His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Well, yes, there is that too.”

  No, there was no too—that was the whole of it.

  Suddenly, his expression turned apprehensive. “I hope that didn’t offend you. With this whole #MeToo movement, I’m not sure if I just crossed the line. Am I still allowed to compliment you on your looks?”

  Oh dear lord, shoot me now.

  Did this man not interact with any women in a professional capacity? A sensitivity class or four wouldn’t go awry at this company.

  “No, I’m not offended.” At work, she generally took such compliments in stride. As long as they weren’t accompanied by a suggestive leer and a hotel room key card pressed into her palm during a handshake. True story. That had actually happened.

  “Things have changed so much lately, sometimes it’s best to ask, or the next thing you know... Well, who knows what will happen,” he finished, flashing her an awkward smile.

  “Anyway,” Kennedy said, eager to get back to the subject at hand, “about the meeting. As much as it would be a thrill to meet her, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with that. I don’t know very much about the inner workings of the company. I’m probably not the right person—”

  But Mr. Mullins was having none of that, bulldozing her objections with, “For your additional responsibilities, you’ll receive five thousand dollars.”

  Kennedy had to steel herself from physically reacting. On the inside, however, it was nothing but fits of jubilation. Cartwheels and back handsprings that would make the women’s Olympic gymnastics team proud.

  Five thousand dollars! Found money, all of it. And to think of how happy she’d been last month when she found a twenty between the cushions of her sofa and last year when she’d discovered a ten spot in the pocket of an old pair of jeans.

  Careful to calibrate her response, she began slowly, “That is—”

  “No, no, my mistake,” Mr. Mullins interjected again, his eyes darting from her face to the paper in front of him, which he proceeded to tap repeatedly with his finger. “I meant seventy-five hundred. An additional seventy-five hundred.”

  Kennedy sat there utterly gobsmacked. “Mr. Mullins—”

  “Ten thousand.”

  Another minute and Kennedy was certain the strain in his voice would give way to full-blown panic.

  Ten thousand dollars for one meeting? Oh my god, that’s wild.

  But the best kind.

  With dollar signs flashing like a bright neon sign in her mind, she smiled. “What time should I be there?”

  2

  Some stereotypes existed for a reason and Maureen Somers turned out to be the quintessential efficient, unflappable middle-aged woman one would expect to hold the position of the executive assistant to the CEO.

  In the span of sixty short minutes, she put all those qualities to effective use, setting up a space for Kennedy in the smaller of the two conference rooms on the ninth floor, supplying her with a gold executive name badge, a spare laptop, a quick overview of the company, and a thumb drive containing the PowerPoint presentation being delivered to Sahara and her representatives that afternoon.

  No one expected that Kennedy would be asked any questions—that was the VP of Marketing’s wheelhouse—but just in case, she was instructed to respond in generalities and make sure to emphasize her social media experience. Next, she went down to see Sally in HR, who not only took care of the housekeeping issues that allowed them to pay her the bonus directly, rather than through the temp agency, but shed total light on the seeming urgency of the situation.

  It appeared yesterday Sahara had walked into a meeting with one of their competitors, looked at those in attendance, and had promptly walked out without saying a word when she didn’t see one Black face in the room. Which was why ECO Apparel was willing to pay ten grand to make sure the same thing didn’t happen to them.

  Ten grand!

  Every time Kennedy thought about it, she wanted to pinch herself. She was torn between the desire to pay down what remained on her student loan or stash the bulk of it away for a rainy day. Like if she didn’t get a job right away, she’d at least be able to pay her rent for a few months without emptying her savings.

  By the time lunch rolled around, Kennedy’s stomach was filled with too many butterflies to accommodate actual food, so she donned a pair of sunglasses and went to the deli across the street. There, she bought a large lemonade, grabbed an empty table in the back where it was quiet enough to have a conversation, and hit the speed dial on her phone to call her best friend, Aurora.

  The two met when they were seventeen, their senior year in high school, at a national debate competition and had been best friends since. She was the one who’d convinced Kennedy to apply to universities in New York. They’d both been accepted to Columbia, become roomies, and the rest, as they say, was history. Now, after nine years in the Big Apple, Kennedy couldn’t imagine herself anywhere else. This was home.

  Aurora picked up on the first ring and skipped preliminary greetings. “Hey, I was just thinking about you, and I have a plan. If you don’t find a decent-paying job by the end of the month, I can talk to Nate.”

  Near-bursting with excitement over her newfound fortune, Kennedy’s train of thought was immediately sidetracked. “Ror, for the last time, I’m not working for your brother,” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes.

  This wasn’t the first or undoubtedly the last time Aurora would raise the subject. She’d said the same thing when Kennedy started looking for a job after they’d graduated, and then every time she expressed an inkling of dissatisfaction with said job.

  Work for Nate, he’s brilliant. Work for Nate, he’s good to his employees. Work for Nate, he pays great.

  While all of that might be true, Nate could be a teensy bit intimidating—okay, plenty intimidating. And coming from someone who pulled off cool and collected as if she’d been born to play the role, that said a lot.

  Kennedy had dealt with her fair share of good-looking men of all strata her entire adult life. Nathaniel Robert Vaughn, however, was an entirely different species. He was too everything: too good-looking, too smart, too opaque, too driven, too cool and detached, and way too far out of her league.

  And that was the rub. Something she hated admitting even to herself. Suffice it to say, the less she had to do with him, the better. A job at his company would open a door best kept closed.

  Her objection wasn’t entirely personal. At the age of thirty-two, he was the founder and CEO of Constellation, a tech company in the vein of Amazon and Apple, and she had no technical skills to speak of.

  “Look, I know my brother can be a little...standoffish, but I promise, he likes you. He thinks you’re a good influence on me. Anyway, you wouldn’t be working directly for him, and you’d barely see him.”

  He likes you.

  That was debatable.

  Agitated, Kennedy began toying with her hair, winding a dark ringlet around her index finger. “It’s not a matter of having to see him,” she lied. “It’s a tech company, which means he’d literally have to create a position just for me.” Not a lie, that one.

  “Actually, he’s been talking about bringing Constellation’s marketing in-house.”

  For a brief second, that piqued Kennedy’s interest, before she squashed it beneath her stiletto-clad toe. “Well, until he does, this discussion is over.” Softening her tone, she continued soothingly, “Don’t worry. I’ll find something by the end of the month. As a matter of fact—”

  “And if you don’t, do you promise you’ll let me talk to Nate?” Aurora cut in. “You know he’d hire you in a heartbeat.”

  Because his baby sister would make him.

  The thought brought a reluctant smile to her face. Not just her best friend in the whole world, Aurora was her fiercest defender. Her blonde ninja. And she loved her to bits because of it. “I promise.”

  “Cross your heart?”

  “Oh, you wound me!” Kennedy exclaimed, feigning affront. “Is my word not good enough anymore?”

  Aurora snickered. “Hey, I know you.”

  “Have faith, Ror. I’m going to get a fantastic job. Speaking of which, can we finally get to the reason I called?” she asked, breathless excitement back in her voice.

  “Of course. What’s up? You sound jazzed.” The distant blare of an ambulance could be heard in the background.

  “I’ve just been tokenized,” Kennedy stated in her brightest fake it till you make it voice. “But it looks like it’s going to pay off for me this time.”

  “Wait—hold on. Let me put my earbuds in. The traffic out here is too damn loud,” Aurora muttered, and after a pause said, “Okay, now back the truck up and tell me what happened and whose ass I need to kick.”

  Kennedy chuckled at the image that came to mind. Mama Bear Vaughn to the rescue clad in skinny jeans and a pair of Jimmy Choo heels, wielding a Gucci shoulder bag. Fierce.

  “You heard me. But here’s the thing—for once, being the token Black female in the entire company comes with benefits. At two o’clock, I’m going to meet Sahara, the Desert Queen, herself.” She paused a dramatic beat to allow the news to sink in. “And they’re paying me ten grand to do it.” Had she not been out in public, she would have squeed with joy. This must be how people felt when they won the lottery, because let’s face it—this was the closest she’d ever come.

  Several seconds of “street noise” followed her announcement. She heard the occasional car horn, but apparently her friend was speechless.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.” Aurora sounded semi-outraged and flummoxed at the same time.

  “Shitting about which part? Meeting Sahara or the money I’m being paid to do it?”

  “I don’t know. All of it, I guess. How is being a token ever a good thing, and how the hell are you getting to meet Sahara?”

  After Kennedy calmly recounted her meeting with Mr. Mullins, Aurora exclaimed, “They’re paying you ten thousand dollars for that?”

  “Yeah, but listen, there’s more.”

  “How much more can there be?”

  Kennedy flashed a smile at the couple taking up residence at the table next to hers, lowered her voice, and told Aurora what she’d learned from Sally in HR about Sahara walking out of the meeting yesterday.

  Aurora let out a short burst of laughter. “Oh my god, I love it! You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m ten grand richer.”

  “I’m not just talking about the money.”

  “You haven’t seen my bank balance,” Kennedy remarked dryly. “Right now, money is my number one priority.”

  “No,” Aurora said, a note of urgency to her tone. “Listen to me. Right now, they need you a lot more than you need them.”

  “Again, my bank balance begs to differ.”

  “Ken, if things go the way I think they will, they’re going to offer you a job. And you’re going to negotiate yourself a salary fifteen percent—no, twenty percent—higher than what you made at your last job.”

  Kennedy let out a dismissive huff. “Why on earth would they offer me a job? They’re already paying me a small fortune just to attend the meeting.” Although, to be fair, ten grand didn’t go as far in New York as it would in North Carolina. She couldn’t afford a Birkin handbag, but she could pay down her interest-compounding student loan.

  “This isn’t a one-and-done deal, Ken. They’re going to need you, if for nothing else, for show.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts. They’re going to offer you a job and you’re going to negotiate yourself the biggest raise you’ve ever had. And while you’re at it, make sure to ask for a signing bonus, and don’t take anything less than ten thousand, got it?”

  In the midst of sipping lemonade, Kennedy nearly choked. “Are you serious?”

  “Trust me, this is the stuff I do for a living, and these guys are currently operating in crisis mode. Without you, they’re sunk.”

  * * *

  When Maureen instructed her to go on in and make herself comfortable, Kennedy hadn’t expected that when she entered, you could hear a pin drop silence would descend on the conference room, or seven pairs of eyes would lock in on her like heat-seeking missiles.

  Seven men were seated around a long lacquered table with a projector and laptop set up at the end.

  Clearly, she hadn’t received the memo outlining appropriate meeting attire, as all of the men wore, if not Brooks Brothers suits, then a close stylistic relation, in varying shades of gray and dark gray. She approximated their ages ranged from late thirties to midsixties.

  She was, quite literally, the one spot of color in the room, and the only woman. What, they couldn’t rope in another woman to be part of the charade? Or had she filled that quota too?

  Kennedy was long accustomed to being the only Black person in the room—any room. However, being the only woman added a whole other level of self-consciousness.

  Suck it up. This is the world you live in.

  And so, with that bit of wry encouragement, she lifted her chin. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Her tone, friendly and polite, conveyed a confidence she could construct at will with little more than ego and pride.

  Their response came in a chorus of perfectly courteous good afternoons and more than one speculative glance.

  It was funny when she thought about it. They greeted her every day when they passed the reception desk, yet today, they would sit shoulder to shoulder with her, pretending to be her peers.

  “Yes, over there will be fine.” Maureen ushered two deliverymen carrying platters of food into the room and directed them to the table by the windows overlooking the congested streets of lower Manhattan.

  Kennedy stepped aside, allowing the men to pass while eyeing the platter of gourmet sandwiches and chocolaty desserts, and thinking about the lunch she’d skipped and the current state of her appetite. Ferocious.

  The sound of voices in the outer office caught everyone’s attention. Heads turned, necks craned, and spines straightened.

  The star had arrived.

  Boy, she really did look like Aaliyah, was Kennedy’s first thought when she finally laid eyes on the singer. She looked younger than the twenty-eight listed on her Wikipedia page. Other than that, she looked the same, from her long dark brown box braids, flawless skin, and perfectly made-up face, right down to a pair of skinny pre-ripped jeans and strappy three-inch sandals. Chic casual. And she rocked the look with enviable confidence and panache.

  Mr. Donald Edwards, all smiles and bonhomie, shepherded the Grammy winner and her accompanying three-woman team into the conference room. That the team was all female and diverse—Black, Hispanic, and Asian—didn’t come as a huge surprise, but it drew a marked contrast to the company’s almost all-white male team.

  Maureen silently indicated Kennedy’s place at the table, where the spare laptop she’d been using was on and fully charged, before departing with the deliverymen.

  Except for the new arrivals, who were still conversing, everyone else sat quietly, waiting. Watching.

  “Okay, it looks like everyone’s here,” Mr. Edwards announced with a brief look around, “so why don’t we get started?”

  That was when Sahara turned her attention from him to the rest of the ECO team.

  Kennedy, who liked to believe she could read people pretty well—with some notable exceptions—saw a girding of the loins wariness in the way the singer’s gaze scanned the faces around the table. Which made sense, given what had happened yesterday. She was no doubt wondering if she’d be walking out on another meeting. Then Sahara’s gaze met hers and pleasure mingled with relief, producing a smile that reached her big brown eyes.

  The ripple effect of that relief played out in the expressions of every male executive in the room; a mental wiping of the brow followed by a gratified initial hurdle cleared.

  When Mr. Edwards flashed Kennedy an approving smile, she berated herself for selling out for a mere ten thousand dollars. Pittance. She should have held out for twenty and she probably would have gotten it.

  Mr. Edwards performed the introductions, and when it was Kennedy’s turn—last but not least—she gracefully stood and shook hands with the beautiful singer and her team while the CEO offered a brief description of her fictitious role in the company. “Kennedy is our media relations expert in charge of all aspects of our print, TV, and digital campaigns.”

  Expert, huh? In the span of hours, not only had they elevated her title but her expertise level as well. The heels she had to fill were getting higher by the minute.

  “And here I thought you’d brought in one of the models auditioning one of the designs,” Sahara said with an audacious wink. Kennedy smiled faintly and a smatter of chuckles erupted around the table.

  Look who’s talking, Kennedy wanted to say, not sure if the singer was joking or not, but it made for a flattering, lighthearted icebreaker.

  “Beautiful as well as talented—that’s our Kennedy.”

  Our Kennedy? When exactly had they graduated to that level of intimacy? Dare she tell Mr. CEO that he was laying it on a tad thick? Or better yet, she should instruct him to add another zero to the amount on her bonus check—then he could “Our Kennedy” all he wanted.

  “Can I just say that I love, love what you’re wearing. That outfit is fire.” Sahara waved red manicured fingers at Kennedy’s skirt. “The bow is a fabulous touch. And the cuffs, are they Neapolitan?”

  Kennedy felt safe in concluding the singer wasn’t referring to the ice cream or the people of Naples.

  “It’s not one of our designs, but you’re right about the cuffs,” John Cavendish, head of Design, cut in smoothly.

  “I’ve been studying up,” Sahara admitted, grinning and showing off her adorable dimples. “And now I have more clothing design books than I know what to do with. Figured I needed to know a little more about creating a clothing line than what I like to wear.”