Do you know who that is over there?”
Nine times out of ten, the answer to this question was no, but Joss dutifully followed her mother’s gaze, anyway. You have got to be kidding me! For a horrible second, she thought her mom meant Hugh, which would be bad because Vivian wouldn’t like finding out her daughter had been involved with a man for almost a month and hadn’t mentioned him; much less introduced him. Then Joss realized Vivian meant Hugh’s companion, which, come to think of it, was just as bad if it meant Vivian wanted to say hello.
“That’s Stanley Patone,” Vivian said, emphasizing Patone as if the single word should draw the same social recognition as DeNiro, Madonna or Brad and Jen. Then came the dreaded words, “We simply must go over and say hello!”
Life as a dung beetle was looking better all the time.
Reminding herself that she’d survived plenty of encounters with Hugh Brannon and that this would be brief, Joss held her head high and followed her purposeful mother.
Hugh saw them first, doing an astonished double take. Dallas was big enough that they seldom bumped into each other without expecting it beforehand, and he had to be wondering about the petite woman who was so obviously Jocelyn’s mother barreling, in her own graceful way, toward him. Joss had always found it oddly poetic that she looked exactly like a younger version of Vivian, with no visible genetic trace of the father she’d never met or the grandparents who had balked at her existence.
“Joss!” Recovering quickly, Hugh rose from his chair. Joss could have sworn jeans were against the Waif’s dress code, but he looked so good in them, who would complain? “What a pleasant surprise.”
“You two know each other?” Vivian shot a questioning glance over her shoulder, clearly displeased that Joss hadn’t armed her with all pertinent data.
“I had the privilege of working with her sister at Mitman,” Hugh answered, flashing one of his patented charming grins at Joss’s mom. “She didn’t tell me she had a sister.”
As the smiling and portly Stanley Patone—whoever he was—got to his feet, Vivian shook her head. “Young man, do I look like someone who’s easily won over with glib flattery?”
Easily won over? Vivian McBride? Ha. Suddenly Joss regretted never having brought Hugh to a Sunday brunch. It would be fun to see him squirm.
Unfortunately, being Hugh, he didn’t.
Instead, he grinned. “No, ma’am, but it was worth a shot. If you’re anything like your daughter, I need all the help I can get.”
Vivian actually chuckled before turning to Stanley, taking his hand in hers. “It’s so nice to see you again. Perhaps you don’t remember, but we met briefly—”
“At the Fosters’ garden party in June,” the man finished for her. With his self-conscious expression and a bulky-knit sweater that exaggerated, rather than flattered, his girth, Stanley Patone was less polished and more endearing than Viv’s usual Important People. “How could I forget? The mosquitoes were Jurassic-size, but you were enchanting.”
“Aren’t you a dear! Allow me to introduce my daughter, Jocelyn McBride.” As Joss shook Stanley’s hand, Vivian added, “This is Stanley Patone. Of Patone Power Tools.”
Any chance they made wallpaper steamers? Joss nodded obligingly. “Of course. Nice to meet you.”
Stanley sighed. “You’ve never heard of us, have you? No, it’s okay. Too few people have, but Hugh here tells me he can change all that.”
Next to her, she noticed Hugh fidget. Clearly, Stanley was teetering on the brink of an ad man’s worst nightmare—the prospective client letting another agency know he was looking.
Regaining his composure, Hugh smiled smoothly. “It’s practically criminal to be sitting in here on such a gorgeous Sunday morning talking business, I know, but I’m afraid that’s what we’re doing. We’re grateful you lovely ladies stopped by and broke up the monotony, though.”
Translation: You should be going now, but really, you wouldn’t want to stay anyway because our conversation is dreadfully boring. The man didn’t know who he was dealing with.
With a wide isn’t-this-a-small-world smile, Vivian placed her hand on Stanley’s arm. “You know, Jocelyn’s in advertising, as well. She’s building that up-and-coming Visions Media Group.”
Joss winced inwardly at her mother’s version of the truth, which ignored the fact Wyatt Allen had been steadily growing his respected company long before Joss arrived, needing a job after the Mitman fiasco. She did her part, certainly, but she couldn’t take single-handed credit for the success Wyatt had been seeding for years.
Stanley gestured toward the two empty chairs. “We’ve neglected our manners. You will join us, won’t you?”
“Absolutely!” Vivian stepped around the power-tool purveyor to squeeze into the far chair against the wall. “It would be our pleasure.”
Joss fully expected Hugh to fume over this turn of events, but when she glanced his direction, he looked almost amused.
“Allow me.” He pulled her chair out, which would have worked better if she hadn’t been trapped between Hugh and the chair. “You smell great. Dior?”
She nodded.
“I always loved that perfume on you,” he murmured as he helped seat her. “You remember the night—”
“So what’s good here?” Joss asked heartily. She remembered many nights. And wanted to discuss none of them.
Vivian stared across the table as though her daughter had grown another head—one with last year’s haircut. “Jocelyn, I thought you said you’d been here. Often.”
“Y-yes. But not in a long time. Maybe the menu’s changed?” Avoiding Hugh’s gaze and what was sure to be a smirk, Joss edged her chair closer to Stanley’s side of the table.
A discreet beeping came from inside Vivian’s handbag—none of this belting out Beethoven’s Fifth for her, thank you very much—and she smiled in apology. “I know it’s horrid of me to keep the cell on during a meal, but one of my properties is in a bidding war, and the buyers have until six o’clock this evening to outdo each other. Jocelyn, just order for me, won’t you?”
Great. Because she so needed the added pressure of potentially screwing that up. But by the time water glasses had been shuffled and the waitress had come by to add the newcomers to the ticket, Joss had regained her composure. As long as she focused on Stanley, she’d be fine. She listened intently while he filled her in on his company.
“We were the ‘house brand’ for Tucker Home and Hardware for ten years, and turned an extremely lucrative profit,” Stanley explained. Extremely lucrative certainly clarified her mother’s interest in the man. “But Tucker’s management didn’t fare as well, so when the chain folded, Patone became its own line. We’re free to sell everywhere now, but that won’t do us any good if no one knows who we are. We don’t have nearly the name recognition of, say, Black & Decker.”
Joss nodded. “So you’re looking for marketing solutions?”
“And solutions he will have,”
