quite as hugely profitable as before.”

EveryonebutJorgeis still looking at their free breakfast.

“Andit’s the summer.”I’droll my eyes ifIwasn’t fairly sure it would hurt. “Salesare always slower in the summer.Thingswill pick up towardChristmas.”

Done.Iloosen my already loose tie.CanIgo now?

Jorgepoints his clicky pen at the screen. “It’snot a blip.It’sa trend.Avery worrying trend.”

Hecouldn’t sound more patronizing if he tried.Buthe probably is trying.

Irub my aching brow and close my eyes. “You’reworrying about nothing,Jorge.I’lltell the marketing department to up their game.That’llfix it.”

“Ourmarketing department might be good,” he sneers, “but there isn’t a team in the world that could market us out ofthisproblem.”