The Magnate's Manifesto(20)
She’d often spent Saturdays sitting on one of the worn, ripped leather chairs in her mother’s hair salon rather than face the uncertain mood of her father—who could be even-keeled if he hadn’t drunk too much that day, or downright mean if he had. She’d finish her homework, then sit fascinated as her mother’s less-than-polished clientele talked about men, other women in an often catty fashion and anything else on their mind they felt needed to be aired. Eye-opening and illuminating conversation for a ten-year-old, to be certain. She’d made sure she didn’t miss one juicy detail.
Unfortunately the glow hadn’t lasted. As she’d gotten older, it was her mother’s quietness she’d noticed. How she would listen but not talk much. Smile but not really. And she’d wondered if her mother knew what she knew. That her husband was not only a violent drunk who couldn’t get over the loss of his high school football glory, but he’d also been unfaithful to her while on the road selling vacuum cleaners across the state. Bailey had answered one too many phone calls at home while her mother was working from a supposed “customer” named Janine not to put two and two together when her father subsequently ordered her out of the room and a hushed conversation ensued.
As a teenager, the glow had disappeared completely. What did it matter if her mother treated her to hot rollers on Saturday, if on Monday the clothes you wore to school were falling apart? When no one wanted to hang out with you because you were the epitome of poor uncool?
The memories floated in the window of her beautiful Cap-Ferrat suite, in blinding contrast to her current circumstances. She pressed her lips together, secured her hair in an elegant pile on top of her head, a hairstyle her mother would have called “hoity-toity,” then made her way downstairs to join Davide and Jared in the breakfast room. The two men were discussing a trip into Nice to visit an art gallery. Davide stood, brushed a kiss across both of her cheeks and held a chair out for her. “Would you like to come with us, ma chère? The Chagalls are phenomenal.”
“It’s tempting,” she responded, taking a seat. “But no thank you, I have work to do.”
Jared murmured a greeting. She slid him a wary glance as she reached for the coffeepot. He was freshly shaven and annoyingly edible in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that hugged his muscular chest and shoulders in all the right places. And more relaxed this morning if the softer edges of his face were anything to go by. She poured herself a full cup of the strong French brew. He’d probably been up at five doing his Buddhist meditation thing. Rumor had it he’d spent three months as a college dropout in India studying with a Zen master, and practiced it regularly. She’d even heard some of the engineers moan that Jared was on another tangent with his simplicity-inspired principles and they might never leave the lab with an end product if he didn’t back off.
She removed her gaze from all that drool-inducing masculinity and focused on buttering a croissant. Rule number one when it came to her new strategy of handling Jared. No drooling. At all. Ignore him completely.
He and Davide took off to Nice in one of the Frenchman’s vintage sports cars. Seduced by the spray of the waves and the chance to be outdoors, Bailey settled herself on one of the terraces overlooking the ocean, slid on some sunscreen and set to work building her slides.
By early afternoon, she had fleshed out her ideas into a compelling global strategy to catch consumers where they spent their free time. The kiosks to sell Stone Industries’ wearable technologies—pulse monitors, odometers, fitness watches—onsite at yoga studios was only the first niche she was proposing. She added in examples of other health and fitness environments it could replicated in, reviewed the slides, then called it done with a satisfied nod.
This was her chance to shine. She’d forced Jared’s hand in allowing her to include her ideas, now she had to make them worthy.
Turning her face up to the sun, she allowed herself a bit of downtime until the men came back.
Jared returned from Nice in his best mood of the week. He had bonded with Davide over their mutual love of art and managed to convince him that no, he was not dangling over the side of a cliff at Stone Industries with the board ready to cut him loose. He had also gone a long way to convincing him that there was little danger of long-term fallout from his manifesto with female consumers. People had short memories. Stone Industries would come out with its next big product and women would flock to it for its cool factor as they always did. And all of this would be a blip on the radar of a soon-to-be successful partnership.