Not.

  “All right, then, Peter, but I’m not sure what you want me to do for you.” Just five minutes into their meeting, and the man was already wearing on her nerves. “You were supposed to start diversifying this division last year. That was the agreement.”

  Granted, it was verbal, but an agreement, nonetheless.

  “I didn’t know they were going to start grading us and putting out a fucking scorecard.” He sounded defensive and resentful.

  Kennedy’s eyes widened a fraction. Since when had they reached a point in their acquaintance that the f-word could be thrown around so blithely and without so much as a pardon my French tagged on to soften the impact? And how very nice of him to admit he hadn’t expected anyone to hold him accountable and therefore had had no compunction in going back on his word. Unfortunately, she dealt with too many men like him. Reluctant to do even the bare minimum, and only doing so when it threatened their bottom line.

  “It’s a scorecard, Peter, not a lawsuit.”

  “But that kind of publicity is bad for the company. And whatever’s bad for the company is bad for business.”

  And that business was athletic footwear and apparel. Of course, he didn’t want his customers to know that Moves would be getting a failing diversity grade. Not in this political climate. She could already see the hashtags on social media excoriating the company. There’d certainly be calls for a boycott, which would have a decent possibility of gaining traction, given the nature of the products and target audience.

  “Which is why I can’t help you this time.” She wasn’t being entirely truthful. All right, fine. She didn’t want to help him. Not this time. He was looking for another quick fix because he had zero interest in doing the work. No doubt didn’t think he had to.

  “Then help me mitigate it.” His tone was too demanding to be considered cajoling, but was the closest it could ever come to the spirit of the word. “I just need to get a few folks in here by the time the blasted scorecard comes out. That way, when those vultures call for a comment, I can tell them how the company is aware of the problem and is working hard to correct it.”

  She could understand his frustration, but calling reporters vultures for doing their jobs? Unnecessarily harsh.

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  He leaned forward, his clasped hands on his desk. “Antonio Jackson is coming in for a meeting tomorrow. What the hell am I going to do?”

  Ah! Antonio Jackson. Just your typical equality and social justice warrior. He knelt, he marched, and most of all, he put his money where his mouth was. He was also the best forward in the NBA, with three championship titles to his name, two MVP rings, and the guy had yet to celebrate his thirtieth birthday.

  Oh, and with his legion of fans, he wielded his influence with the might of Thor’s hammer.

  “You can’t expect me to believe that you’re only finding out about this now?” Kennedy asked, her eyebrow arched skeptically. There was no way he hadn’t known about the meeting well in advance.

  In silence, she watched as he straightened to his full height, which couldn’t be more than two inches taller than her own five feet eight inches, and emerged from behind his desk. Agitated, he tugged on his tie and trod the length of the spacious office.

  “It doesn’t matter when I knew. What matters is that he just announced he’s donating thirty percent of all proceeds from the sales of his the ball’s in your court shirts and wristbands to charity—charities that support diversity in education and sports. Diversity is a big deal to him now.”

  “Yes, well, he has been kneeling for over a year,” she pointed out.

  “Right, and that didn’t have any effect on his Nike contract, and I know the guys over there and they’re no better than we are.”

  “He signed the contract with them well before his activism. Now he expects more from the companies he partners with. Plus, if you’re arguing that as long as you meet their low standards, he should be okay with it, I’d work on the pitch.”

  “Obviously, that’s not what I’m saying,” he said. “But it would have been better if he’d been public about it a month ago.”

  “Things have changed, Peter. I was under the impression you realized that when you hired me last year.” Sometimes, pointing out the obvious was the most important part of her job.

  He stopped next to her chair and peered down at her. “Yes, but it was nothing like this. Last year, one of the managers sent an inappropriate email to the wrong person, and you took care of it.”

  “No, Peter, it was your vice president of Global Sales, and as I’m sure you remember—” She didn’t sugarcoat things for her clients. By the time they reached out to her, they needed brutal honesty delivered via IV drip. “—the email was racist and sexist, and it denigrated the Black and Asian communities. And we had an agreement, which you’ve since failed to honor.”

  Peter had had no choice but to fire the guy, or the scandal would have exploded onto the national stage. It had been the agency’s most lucrative contract at the time, as he’d hired Kennedy to be the face of the coming change. It had been the agency’s job to create a plan to make their offices in New York and New Jersey reflect the diversity of the country, which she and Aurora had spent the ensuing three months doing. In the end, she didn’t know if he’d even read the summary.

  He lowered himself onto the edge of his desk. “Kennedy, we’re going to make the changes. I give you my word. I mean, we have to, right? Like you said, times have changed and we either keep up or we may as well drop out of the race.”

  Right—she’d heard this song before.

  “Then my advice to you is to be up-front with him. About what’s going to come out in the report and what you plan to do in the future.” And let the chips fall where they may.

  His laugh was entirely without humor. “Except the truth isn’t our friend.”

  “Then I suggest you make it your friend.” The problem with men like him was they operated under the assumption that everyone was like them.

  “If you do as I say—and what we agreed to—I assure you, this won’t happen again,” she stated evenly. The best she could do was lead the horse to water, as she’d done last year. She should have known this one would require a kick in the ass—and for Antonio Jackson’s contract with Nike to come up for renewal—to make him drink.

  “Or you can come to the meeting. You can explain things to him. What we plan to do. Coming from you, he’ll listen. I know he will.”

  Kennedy began shaking her head before he could finish, her hair swishing softly against her shoulders. “Listen to what? I said the same thing last year. And. Nothing. Happened.”

  “That you’re back to help implement the plan.” She could see, by the sudden spark in his eyes, a light bulb literally going on in his mind. “Because we couldn’t do it without you. Which would be the truth,” he added with a cajoling smile—if sharks could smile.

  “Peter—”

  “We’ll pay you double your fee.” If this were an auction, he was going for broke. “And I promise you this—by the end of the year, no less than seven percent of our employees will be men and women of color, and a total of fifteen percent the following year.”

  Kennedy uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way. A large dose of healthy skepticism was the only way he should or could be taken.

  “And I will put that in writing. Send me a contract and I’ll have it back to you signed and dated first thing in the morning. Everything will be done on your terms. You can screen the hires, tell us what kind of diversity classes we need to take, and whatever else is in your plan. You lead and we will follow.”

  “Peter, I don’t have the bandwidth to—”

  “Three times your fee. And if you need help, hire as many people as you need. I realize you have a business to run, so you can work from whichever base is most convenient for you.”

  Forget broke, he was going for bankruptcy.

  Kennedy’s mind went back to a similar conversation she’d had two years ago with ECO. Back then, the initial offer of five grand had taken her breath away. Today’s offer put enough wind in her sails to get her from New York to the Bahamas and back. This was the kind of money no sane businesswoman could turn down.

  “I’m not going to lie to him,” she warned. She’d come perilously close a time or two, but that was a line she just wouldn’t cross.

  “I’m not asking you to,” he said, raising his hands in the universal nothing to see here gesture. “But I’m sure when you explain what we have planned, he’ll jump on board with both feet.”

  With this infusion of cash, the agency could expand its services and bring on Cecelia Catawnee, their part-time graphic designer, full-time.

  “And my first recommendation is that you immediately begin the process of diversifying senior management.”

  “You must have read my mind. Don’t worry—I’m already on it,” he replied, sending her a wink.

  “Good. Then if there’s any way you can delay the meeting with Mr. Jackson three or four days—although a week would be preferable—that would give me enough time to put together a stronger and more convincing pitch.” She could think of several people she wanted in place or with guaranteed start dates before the meeting, and she planned on reaching out to them ASAP.

  “I’ll make some calls, see if I can pull a few strings.”

  He looked so hopeful, she felt it imperative to remind him, “You know he may not sign with you.” Win or fail, her services were going to cost him.

  “Of that, I’m quite aware.”

  They studied each other for another moment more before she rose and extended her hand. “Good. Then we have a deal.”

  * * *

  Being late was an inescapable fact of life. Everyone fell victim to it. Kennedy hated being late, and despite how many times she’d asked the ultimate power-that-be to gift her with the power of time control, there still remained only so many seconds in a minute and minutes in an hour, et cetera, et cetera.

  She’d returned to the office after her meeting with Peter—which had run an hour longer than scheduled—apprised Aurora of the outcome, and called their contract lawyer, Julie Hwang, and requested she draw up a contract for Moves to have ready by the end of the day. Kennedy would go over it after she got home—but first, dinner with Aidan.

  “Hi, my name is Cammie and I’ll be your hostess for the evening. You must be Ms. Mitchell.” A smiling brunette greeted Kennedy when she entered the restaurant. It was as if she’d been waiting for her to arrive.

  “Don’t tell me my boyfriend put you on lookout duty,” Kennedy joked, checking her phone again. Okay, she was officially fifteen minutes late, but on a scale of one to ten of her shortcomings, the rare case of tardiness shouldn’t even register.

  Cammie, who didn’t look much older than her, gave a tinkling laugh. “He told me you’d be the most beautiful woman to come in tonight, and he was right.”

  Yep, that sounded like Aidan. Always with the flattery. She just wished he thought as highly of her ambition as he did her looks. But no man was perfect, and she was determined not to throw in the towel prematurely—she’d been told she had a habit of doing that. Their relationship was solid. She had no major complaints.

  “If you’ll follow me. Your table is right over here.” She motioned toward the area in the back near the windows. “Mr. Anderson specifically asked for somewhere quiet.”

  The restaurant as a whole was quiet, with the tables spaced maneuverable distances apart. Candles and fresh flowers graced white linen–covered tables, and the chairs were upholstered in a deep burgundy cloth. Aidan had never taken her here before, but based on appearances, she’d bet her next paycheck the prices weren’t listed on the menus.

  And it was only Wednesday. She couldn’t imagine what he had in store for her this weekend.

  A smile curved her mouth when she spotted him sitting alone at the table, head down and fingers tapping away on his cell phone. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up and their eyes met. He quickly pocketed his phone and pushed to his feet, pleasure lighting his eyes and a wide smile on his face.

  Brown skinned, and dark hair cropped short, Aidan Anderson stood six feet three inches and sported a neatly trimmed goatee. People frequently told them they made a beautiful couple, as if it mattered that they looked good together. She knew they meant it as a compliment, but for some inexplicable reason, it rankled. On the other hand, Aidan appeared to wear it as a badge of honor, and that rankled too.

  Tonight, he looked dapper in a blue pin-striped suit and had her wishing she’d first gone home and changed into something less businesslike. Power-broker pantsuits were fine for meetings with clients like Peter Carter but looked out of place here, where elegant dresses and skirts appeared to be the order of the day.

  “I’ll give you a couple minutes to look over the menu before I send over your waitress,” Cammie chirped when they arrived at the table, before turning on her heel and departing.

  “You look beautiful. As usual,” Aidan said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. One inhalation and Kennedy could immediately tell he’d been more liberal than usual in the application of his cologne. It was a good thing she was the one who’d selected it.

  “You look pretty good yourself.” She eyed him appreciatively and then added in hushed tones, “And this place looks très expensive.”

  Aidan played the gentleman to a tee, pulling out her chair and whispering in her ear, “Only the best for my woman.”

  My woman. Something about that term struck a discordant chord with her. It made her think of big wooden clubs and women being dragged by their hair across rocky terrain. When Aidan used the term, he was usually trying to be romantic and she didn’t have the heart to tell him that she wasn’t into cavemen, not those in the past, present, or future.

  She pushed that tiny grievance aside as he resumed his seat. “Sorry I’m late. Work was...hectic.”

  “Sooo...” He quirked an eyebrow. “I shouldn’t ask about your day?”

  Kennedy huffed a laugh. “I just told you about it. It was hectic.”

  Aidan simply smiled in response. He could be so romantic. The way he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her. But as the silence lengthened and he continued to watch her, his lids drifting to half-mast and his gaze unwavering, she began to feel self-conscious.

  Did she have something on her face?

  Hmm, doubtful since she determined the look was closer to one of adoration than you have spinach between your teeth.

  “What’s that look all about?” she teased, trying for a bit of levity. “If you’re thinking about asking me for a kidney, my sister already called dibs. And with her being family and all...” She trailed off into a delicate shrug.

  Aidan’s shoulders shook in silent laughter. “You got me.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Your sister gets your kidney. You won’t get any argument from me.”

  “Good. I’ll be sure to tell her.”

  Aidan had met her older sister last year when Cheryl visited from Raleigh. They’d gotten on as well as Kennedy could hope. Her boyfriend set out to charm, and since prickly and suspicious toward all men (with the exception of her husband, brothers, and their father) was her sister’s default disposition, the fact that Cheryl hadn’t told her to dump his sorry ass spoke volumes.

  “Your champagne, sir.” The black-and-white-uniformed maître d’ appeared out of nowhere—the restaurant was dimly lit and he had stealth and size on his side—and placed two empty flutes on the table.

  Kennedy shot her boyfriend a look of surprise. He flashed her a secretive smile.

  Nervous laughter bubbled in her throat. “Wha—what’s going on? Are we celebrating something?”

  Aidan’s mouth twitched, but he remained silent.

  And then with all the dramatics and flourish of a matador entering the ring, the maître d’ popped the cork and filled the glasses before departing with a formal bow, because apparently it was going to be that kind of dining experience.

  “Did you get a promotion? Am I sitting across from the new vice president of Business Development?” she asked, hopeful.

  Aidan worked for FastTrack, a light-rail manufacturer that was developing passenger trains for future high-speed rail service around the country. His boss had retired last month and Aidan was in line for his position.

  Instead of answering, he handed her one of the glasses and then picked up the other one.

  She gave a confused laugh. “You’re not going to tell me?”

  Without removing his gaze from hers, he reached slowly into the inner pocket of his jacket and retrieved a black velvet jewelry box. He placed it in front of her, opening it with the flick of his thumb.

  “Will you marry me?”

  It happened simultaneously, Kennedy clapping her eyes on the ring and the question hitting her eardrums with noise-canceling clarity.

  The last time a man proposed to her had been six years ago. Eight years her senior, Malcolm had wanted to marry and settle down. She’d been twenty-three, working a full-time job as well as attending evening classes in pursuit of her master’s degree. A night full of promise, and good food and music, went south faster than they could finish their wine. Sadly, she saw this one heading in the same trajectory.

  Slowly, she lifted her gaze from the gorgeous square-cut diamond to the expectation in his dark brown eyes. And just like that, his expression altered.

  He knew.

  She didn’t even have to say the words.

  With the exhalation of one long ragged breath, Aidan deflated before her very eyes. “In my experience, tears of joy usually come with a smile, and you’re not smiling.”