I slide around the table until the cans are in my reach and grab one. After a quick, theatrical toss in the air, I pull the tab and tear it open.
The can pops. Once again, I have the room’s attention.
I look at my EA. “Miss Bristol, there’s a gold spoon in the front pocket of my briefcase. Could you grab it for me, please?”
“What?” she asks, confusion on her face.
I raise my eyebrows.
Don’t ask questions right now. Just do it.
She must hear me scolding her telepathically and leans around the table, fishes into my briefcase, brings me the spoon, and returns to her seat with a worried look.
Yeah, let’s do this.
Glowering, I stab the spoon into the cat food, bring it close to my face, and fight the urge to gag.
The whole room goes silent.
“What the—have you lost your mind, Heron?” Stedfaust barks, shaking his head so hard his cheeks flap.
I ignore him, open the next can, stab my spoon in, and bring it disgustingly close to my face. It smells like a heap of rotting rats.
I turn my head and my nose scrunches up. Then I plunge the spoon back into the can and shake it until the clumpy feline food falls off back into the tin.
“Third time’s the charm, people,” I whisper, repeating the vile process with the remaining can.
This one isn’t dead rat bad, but it doesn’t smell like something any human being would ever want to put in their mouth.
I survey the room. Stedfaust has a deep crease in his forehead, staring at me in abject horror.
His brows are up, and he’s watching me closely.
Both of our teams stare at me slack-jawed. Poor Anita, our video head, looks like she’s about to pass out at the table.
Three shiny cans of Woof Meow Chow sit on the other side of the projector, leftovers from our video shoot.
“Hugo, could you pass me a can of Meow Chow?” I ask.
Fingers shaking, he picks up a can and slides it across the table like a hockey puck. I pop the can, in goes my spoon, and I bring the chow to my face, fully intending to keep an ironclad poker face no matter how bad this stinks.
Thankfully, I don’t have to.
No, it’s not some gourmet feast fit for a human being. But there are no preservatives, so it’s not foul like the others.
Ever so slowly, I touch the spoon to my lips. The room erupts in loud gasps.
Now, I’ve got their attention.
“Of course, I’m joking. I’m not that insane.” I drop the spoon in the can and lower the can back to the table with a rattling plop, wiping my mouth. “Let me tell you, what’s no joke is that the other brands smell like an outhouse. I wouldn’t feed that stuff to a stray.”
Stedfaust leans forward and studies me closely, then sniffs.
“You may be onto something, Heron. That was...an unorthodox way to make your point. But I still need new proofs. How does that little presentation translate to advertising—a scratch and sniff campaign? Any marketing hinges on the design and execution, obviously, and I’m not investing in something I’m unsure of.”
“Nor would I expect you to,” I agree. “We’d be happy to work out some new proofs and meet back here next week, Chester.”
He brightens at the casual use of his name.
Progress.
He’s not sold, not yet, but we still have a fighting chance to keep the biggest organic pet food maker in the Midwest. Hugo and I need a serious church session with the full creative team before we meet again.
My brain simmers, high on averting a total disaster, when I hear a voice I damn well shouldn’t.
“Oh, I used to work for Purry Furniture and More!” Sabrina blurts out next to me. “They have a similar vibe. I have some ideas.”
Slowly, my neck whips around. My eyes bore into her. Too bad the table’s glass, or I’d be kicking her under it.
Has she lost her fucking mind?
Assistants don’t talk in these meetings. They don’t pitch concepts, and I definitely didn’t hire her for her design skills. Talented or not, I’m up to my neck in creative types.
Stedfaust gazes at her. His eyes roam up and down her body.
Bastard.
“Tell me more, sweetheart. This could be interesting,” he says, lacing his fingers under his chin and leaning forward, all ears.
“She’s Miss Bristol,” I say, my voice low. “The newest addition to our team.”
He doesn’t acknowledge me, but she catches my eye and smiles like sunshine. Something about it feels so disarming it’s hard to glare back at her.
But I do. She’s got to learn to stay in her lane, and fast.
This is not her role, and if she fucks things up for me, for HeronComm, so help me...
“What if we did something like animated dogs and cats dreaming? The dogs can sleep in clouds.” Instead of looking at him, she stares at her laptop screen. Her hand hovers over the mouse she clicks as she talks. “The cats walk around the treetops, hunters on the prowl until they all wake up in their cozy beds, and then they run straight for their bowls of Woof Meow Chow. The stuff of dreams.” She turns her computer around for him to see it, cartoonish sketches from an old project of hers, no doubt.