“This is our second annual holiday charity event,” Tyler states. “Not only have we committed to our donors and clients, we’ve committed to a charity that one of our clients was allowed to choose. Based on these things, we will not deviate from our timeline. If you can make that work, we can talk right now.”
“Riptide prefers time to hype the auction. If you’ll allow us—”
“Another year.” His tone is absolute. “We’re committed to the timeline this year. And Allison has left me in a bad spot. What I need right now is someone to coordinate and manage the event. If Riptide can do that for me—”
“We don’t rush,” I say. “That’s not how we operate.”
“Then we’re done here,” he states. “Enjoy the party, Ms. Wright.” He starts to turn.
My heart races and for reasons I can’t fully name, I’m not ready for us to be done at all. I can’t let it end here and I blurt, “Riptide won’t do it, but I will,” before I can even think through the offer.
He pauses and turns to face me. “You will?”
“I’m on an extended leave through January.”
He arches that brow of his again, obviously asking a question. How am I here on leave, and representing Riptide?
“My mother had cancer,” I explain. “She’s in remission, but I’m staying here through the holidays before I return to New York. My boss at Riptide has been generous with my time off, but he’s well aware I’m here tonight. He sent me the invitation.”
“I need someone working on this full-time.”
“I can do that,” I assure him. “I’ve trained under Riptide’s founder. I’ve learned about every aspect of the auction business. But if I do this, I’ll be filling in for Allison, on your payroll,” I add, surprising myself with my boldness, thank you, Queen Compton. “And I need to have the go-ahead to exploit any opportunity for Riptide.”
“Only if run by me first,” he negotiates.
“Fine. Done. I’ll see if I can get Riptide to sponsor the auction. That alone will bring in bidders and drive up prices. It can be a win-win for everyone. And I’m working at the art museum right now. I’ll need to give them two weeks’ notice.”
“I’ll handle the museum.” That absoluteness is back in his tone.
But I don’t accept his push. “They need me,” I argue.
“I’ll make it worth their while to do whatever you do without you. I’m on their board. What else?”
He’s on the board. Of course, he is. My chin lifts slightly. “I need to have my Riptide salary matched.”
He doesn’t even ask the figure. He simply says, “Done.”
We stare at each other, a push and pull of energy between us I don’t quite understand before he says. “You’re hired, Ms. Wright.”
“Allison,” I say quickly.
“Allison,” he says softly, almost too softly. “I’ll see you Monday morning.” With that, he turns and walks away.
My mouth parts and I turn away from him, downing my champagne and setting my glass on a small table. What am I doing? I ask myself as my fingers close around the railing. I’ve just accepted another woman’s job while holding her necklace in my purse. It’s as if I want to be her and not myself, but I quickly swipe away that idea as silly. I’m not trying to live another woman’s life. I’m trying to live my own. As the Tim McGraw country song says, “Live Like You Were Dying.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I have to tell Mark Compton I took another job and still manage to keep my job at Riptide.
I’m already holding my phone, preparing to spill the news to him, my finger hovering over his number when I recognize the urgency of approaching this smartly. This pitch needs to tell Mark Compton how this move benefits him and Riptide. And I can’t do that when I haven’t even had time to think this all through. Or when I’m still not fully convinced I’m actually taking the job at Hawk Legal. It’s time to step back and think. In other words, it’s time to go home before I get myself into any more trouble.
With that in mind, I hurry inside and across the room, weaving through random groups of mingling people. Fortunately, the receptionist who’s been playing hostess is chatting with someone and doesn’t notice me when I pass her by to head to the elevator. Once there, I quickly punch the elevator call button. Almost immediately the doors open, and I rush into the empty car, still holding my cellphone. Which would be all fine and wonderful if I didn’t fling my phone across the elevator.
“Yes, wonderful, indeed,” I murmur.
It’s in just that moment, that Dash steps into the car, snatches the phone from the floor, and steps close, right in front of me. “At least you weren’t throwing it at me,” he says, punching the lobby level button before he offers it to me.