Page 73 of Mistlefoe
CONOR
“Breathe.”
“I’m breathing,” Sierra says in a squeak.
“Deeper.” I order, giving her hand a little squeeze. In return, she clutches at my hand in a death grip. I lock every muscle in place not to wince. “Are you sure you’re breathing?”
“No. I’ve decided it’s best to pass out right here and have you carry me away. That way neither of us has to be subjected to this torture.” She turns a toothy grimace my way.
“I have bad news for you.” My voice is a soft whisper that echoes in the hallway, just outside of the conference room at the top floor across from the CEO’s office. That’s where all the company’s executives currently sit. “We’ve postponed this until the literal last minute. If we don’t do this now, it’s never.”
“Would that be so bad?” Sierra blinks up at me, a little wrinkle appearing on her forehead. “Like, the whole event won’t be ruined just because we don’t convince the executives to do this. So, why are we even trying?”
“For fun.”
“Whose? Because I’m shaking in my Uggs and you’re bathed in sweat.”
“It’ll be fun when everyone’s drunk at the party.” I wipe a bead from my brow. “Maybe we should’ve taken a couple of shots of liquid courage before this.”
“I wish,” she grumbles.
“In any case, it’s too late to run. We already got a spot in the agenda to talk about this and it was announced to them, so…” I swing her arm gently. “Just remember you’re not alone in this.”
“You better not let me talk all by myself, Conor Mahoney, or else.” She narrows those dark eyes of hers that make me feel like she can see right through to the core of me, promising a world of pain if I don’t do what she says. I’m pretty sure this is going to be my life from now on, and I don’t mind it one bit.
“I won’t.” I lift her hand, bringing the back of it against my lips. I want to linger in the moment as long as I can, my eyes lost in hers, my lips on her skin, inhaling the soft scent that is only hers—something like a warm, spiced vanilla.
But then the door opens and we jump apart.
Richard’s still laughing along at something that must’ve happened a second ago, and when he turns to face us, Sierra and I are at a respectable distance. “Hey, guys. You ready?”
“Of course.”
“Totally.”
We’re both all smiles and fake bravado—that’s how you survive in marketing anyway. It’s not that exceptionally brilliant people are required to pitch wild ideas to customers while at the same time gathering intel from them—we’re just really big practitioners of the fake it till you make it doctrine, mixed with high levels of determination. I feel it’s not that different from being a professional athlete.
I motion for Sierra to walk ahead of me and join her in facing all ten executives, plus Martin Richter,SPORTY’s CEO.
Individually they’re all pretty chill, except for Camila Puig. But together, they’re ten Camilas. This is why this executive team has taken the brand to worldwide stardom, competing toe and toe with the top European and Asian brands of sportswear and equipment.
A trickle of sweat travels down the middle of my back and I stand stoic against the itch.
“Hi, everyone. Thank you for granting us a few minutes of your time,” I start just as Sierra and I rehearsed earlier. “This is Sierra Fernandez, and I’m Conor Mahoney. We work for Richard in marketing and today we’d like to request your support for the annual Christmas event that will take place this Friday.”
Our boss nods, which is a little hint for everyone else to be amenable to this. Meanwhile, Camila looks at us as if she couldn’t believe we just wasted thirty seconds of her life introducing ourselves toheragain.
Sierra takes it from here, seemingly unfazed by the glaring executive. “Now, I’ll preface this by clarifying that it isn’t a request for further budget. In fact, we’ve optimized expenses to reduce twenty percent of our allocated budget.”
Richard gives us a discreet little thumb up. At the same time, the body languages in general improve. I decide it’s best if I ignore Camila altogether for my own mental health.
“What we’d like to ask you is…” I make a strategic pause until I lift a shopping bag and place it at the end of the long table. “That you stick to a very specific dress code.”
Martin’s eyebrows rise. “Oh?”
“We thought the best way for the employee base to relax and get in a festive mood, aside from spiked eggnog, would be if our executives lead by the example.” I put my hand in the bag and grab a fistful of velvety fabric, knowing exactly what I’m about to pull out because I literally packed this bag myself. I take a bracing breath and take out a very familiarlooking garment. “Martin, we’re thinking this should be your attire.”
I hold the red fabric up with my other hand, in case it’s not clear to everyone that it’s the top half of a Santa outfit.
