Page 6 of Faking With Mr. Steele

I can do this. I have a degree in marketing; if anyone can sell this soap, I can. There’s no way they can turn down my presentation. My red silk shirt is my power tie as I walk down the wide hallway, giving myself every type of pep talk known to man.

Before I enter the room, I take a deep breath and open the door with a forced smile on my face.

“Good morning,” I address the two people seated at the long rectangular table.

“Hello, Miss Walters,” Liv, the woman with whom I set up the meeting, greets me. “Mr. Steele stepped out for a moment. He’ll be right back.”

In the interim, she introduces me to Mark Feinstein, a burly man with a distracting mustache and a buyer for the resort.

I smile and shake his paw-like hand.

The door opens, and my entire sales pitch leaves my brain faster than I spread my sore legs for the man standing before me in an orgasmic black suit that clings to his broad shoulders like my hands did last night. This can’t be happening; my stranger is Graham Steele.

“Good morning,” I say, hiding my shock behind a tight-lipped smile.

“Morning. Let’s get started.”

He takes a seat as if last night didn’t happen. Yes, right. Be professional. There’s a reason I’m here—an important one—and it’s not to admire how his skillful hands thumb through the packet of papers in front of him. I reach in my leather bag and assemble my materials on the table. My go to trick of imagining everyone naked, to ease my nervousness, is definitely not goingto work in this scenario, and I silently will my hands not to shake.

Mr. Steele’s eyes follow me as I pass out a sample of lavender soap with an evergreen sprig embedded. Everyone takes a sniff, except Mr. Steele. Instead, he sets his soap aside, and twines his fingers together, placing them on the table in front of him.

“Miss Walters,” he starts, “why don’t you tell us a bit about your soaps.”

“Um, absolutely.” His eyes track the movement of my hand as I push up the purely fashionable glasses slipping down my nose.

I begin my presentation with my backstory, how my grandmother owned her own candle company, and how I experimented with candle making and then became fascinated with soaps. None did everything I wanted. Some smelled sweet, but left my skin feeling dry all over. Others felt great, but had no scents. So, I wanted one that could clean, soothe, moisturize, and smelled like any place I could imagine: the beach, the mountains, clean sheets and a rainy afternoon. The possibilities are endless.

While I hand out a pamphlet on my small business, website, and sales projections, I tell them how I branched off into lotions, Chapstick’s, and bath gels, each handcrafted in my home.

This nugget of information impresses Liv, and she smiles wide. I smile back, knowing I’ve got her on my side. Mr. Steele is another story. His eyes burn into me with the same fire they incinerated me with last night. When I’m done, I finally sit, and squeeze my thighs together to quench the ache inside me.

“This soap smells divine.” Liv takes a long whiff of an oval bar. “What is that?”

“It’s sandalwood. I have so many different scents.” I grab my bag, opening the front pocket to pull out a variety of scent cards and hand them over to her.

Each bar of soap has an original ‘calling card’ scent— coffee beans, ground very fine and a smidge of it put into each bar—which I won’t ever disclose. Kind of like a secret ingredient.

Liv passes the cards to Mr. Steele, and I watch as he brings a card close to his perfect nose. His eyes bore into mine as a small smile graces his lips.

I try so hard not to smile back.

“Can you imprint the company goat logo onto the bar?” Mark inquires after the scent cards are handed to him.

“Absolutely. I can make a stamp, which I can place into each bar upon production.”

Before I can get into numbers, the door opens, and a woman with red hair twirled into a bun on top of her head, enters.

“Mr. Steele, sorry to interrupt, but there’s been some damage from the storm last night.”

“Damage?” He rises from his seat, and I can see my meeting is over now.

“The roads at the base of the mountain are blocked, and they’re not sure when they’ll be able to get them cleared,” she explains.

“What do you mean blocked?” Liv asks with concern, standing.

I grab my bag, and follow everyone out the door.

“The storm created an avalanche on Briar’s Pass, and there’s some downed trees blocking the road,” the woman says.

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