Tanya Michaels: Not Quite as Advertised

Hugh Brannon had already beat her once, and even if he didn’t pull it off a second time, there were four other deserving nominees in the regional print-campaign category. Her stomach knotted. Where’s your winning attitude, Jocelyn?

Maybe it had taken the flight to Dallas without her.

SINCE HER PLANE from Chicago left on schedule and she hadn’t checked any luggage for the airline to lose, Joss arrived at the downtown awards site with eight and a half minutes to spare. And here I thought I’d be pressed for time to get ready. Despite knowing she didn’t have to be inside the ballroom at the exact time printed on her invitation, years of hearing “Perfection begins with punctuality, Jocelyn” rang in her head.

Ask not for whom the annoying voice tolls…

As promised, Nick Sheperd stood in the hotel lobby, shifting his weight and looking uncomfortable.

“Thanks so much,” she greeted him breathlessly. “I couldn’t very well wear this to the awards.” “This” was a utilitarian navy pantsuit perfect for business travel, over a crisp white blouse that had been rendered considerably less so when a fellow passenger dumped his soft drink on her midturbulence.

“I’m just glad you’re finally here,” Nick said, a relieved expression on his lean, unshaven face. “I was beginning to feel stupid standing with a dress and a bunch of flowers.”

“Flowers?” She’d noticed her garment bag draped over a nearby powder-blue love seat. Taking a second look, she saw the vase of red roses on the tiled floor, and sighed. “David, I presume?”

It was identical to the arrangement she’d received from her ex-boyfriend on Valentine’s Day, her birthday and their six-month anniversary. They hadn’t made it to seven.

Nick nodded, the overhead light reflecting off the mousse he’d used to carefully spike his hair tonight. “He sent them to the office, and I brought them with me so they wouldn’t wilt over the weekend.”

She studied the flowers. When you care enough to send the very cliché. Maybe she should be touched that David remembered her big night, but it was hard to work up any real emotion now when he hadn’t shown any throughout their relationship. While she’d given the relationship her customary one hundred and ten percent, David fell back on pat gestures.

He was the type of person who preferred the ease of gift certificates to actually picking out something personal and would buy ten copies of the same generic birthday card to send to friends and family. She, on the other hand, had already started looking for the perfect Christmas present for Emily, even though it was only October. Joss was in the habit of finishing her holiday shopping before Thanksgiving.

In all fairness to David, he’d never made an effort to hide his minimalist approach to relationships. One of the things she’d found attractive about him in the beginning was how different he’d been from charming ubersalesman Hugh, who gave women the same full-court press he gave prospective clients. Joss should have ended things with David sooner, but breakups were failures, and she’d been loath to admit another romantic defeat.

She scooped up her garment bag, needing to correct her soda-stained clothes and limp travel hair before anyone else saw her. “I’m going to dash into the ladies’ room and change. See you inside?”

“Or…I could wait here if you want. Then I can run your stuff out to your car while you go in and mingle with more important people.” His hazel eyes twinkled. “I know it’ll cause you actual physical pain if you’re late.”

Ignoring the teasing dig, she smiled. “That would be great, Nick. I’d love a chance to talk to Wyatt before the dinner presentation starts.” She was hoping she could pick up some clues in casual conversation about what was bothering her employer.

Perhaps she was overreacting to his recently quiet mood and a few frowns, but a little paranoia was understandable after her last employer had been indicted for fraud.

Carrying her dress and purse, Joss hurried toward the bathroom. She hung the garment bag on the inside of a stall door, then quickly stripped. As she wiggled into a pair of panty hose, the nylons snagged on her thumbnail, and the resulting run spread like a jagged fungus of tiny multiplying rectangles. Giving in to a rare impulse, she let loose a satisfying string of obscenities that summed up her day thus far.

“Ahem,” someone said from an adjoining stall.

Whoops.

“Sorry!” Joss called. “Didn’t realize anyone else was in here.” With the way her day was going, the person she’d offended was tonight’s awards presenter. Joss had a brief, painful picture of going up on stage in shredded hose to accept an award from a woman glaring at her.

Joss glanced hopefully at the bottom of the bag.

Nestled beneath the hem of her strapless muted red dress, with her shoes and travel jewelry case, was the wished-for extra pair. Bless you, Em. The slit in her calf-length skirt was meant to reveal a little leg, and Joss would have worried all night that the run was visible.

One shimmy, zip and shrugged-into bolero jacket later, she was fully dressed. She hung her discarded suit in the garment bag and opened the door, glancing sheepishly at the pinch-faced woman washing her hands.

What Joss would’ve liked was time to completely redo her makeup and put curlers in her shoulder-length layered blond hair. What she settled for was a loose chignon and fresh lipstick. She exchanged her small gold hoop earrings for a pair of elongated ruby teardrops, then returned to the lobby, where she found Nick pacing and jostling his car keys.

He stopped long enough to grin in approval. “You did that in five minutes? If you ever decide to have a meaningless affair with a much younger guy, let me know.”

Four years was not much younger. “I can’t think about you that way, Nicky. You’re like the annoying little brother I never had.”

He laughed and held out his hand for her stuff. “Keys? Wyatt and Penelope just went inside.”

Wyatt Allen, a grizzled veteran of the advertising world, ran Visions Media Group. His wife, Penelope, had made participating in various charities her full-time occupation, but she chipped in from time to time at Visions, helping with paperwork and receptionist duties.

Joss handed Nick her key ring, and he pivoted to go, pausing at the last second with an expression of endearing uncertainty shadowing his face. “How do I look?”

She smiled inwardly. Ad execs stuck to a professional dress code, but people who were strictly on the creative end were allowed, even encouraged, to project a less orthodox image. Everyone at Visions knew Nick aspired to a wardrobe that would help keep Ralph Lauren in business, but in an underdressed attempt to look the part, he now wore an iridescent unstructured blazer with a striped shirt and dark funky jeans.

“Like the opening act at a rock concert,” she told him.

“Thanks.” Nick turned toward the revolving doors. “I think.”

Joss went to the ballroom, pausing just inside the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the dimmed chandeliers and flickering candles on the white linen tablecloths. Bland jazz played through speakers in the back of the room, but it was mostly drowned out by the hum of conversation. Maybe being late was no longer fashionable—the impressive crush of people made it difficult to find the round table reserved for Visions Media Group.

“Quite a crowd tonight,” a man said near her ear.

She almost jumped. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself against Hugh Brannon’s husky bedroom voice and the bubbles of nervous anticipation fizzing through her system. Obviously the crowd wasn’t big enough.

“HUGH.” JOSS TURNED, confident in her composed expression. She’d won plenty of poker games, this one was just played without cards. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”