Sin (Just This Once 3)

“No, Mitchell, that’s wrong.” I shake my head. “The client’s name is Trent Morrison, not Trent Morris. Get it together before our meeting.”

“Our meeting?” Mitchell’s blond brows pinch together. “Since when it is our meeting? I thought Dave was giving me the reins on this one.”

I move to close his office door so the entire floor doesn’t hear us disagreeing again. They already got an earful this morning when Mitchell stormed into my office to ask me why I’d sent a bouquet of flowers to one of our long-term clients who recently had surgery.

Mitchell has been her primary point of contact since she signed on with our firm three years ago, but I knew he wouldn’t reach out after finding out that she had canceled her meeting with him today because she was in the hospital recovering from an emergency appendectomy a few days ago.

He was caught off guard when she called to thank him for the lavish bouquet. By the time he stormed into my office, he was livid that I hadn’t informed him that flowers had been sent to her along with a card with our firm’s best wishes.

It wasn’t my fault that he sounded like a fool as he sputtered his way through the conversation not even aware that she’d gone under the knife.

He sounded just as incompetent when I was passing by his office a few minutes ago and heard him telling his assistant, Hal, that he needed a pot of coffee ready for his three o’clock meeting with Trent Morris .

Trent Morrison is the brand manager for a vodka company. He’s the reason I was called into the office on Saturday to meet with my dad and Mitchell.

I pitched my ideas before listening to Mitchell toss out a few of his tried and true standards including a television commercial and a billboard in Times Square.

I’m not as prepared for this meeting as I want to be. The only research I’ve done is looking through Trent Morrison’s recent social media posts.

I intended to spend yesterday studying the company’s history and past advertising campaigns, but that didn’t happen.

Ivy Marlow-Walker, the owner of Whispers of Grace, asked me to go over some of the proofs from a photo sh

oot I arranged last week. Since I’m the one who suggested we hire a photographer to capture new images of Ivy’s latest jewelry designs, I couldn’t refuse, even though it was Sunday.

After we finished for the day, I had dinner at her apartment with her and her family.

In terms of work, it was a great investment of my time, but it was more than that. It was a chance to get to know her husband and kids.

A soft knock at the door draws Mitchell to his feet. “Answer the door, Linny.”

I’m tempted to tell him to do it, but I’m less than a foot away from it, so I swing open the door.

“It’s not often that I find you two together.” My dad brushes a hand over his bald head. “Nothing warms my heart more than to see you working side-by-side.”

Mitchell clears his throat behind me. “Linny was just telling me that she’ll be sitting in on the meeting with Trent Morrison.”

His tongue lingers on the last syllable, making a note to pronounce it correctly.

“I’ve prepared a few more ideas for us to pitch.” I ignore my stepbrother’s attempt to undermine my role in the meeting.

My dad nods. “You’re always coming up with something new and fresh, Linny.”

I’d feel better accepting the compliment if I actually had more ideas to present to Mr. Morrison. I have just over an hour to brainstorm though so as soon as I can break free of Mitchell’s office, I’ll hunker down in mine with my assistant.

“It’s my job,” I say as I toss Mitchell a glance.

“You look beautiful as always today.” My dad leans forward to kiss my cheek.

I gaze down at the red pencil skirt and black blouse I’m wearing. I pulled my hair back into a tight knot at the base of my neck before I applied my makeup this morning. I skipped my contact lenses for a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses. After slipping on strappy black heels, I was out the door and at the office before my nine a.m. start time.

“The glasses make you look smarter,” Mitchell calls from behind me.

I turn so I’m facing him directly with my back to my dad. I lift my middle finger and silently mouth the words, “ Fuck you .”

The smug grin on his face morphs into a scowl.

“I’ll see you at three, Mitchell,” I say cheerfully. “I overheard you asking Hal to make coffee for the meeting, but Mr. Morrison prefers a particular green tea that is only sold at a café on Fifth Avenue. I’ll call there myself and have it delivered piping hot.”