Page 48 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
"This is the first option," she explains. "Deep in the art district. An unconventional location, yes, but what makes this one special is the industrial feel of the building itself, yet it's right next to this serene park with its botanical garden out back. Kind of like an urban oasis in the middle of nature. Not to mention, there is a lodge a few minutes' drive away that offers a more rustic experience for those who want it."
"Okay, but this is a business symposium," Kane, the team lead for the project on the Wolfe Foundation side, says. "Wouldn't this location be incongruent with our message?"
"Not necessarily. Your investors are spread widely across the board, but what they have in common is that they're all searching for something different. So far, we've mostly catered to those in tech businesses and crypto. Now, it's time to give other industries a chance to shine, and what better way to show our diversity as a holding company than a venue like this."
It's a good answer. It's also a creative plan that I never would have thought of in the first place. Give her her due, Jenna Marlowe has a creative mind to go with that stunning body.
The only problem is that it has many of the same problems as the welcome gala had.
"So?" she asks, looking around the room. "Thoughts?"
Everyone looks at me, waiting for me to say something, but I don't. They should be able to tell the problem themselves. I mean, are they blind? Can't they see the glaring issue here?
"I think it looks good," Kane says. "Is that a Warhol on the wall?"
"It is." She beams at him, and somehow that makes my annoyance even worse. "And along with that, we have several vendors coming in from?—"
"Are you serious?" I cut her off, and Kane pales when he meets my stare.
I glance around at the rest of the planning committee, and they all avoid my eyes, too.
Hell. No wonder that welcome gala was almost a shit show. All of them are fucking blind.
I finally let my eyes rest on Jenna, and she's the only one who doesn't avert her gaze. Instead, she narrows them, arching her eyebrow, giving me a look that's equal parts challenge and equal parts I want to bite your head off.
"Mr. Wolfe?" she says. "Do you have a problem with the design?"
"That depends on whether or not you're planning a children's birthday party."
The heat flares, and God, it's so sexy, I want to throw her over this desk and ravish her in front of all these cowards.
Even though she has no taste whatsoever, she's the only one who has the balls to fight me on this. That makes her worth more than all of them combined.
"What exactly about it gives off a children's birthday party?" she says. "Be specific."
"The graffiti on the walls, for one."
"It's stylistic," she counters. "The symposium is about championing the underrepresented in business and art. There's a certain classism that separates graffiti from?—"
"I don't care about any of that shit. The graffiti makes it look like a joke. Not to mention the exhibitor stands don't match the stage—none of it's uniform. Why pastel?"
"It's not all pastel. It's simply pastel accents because it's noted to give a sense of?—"
"So now we're using pseudo-science?"
She's even more furious. "Color theory isn't pseudoscience."
"Yes, it is. Pastels wash out on camera; sponsor logos will look toy-store on a livestream. That's not even getting into the lighting of the venue. As a matter of fact, I'm not sold on the venue in the first place."
"The venue was chosen because?—"
"It doesn't matter. Scrap it. Investors expect polish. Warehouse acoustics, load-in unions, and security perimeters at that site will bleed money and kill the livestream."
"No," she says.
I raise my eyebrows. "No?"
"Not until you let me finish my presentation, Mr. Wolfe."
