Tanya Michaels - Not Quite as Advertised

“Yes.” She spoke through involuntarily clenched teeth. “Please get me on the very next plane.”

Joss had been in the ADster running last year, too, but had placed a frustrating second behind then coworker Hugh Brannon, who’d been nominated for a separate campaign. At the time, she’d been working for the ultraprestigious Mitman Marketing Solutions…and had only recently ended her affair with charming, competitive, sexy-as-sin Hugh. He was an incredible lover, but somehow his stealing a salon account out from under her had quelled her warmer feelings for the man.

Losing a promotion to him prior to the awards had been harsh; taking home a silver certificate in light of his gold trophy had been rock bottom. But, as any good geologist knew, you could get a lot lower than rock—there were whole layers of iron and crust and molten core. Joss probably shouldn’t have been so surprised when, a week later, her mother had called to ask if Joss was watching the news. Mitman Marketing had been charged with fraud. So much for prestige.

Now Joss was with Visions Media Group and back on top of her game, more than ready to face Hugh tonight. One of his print campaigns with the full-service agency Kimmerman and Kimmerman was up against her aromatherapy ads. Her employer was overjoyed just to have a nomination, but Joss wanted to win. She hadn’t been raised to appreciate second place.

Behind the counter, Mr. Helpful stabbed a few computer keys with his index finger. Then he stole a pointed glance at his watch—clearly her cue to genuflect with gratitude for his postponing his break to do her the favor of a seat assignment.

Next time, she was flying the friendly skies.

He handed over the new boarding pass in its orange-and-purple paper jacket. “I suggest you come to the gate early so that we don’t have to do this again.”

Deciding a mumbled thanks was the wisest, if not the most satisfying response, she walked away. As she headed for the lounge on the other side of the corridor, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and hit the preprogrammed button for the office.

“Visions Media Group.” The male voice that answered didn’t belong to receptionist Cherie Adams.

“This is Joss…Nick?”

“Yeah.” Like numerous advertising groups these days, Visions was small, made up of fewer than a dozen people. But they weren’t so tiny that the graphic design/IT guy usually played secretary.

“Where’s Cherie?”

“She had a dental emergency,” he said. “Where are you? Over Indiana?”

“No.” She sat on a padded vinyl stool in the passenger bar and darted a malevolent glance over her shoulder toward the now abandoned gate counter. “I missed my connection out of O’Hare.”

“Missed your connection? Joss, the awards are tonight!”

You don’t say. Nick was a good guy, though, so she spared him her cranky sarcasm.

“I’m on a flight at five,” she said. “My car’s at DFW, and if traffic’s not too bad, I should be able to just make it. I’m going to call Emily now. If she can drop off my dress and shoes, can you meet me in the lobby tonight?”

“Sure…How’d it go with Neely-Richards?”

“The presentation seemed to go well, but then Neely told me over breakfast that they ‘went in another direction.’” The industry lingo for “thanks, but not a chance” stuck uncomfortably in her throat. “They voted last night to name a firm in New York their exclusive agency of record.”

“To handle promotion of stores they’re opening out West? Too bad they didn’t come to this brilliant decision before we ate the expense of the trip.”

“It happens.” She attempted to sound philosophical. Winners did not cultivate bad attitudes. “Don’t worry about it. I have two meetings next week I feel really good about.”

“Right. Sorry things aren’t going better now, though.”

So was she. Her boss, Wyatt Allen, had been a bit preoccupied lately, almost tense, and if he was worried about business, this contract would have really helped.

“See you in a few hours, then,” Nick said. “It would really stink if you didn’t get to accept your aromatherapy trophy in person.”

She groaned. “There’s a reason we hired you to do visual and not copy.” Her friend’s sense of humor was a lot like the common cold—there was no known cure, and you just had to suffer through it. She liked his optimism, though.

Her second call was to her best friend, business-communications professor Emily Gruber. “Hey, Em. It’s me. You have a minute before class?”

“You mean the sixty seconds I’m using to magically finish all the grading I put off?” Emily’s sigh was rueful. “I know, I know—I’m worse than the students. But these mock cover letters and résumés make me fear for the future of the country.”

Joss laughed. “It’s barely October. You have the rest of the semester to whip your students into shape.” Well, not so much “whip,” as gently nudge. Emily’s classes always had high numbers because she was known for being something of a soft touch. “I won’t keep you, but can I ask a quick favor?”

“At least you ask,” her friend said cheerfully. “Simon just lets me know what I can do for him.”

Joss bit back her first instinctive reply. Much as she loved Emily, Joss had never really warmed to Em’s boyfriend—Dr. Simon Lowe, Ph.D. and SOB. The pompous man took Emily for granted. But, since Joss herself was calling to impose, perhaps now wasn’t the optimal time to lecture her friend on telling people no.

“I’m stuck in Chicago,” Joss said, “and have the ADsters tonight. Would it be possible for you to run by my house later, pick up my dress and some essentials and leave them at the office?”

“Sure, no problem. Dulcie will appreciate the extra visit.” Since Joss didn’t know any of her new neighbors very well, Emily had agreed to stop by and feed the chocolate-point Siamese while Joss was gone. “Will you have time to get to the office, or is someone bringing your clothes to the awards?”

“Nick’s taking care of that. You are an absolute lifesaver, Em. The only other person with a key is my mother.”

And, at the moment, Joss would rather lie on the runway and let a plane roll over her than call Vivian McBride. No doubt her mom would have had the forethought to travel with her ensemble for the evening, just to be safe. Plus, if Joss phoned, Vivian would automatically ask about the results of the business trip. Nothing solidified the thrill of failing quite like sharing the failure with her mother.

“Just let me know what to grab,” Emily said. “We want to make sure you look fabulous for your big win.”

As Joss listed everything she needed, she experienced a twinge of anxiety. First, Nick’s remark about Joss taking home the trophy, now Emily’s assurance of a “big win.” Optimism or not, the word jinx came to mind.

She was proud of her work—you didn’t succeed in advertising by feigning modesty—but underestimating the opposition would be a mistake. Hugh Brannon could charm his way into a nunnery, and he often produced campaigns as slick as he was…even if some of his accounts with Kimmerman and Kimmerman did rely heavily on the marketing equivalent of name-dropping, substituting celebrities for creativity.

“Joss? You still there?”

“Yeah. I was just trying to think if there was anything else I need. Thanks again, I really appreciate this.”

“You’re welcome. And good luck tonight!”

She needed it, Joss thought as she punched in her home number to check her machine. Two messages, both for Bob—the apparent former owner of her new phone number. She tried not to think about the fact that he got more calls than she did, but her mind just wandered back to her nervousness about tonight.