Grr… a cold is such a waste of time! I can't be sick, but that's what I get for being stubborn and not trying to hail another cab. Goodness Grace, stay in bed, Mark will understand. Talking to myself hadn't worked, so then one would think an onslaught of angry texts from Olivia might have detoured me, but no…
I took a moment to let the mirror mock my determination. It accentuated my puffy red eyes and pale complexion, so I knew I had to actually put some effort into my looks. I got out my good makeup, the kind that every girl saves for when she is trying to impress someone or hide something. I had to hide this illness from Mark or he would literally spin me out of the office and call my mother.
Mark wanted me present for a brainstorming meeting with a prominent potential sponsor. So there wouldn't be a ton of suspicion if I dressed up. I opened my closet with a growl. The blessing and curse of living with a clothing designer are that I can never complain about not having clothes. In my cold fog state, I clumsily stumbled around trying to pick an outfit. I pulled out a soft gray pinstripe dress and smiled remembering the Halloween Di created the Esmé Squalor look alike. Well if I am going to dress up I might as well have a little fun with it.
I walked into to conference room with my throbbing head held high. Mark took one look at me and scowled. I shrugged and took my seat next to him.
"You really need to learn how to call in sick," Mark grumbled.
"You wanted me here, so here I am."
"I wanted you 'bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,'" He corrected. "Know that I'm sending you home as soon as this meeting is over."
"Deal," I replied just as there was a knock on the door.
"Mr. Emerson?"
"Come in, gentlemen," Mark ushered.
Three well-dressed men filed through the conference room door. The first one wore a navy three-piece suit, he had a confident look displayed on his face. The second man wasn't dressed as fancy but looked like he was pumped about the meeting. Finally, the last guest filed through and my breath caught in my throat. The third gentleman locked eyes with me and smiled brightly. Under the table, I gripped my chair wishing to steady my spinning head.
"Good morning, gentleman," Mark stood to greet the men. "Allow me to introduce my head editor, Miss Grace McAllister." I moved to stand as well but Mark's hands fell on my shoulders holding me down, so I nodded to each of the men.
"It's wonderful to meet you, Mr. Emerson. And we've also heard a great deal about you, Miss McAllister," The first gentleman grinned. "I am Cole Woodworth, Vice President of Woodworth Gaming company. This is my lead designer, Grant Grayson, and our lawyer, Henry Folsom." So Mr. Cheesecake has a name.
"And I'm a lawyer," Mr. Folsom smirked. My eyes widened in horror as I realized that in my groggy state, instead of just thinking the words, my brain misdirected the message to leave my lips.
Nervously, I laughed, "Well it is good to officially meet you, Mr. Folsom." I felt Mark gently shake my shoulder as his way of telling me that it is going to be alright.
"Folsom…" Mark questioned.
"Yes, sir, just like the Johnny Cash song," Mr. Cheesecake beamed with pride.
"No," Mark stated, "I mean, yes I recognized the reference, but I was actually thinking of an old high school pal of mine named Folsom. He is a Navy Admiral now."
"Camden Folsom," Mr. Cheesecake suggested. Mark smiled brightly as the lawyer continued, "He's my father. You must be 'Mad Dog' Emerson, my father had many stories about you and Jerry McAllister."
"You better not say much more," Mark cut him off. "This little lady is McAllister's daughter. Whatever you say can and will be held as blackmail for me and McAllister."
"And now he's ruined all the fun," I smiled. "But we are here to brainstorm some ideas for ways that we can work together. Did you want to start, Mr. Woodworth?"
"I'd love to, but first things first, we are all friends," he gestured to his colleagues, "and it is really weird for us to be indulging in formalities. If we are going to be working closely together then we will start getting comfortable."
"Fair enough," Mark commented, "how do we do that?"
"By using first names," Mr. Woodworth, I mean Cole, explained. Once we were past the formalities we got down to business. We brainstormed a perfect mesh of video games and fashion and we would release the special edition during one of the larger Comic-Cons. Cole and Henry said that they would work on the logistics of getting permission to use images and likenesses of the more famous video game characters. Luckily, since the Woodworth Gaming Company cornered the market on current comic-con characters, we only had to write up papers to make their permission official.
We decided that while we worked on this special edition, Grant Grayson would set up an office next to me. His job was to work closely on article details with me, character continuity designs with Di, and lights and backgrounds with Jack Healy, our lead photographer. Henry would keep the legal end smooth and check in from time to time, and Cole would be available for any approvals. Honestly, I was surprised that Mark agreed to the hands-on involvement. Normally, he is very protective of this magazine, but he seemed almost excited about this edition.
"Well, we should probably get started," Cole suggested. He seemed as giddy as a schoolboy that itched for summer.
"We will start in two weeks," Mark replied. "Our latest edition goes into the final stages this week. We need to get that into print before we start knocking out the next edition."
"Fair enough," Henry laughed. "We will need some time to get the contracts finalized as well. We will see you both on Thursday." He directed that last sentence at me. I did everything in my power not to react to him.
The men began to leave the conference room, but Mark asked for Henry to join him in his office. I took the distraction as an opportunity to sneak back to my office and try to get some work done before Mark made good on his threat to send me home.
I tried to focus as my thoughts were swimming through a fog of red eyes and a burning nose. I laid my head in my hands to steady myself. What are the odds that I would've ever seen Mr. Cheesecake again?
"Normally we wouldn't have, but I am glad that we did." I turned to see Mr. Cheesecake leaning against my office door jamb.
I rolled my eyes and smirked, "Note to self: don't think when you have a mind-numbing cold."
"I thought you looked awful," He mentioned.
"Wow… sweet talker," I growled, "You really need to work on your bedside manners."
"Grace," the booming voice of my editor, Mark Emerson, scared me half to death, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I thought I was working," I rasped. Henry looked between us with a grin.
Mark shook his head and glowered at me. I opened my mouth to explain but he slapped his hand over my forehead. "Go home. Eat a cookie and relax. I don't want to see you for the next two days. You'll report to me on Thursday." I tried to protest. "NOW!"
I decided to obey by picking up my coat and keys. It would get Olivia off my back too.
"I will walk you to your car," Henry offered. It seemed to be Mark's turn to give me a curious look. "If you're okay with that?"
I nodded and followed Henry out of my office. We walked in silence for a few minutes before I turned to him.
"I didn't properly thank you for the other night."
"I just wish we had actually been able to exchange names," Henry smirked.
"You weren't my date," I reminded him.
"Too bad. I would've been a much better date," he laughed as he offered me his arm and escorted me the rest of the way to my car.
I made it home with little trouble. After I kicked my shoes into the coat closet, I curled up on the couch and fell asleep. I awoke to the most awful beeping. I tried to shut up the alarm clock when the most horrible smell hit me. I shot into an upright position, thick smoke hung in the air, and Olivia scurried around coughing and crying.
"Livi," I rasped. The smoke did nothing for my throat and an already foggy head. "What did you do?" I flew into action trying to quiet the painful fire alarm. My supermodel roommate found a counter barstool and laid her head down. I looked into the pot she had sitting on the stove. I don't know how, but my dear friend found a way to burn chicken noodle soup.
"I... I wanted to do something nice for you," she whined. I flashed a weak smile as I dumped the soup down the garbage disposal.
"Thank you," I replied through a cough, "but I'm not hungry." Once again she wailed. "Look, if you shut up, I'll tell you about Saturday night." I had to do something she was driving me to the brink of destruction.
She sniffled and her breathing started to even out. She looked like a three-year-old that tripped and is now looking for sympathy. Though my throat protested, I spun a true story into something that would make her laugh and hopefully scare her off this Prince Charming Crusade. "Well, at least there was one gentleman in the world." And he seems to be sticking around…
As I finished she patted my hand, "Well... next time should be a lot better." She stood and walked to the phone.
"Well that failed," I mumbled. Instead of eavesdropping on her call, like I usually did, I walked to the kitchen. There's one order Mark gave me I hadn't obeyed yet. Because I'm an overachiever I poured myself a glass of milk and laid out four homemade chocolate chip cookies. Olivia can complain to Mark if she's got a problem with my treatment.