ball? She could bloody well take over the ball. It would take less than twenty-four hours for her to get into a mess. Sinclair wouldn’t argue with the president. She’d graciously step aside. She’d take the day off and leave Chantal with just enough rope to hang herself.
When Sinclair came back tomorrow, hopefully they’d be ready to listen to reason. As the elevator dropped, Sinclair drew a deep, bracing breath.
It was all but suicidal. But it would be worth it.
Ha!
Roger wanted to give Chantal a chance to shine? Sinclair would graciously step aside. When she came back tomorrow, hopefully they’d be ready to listen to reason.
As the elevator dropped, Sinclair warmed to the idea. When she got back to her office, she informed Amber they’d have the files back in a couple of days, and that she was going home to paint.
A few hours later, with U2 blaring in the background, Sinclair’s frustration had translated itself into a second coat on most of one wall. She was busy at one corner of the ceiling when there was a banging on the door.
She climbed down the ladder and set her brush on the edge of the paint tray.
The banging came again.
“I’m coming,” she called. She wiped off her hands, then pulled open the door.
It was Hunter, and he was carrying a large shopping bag.
“I’ve been buzzing you downstairs for ten minutes.” He marched across the room and turned down the music. “Thank goodness for the lady on the first floor walking her dog.”
“I was busy,” said Sinclair.
Hunter dropped the bag onto the plastic-covered floor. “What happened?”
“I decided I should spend the day painting my living room.”
“I talked to Amber.”
Sinclair shrugged, picking up her paintbrush, and mounting the ladder. “What did she tell you?”
“That you were painting your living room instead of working.”
“See that?” she gestured to the brushes, paint cans and tarps. “All evidence points to exactly the same thing. I am, in fact, painting my living room.”
“She also told me you haven’t taken a day off in eight years.”
Sinclair dipped the brush in the can on the ladder and stroked along the top of the wall. “Meaning I’m due.”
“Meaning you’re upset.”
“A girl can’t get upset?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “What happened?”
“Nothing much.” The important thing now was to get the painting done, then go in tomorrow and see if her plan had worked.
“Do I have to come up there and get you?”
She laughed, dabbing the brush hard against the masking tape in the corner. “Now that would be interesting.”
“Quit messing around, Sinclair.”
She sighed in defeat. Being micromanaged was embarrassing. “You want to know?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Hunter. “I want to know.”
“Roger gave Chantal my Valentine’s Day ball files. She needed to review them because, apparently, we’ve all recognized her talents.”
“We have?”
Sinclair dipped the brush again. “Therefore, she’s ready to be the PR assistant. No. Wait. I think she’s ready to be the PR manager.”
“What exactly did Roger say?”
“Not much. He just gave her the files. He seems hell-bent on involving her in every aspect of my job.”
“Oh.”
There was something in Hunter’s tone.
Sinclair stopped painting and looked down. “What?”
He took a breath then paused.
“What?” she repeated.
“There’s something we should discuss.”
“You know what’s going on?”
“Maybe.”
Sinclair took a step down the ladder. “Hunter?”
He dropped his arms to his sides. “I have a theory. It’s only a theory.”
She climbed the rest of the way down. “What is it?”
Hunter took the brush from her hand, setting it on the paint tray just before it dripped on the floor. “Chantal asked if you used the mousse.”
He lifted the shopping bag. “I think that might be what Roger’s picking up on. Chantal’s, well, pizzazz.”
A sick feeling slid into Sinclair’s stomach.
Roger thought Chantal knew better than Sinclair?
Hunter thought Chantal knew better than Sinclair?
“You have to admit,” Hunter continued. “She’s the demographic Luscious Lavender is targeting.”
“You sure you want to keep on talking?”
“We both know she’s not you. We both know you’re smart and talented and hard-working.”
“Well, thank you for that.”
He opened the bag to reveal the full gamut of Luscious Lavender products. “I think you should try these out. See what you think, maybe—”
“Right. Because all my problems will be solved by a good shampoo and mousse.” Her problem wasn’t a bad hair day. It was the fact that Roger, and maybe Hunter, too, preferred beauty over brains.
Hunter attempted a grin. “Don’t forget waxing.”
She reached down for the paintbrush. “I’m forgetting all of it.”
“Will you at least hear me out?”
“No.” Without thinking she waved the brush for emphasis, and paint splattered on the front of his suit.
Her eyes went wide in horror. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she quickly blurted out.
“Forget it.”
“But I ruined your suit.” She could only imagine how much it had cost.
“I said to forget it.”
