Chapter 1

Chapter One

Charlie

D ad burst into my office like a stress hormone on two legs. “We need to talk.”

I’d sensed his state of mind at the client meeting and contemplated locking my door. But doors didn’t significantly slow down my father, especially in the building he owned.

“Dad, it’s under control. I’ll get together with Trevor and Lee. We’ll brainstorm?—”

“With a crate of beers? I don’t think so. Time to try something else.” He brandished a stack of printouts.

“Like what?” Dread prickled through me.

“I’m sending you away.”

“What? Where?”

A brochure landed on my desk and a mountain range caught my eye.

“It’s an art retreat in the Rockies. They specialize in getting you out of your creative rut or whatever it is.” He flicked his wrist, signaling his indifference. “Fresh air, re-wiring the brain, that sort of thing. I’ve been up there for a conference. Food was decent.”

“But—”

“The party is over, son. If you don’t nail this one, we’re losing more than a couple of mac ops.”

“We’re losing production staff?” My heart leapt into my throat. “Which… ones…?”

Dad sighed, finally taking a seat across my desk. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Look, I know you care about these people, but some of them are not adding value. We need creative input, not just print production. There’s a new AI solution I’m looking into, and it’ll replace?—”

“You’re not talking about Bess?”

Dad frowned, searching his memory. “Is that the redhead who cleans up after you?”

Bess cleans my mess. I’d used the stupid mnemonic device to learn her name. I had needed no tricks beyond the first week, though. Turned out Bess was very memorable.

“She does more than that! I’ve seen her notebooks, drawings… I think she has ideas.” I was making shit up and I didn’t care.

Dad harrumphed. “Well, unless she’s willing to share those ideas, we can’t afford to keep her. Not after we implement the new, automated system. I’m meeting with the suppliers this week?—”

“No. I’ll get her to share those ideas. You’ll see.”

For all I knew, the notebook on Bess’s desk was a dream journal. Either way, I owed her. She’d saved my ass more than once, catching mistakes that could have ended up in print, or on giant billboards. I wasn’t known for my attention to detail.

Besides, I firmly believed every person on earth possessed creativity, and could contribute original ideas. The value of mine varied, but I knew how to sell them, which often mattered more than the actual idea. And that’s where I could help. I’d show Bess how to play the game. I’d make her irreplaceable.

I stared at my father’s imposing figure, anger brewing in my chest. I knew I had a sweet deal, including a great paycheck, but I was tired of being his puppet, charming the clients and winning the awards, yet having no control over what happened in the company.

Dad’s voice turned into a hiss and his silver-grey eyes narrowed. “Do not waste your time on production staff. You hear me? We have to go lean and mean to ride out this recession. And you need to bring home the Thriver campaign, otherwise we’ll start cutting the creative team. Trevor. Lee…”

I groaned. It was the shit storm of all shit storms. Economic downturn, coupled with a campaign that had failed miserably with the focus group. It was all my fault. People would get fired because of me.

I sagged back into my chair. “This target group Thriver is going for… it’s not our usual bread and butter, so it makes sense we might have to try a few different angles.”

Dad shook his head. “There’s no time for that. If the next concept doesn’t land, they’re moving on. With all their money.” He raked his fingers through his thick silver hair. His pride and joy, reinforced with implants. “They have a lot in the pipeline, and we need this. Can you put together our own focus group? I’d rather test in-house before we even present anything.”

My gaze flicked at the brochure. “You’re sending me to the mountains. What do you want, a focus group of bears?”

Dad stared back, unfazed. “There’s a small town nearby. Tourism. Lots of people on minimum wage. Take your pick. It’ll be good for you to get your hands dirty and connect with this… target group.” I could see the disgust on his face. God forbid he connected with those people. “Once we fire the production people, you’ll need to be a bit more hands-on anyway, making sure the AI apps do their thing.”

I already hated those apps. I wanted Bess. She worked harder than anyone I knew. She didn’t deserve this. But if I argued back, Dad would only dig in his heels. I needed evidence. Ideas. Something to wow everyone.

Dad tapped on the brochure. “I asked Rhonda to make a reservation so check the details with her. It kicks off Monday morning.”

The chair screeched as he stood up and kicked it back in its place. As the glass door rattled behind him, I picked up the brochure, mindlessly browsing its content.

…the latest brainstorming techniques…

…varied art practice…

…rest and recuperation…

…brain-boosting superfoods…

At that moment, I looked up and saw Bess walking past my glass door. She looked rosy-cheeked, like she’d been outdoors, probably running an errand with the printers, judging by the large folder she carried. Flaming red hair brushed her shoulders as she marched ahead with determination.

I didn’t know that much about her but I couldn’t help staring. There was something about her… I was already on my feet, thinking of something I could ask her, when my door swung open.

“What’s up, Buttercup?” Trevor bellowed, barging in. “George looks pissed off.”

My Scottish copywriter folded his tall, burly frame into one of my chairs and sighed heavily.

“Yeah. The Thriver campaign was a total bust. He’s sending me away to get better ideas. Talking about lay-offs.”

Trevor’s usually relaxed spine snapped half-way to attention.

“Not you,” I corrected. “Production staff.”

“Bess?” he asked.

I nodded, mindlessly moving about the pile of printouts covering my desk.

“Dang. If she’s fired, how’re you going to maintain your one-sided crush?”

I threw an empty Amazon box at him. He caught it in mid-air. “Shut up. She’s better than the whole production team put together. I don’t want to lose her.”

It was purely professional. I only stared at her ass because it was there, and perfect. Anyone would.

“Sure.” Trevor snickered, stroking his dark beard. “So, what are you going to do?”

I picked up the art retreat brochure again.

‘Rubie Ridge—Reach new heights of creativity!’ it shouted.

“I’ll think of something.”

And then, just like that, the answer landed in my lap. I recognized the sensation—the thrilling calm that washed over me when an idea started to form.