Page 8 of Baby for My Billionaire Rival

“Compostable is definitely the way of the future,” I say with a broad smile.

They ignore me. “The left will like it.”

“The right will hate it.”

“Perhaps we just don’t advertise it.”

“Yes, can we just not advertise it?”

They are like a fucking sketch from a children’s television show, going back and forth and back and forth and never getting anything done. “I’d love to show you the science behind our product, if you’ll just let me…”

They are so in their own world, they can’t even hear me. I look over at Gram sheepishly. Her pursed lips tell me everything I need to know. Disappointment.

How can I salvage this? What would Fig say?

Fig is the mentor I never knew I needed. She is bold and brash and doesn’t apologize for anything.

So that’s the way I’ll go.

“Gentlemen,” I say and firmly drop my portfolio on the table in front of them. “I’d love to explain to you the scientific properties of our patented, compostable napkins.” I get to my feet and turn to the green tab, pointing to the paper. “If I can draw your attention to figure one…”

I start to explain all the ins and outs of our product design. It’s going well. They’re not interrupting, I’m remembering all my facts and figures, remembering to smile, making eye conta…

I can’t make eye contact. Because their eyes aren’t meeting mine. They’re not even on the paper in front of me.

Both men are firmly, unapologetically looking at my cleavage.

Part of me burns with anger. Sexism is alive and well in the world, but it thrives in a business setting. I want to smack them both across their faces, call their wives on them, tell the world they’re creeps.

But they’re listening, aren’t they? At least my cleavage has gotten them to shut up.

Fine. Just this once.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Beeler,” I say, shaking his hand.

“Please, call me Hank,” he says, letting the handshake linger far too long.

I smack his arm. “You’re a charmer.”

“Not like you. I’d say you take after your grandmother, but she’s never been the friendly type,” he says.

“I heard that!” Gram calls out from her place at the table.

“And you know we love that about you, Mrs. Gladstone,” Terrance says, although his nervousness is palpable.

I walk the two men out of the conference room. “So, as discussed, the first shipment will go out six weeks from today. We’ll start just with your Texas locations and then discuss how we feel after that.”

“Yes, another meeting will probably be good after our first trial run, wouldn’t you say, Beeler?” Brown asks his partner, eyes skittering briefly once again to the bodice of my dress.

“Certainly, certainly.”

I swallow but force a smile. “Y’all can schedule a follow-up meeting with Charlie on your way out. Let’s say twelve weeks from now?”

Both gentlemen agree and sing my praises as they walk down the hall to the reception area. I take a deep breath and place my hand against my chest. My poor cleavage feels battered and bruised from their ogling. However, it doesn’t matter. I got the job done. And Gram didn’t have to intercede. Not even for a second.

I reenter the conference room and hold my palms out. “Well, what do you think?”

Gram looks at me. Then my dress. Then my cleavage. “Please don’t wear pink next time, Caroline.”

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