Page 1 of Strictly the Worst

CHAPTER

ONE

TESSA

“I’m taking you off the project,” my boss tells me. He’s standing in the corner of his over-expansive office, holding a putter as he squints at the golf ball in front of him. He lightly swings it, gently murmuring to himself as though he’s having his own personal pep talk.

“I’m sorry?” I frown because my ears are ringing and it’s been almost impossible to hear anything for the past three days. I spent the weekend becoming close friends with a circular saw and even though I wore ear protection all I can hear is constant buzzing. It’s like a family of crickets has moved into my brain and thrown a party.

I wait for him to repeat his words. After he does, I’ll tell him what I thought he said and we’ll both laugh.

“You’re off the Exuma project.” He’s still glaring at the golf ball like it’s his nemesis. “A hundred and thirty-two,” he mutters. “I scored better than that when I was a beginner.” He finally looks up, his gaze meeting mine. “Did you know Salinger can score seventy without batting an eyelid? That’s professional level. Damn it, I’m never gonna beat him.”

My heart is slamming against my chest, not least because Roman Hampshire seems more interested in his golf score than the fact I’ve been working on the Exuma project for the past six months.

I swallow hard, trying not to hyperventilate. Because this project is the big one. It’s my first multimillion dollar budget, and my one chance to prove that I can create a PR plan for a huge client. And yes, there’s the sizable bonus that I’ll get at the end to consider, too.

I need that money. I’ve already spent it in my mind on a kitchen that actually has cupboards and a nice sink with faucets that don’t leak, along with a counter top that isn’t made of crates stacked on top of each other.

“We’re supposed to be doing the pitch in two weeks,” I say, as Roman taps the ball and it veers around the hole of his makeshift green in the corner. “I’ve been working on it for months. I’m all ready for it.”

He shrugs, as though it doesn’t matter that I’ve spent every waking hour I’m not demolishing my home making mock ups of brochures and social media campaigns. I can’t remember the last time I actually watched the television or read a book. I work and I renovate and I take care of my daughter.

“Is the client unhappy with my work?” I ask. Because the last time I spoke with the marketing team they loved the direction we were taking. He’s not the decision maker – that’s James Gold, the owner of Gold resorts. But the marketing director is a pretty big cheese.

“James is fine,” Roman says. “He just wants to take things in a different direction.”

“What kind of direction?” I’m already thinking of the printing budget I’ve spent and the draft contracts I’ve agreed to with influencers.

This is not good. Not good at all.

“He wants the pitch to be presented on Exuma itself.”

I blink. The presentation is supposed to take place at Gold Resorts’ head office on Fifth Avenue. I’ve already scoped out the room – thanks to a connection I have over there. In my head I’ve planned where everybody will sit. I enjoy planning. It’s my superpower. And though I know a lot about the Exumas – an archipelago of little islands in the Bahamas – what I don’t know is the audiovisual equipment they’ll have at the hotel.

I think I’m going to hyperventilate.

“Why would James want us to present the pitch on the island?” I ask.

“Because he thinks we need to experience the resort itself.” James shrugs. “I can’t say I disagree. You should have thought about that months ago.”

“You said you wanted me to keep within budget,” I say. “How could we do that and fly to Exuma?”

I’m shaking. I need to sit down. I can’t remember if I ate lunch today. I don’t think I did. I was too busy on a conference call during lunch. My assistant brought me a coffee at about two, and insisted I drank it. But apart from that…

There’s a knock at the door and Roman grabs his ball and club and puts them into the golf bag that’s leaning against the wall. “Don’t tell him I was practicing, okay? I don’t want him to know he’s gotten me riled up.”

“Who don’t you want me to tell?” I ask, completely confused.

A moment later my question is answered when Roman yells out for whoever is knocking to come in and the door opens wide. I turn around, my gaze taking in the sharply cut suit, the thick shoulders, and broad chest, tapering down to a slim waist.

“Salinger,” Roman calls out, beaming like Linc Salinger is his best friend and not another employee. “Come on in. I was just updating Tessa on our chat with James Gold on the course earlier.”

“You were playing golf with James Gold?” I ask. “Why didn’t you ask me to come along?”

“Do you play golf?” Roman asks. I’m aware of Salinger’s gaze on my face. He’s been working for Roman for the last year. His official title is Head of Client Relations but he’s basically Roman’s right-hand man. On paper, we’re equals – we both report to Roman.

But as far as everybody else here at Hampshire PR is concerned, Salinger and Roman are the head honchos around here.

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