Grounds for Romance (The Coffee Loft Series: Fall Collection)

19. Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

Zara

I feel like a fool. I’m standing at the center of a volleyball court in a massive arena, half a foot from a microphone.

David Blane’s assistant stands three feet away behind the small table he scrambled to find to hold my laptop. He gives me pitiful eyes that let me know I have no business being here. He swipes at his phone and gives me another update.

“Apologies once again. After the last four presentations, Mr. Blaine had to hop on a quick video conference call. He should be here shortly.”

“No problem. I’m ready whenever he is.” I try to maintain a positive disposition even while I expect the assistant to tell me to go home. That they’ve picked their design team, and they don’t have the time to waste to even listen to my pitch.

The arena doors slam open, and we both turn. Designer shoes slap the hardwood court as David Blaine, multi-millionaire and owner of the Magic volleyball team, approaches. David is white, five-ten, mid-forties with dark hair and the body of an athlete. Based on his bio, he played competitive volleyball and crew back east in college. His family was upper middle class, comfortable is how he’s described it in the articles I’ve read.

He risked his college funds from his parents and invested in a Silicon Valley start-up. Took the profits four years later to start his own firm and has never looked back.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting, Zara. I’m David.” He gives me a warm, welcoming smile that immediately puts me at ease. He sits across the table from millionaires, Fortune 500 executives, and Wall Street lawyers who manage risk portfolios in the billions. Yet, he gives me his complete attention as if I’m the most important person in the world.

“Yeah, I kind of know.” I smile at his presumption I wouldn’t know who he is. “I wouldn’t be much of a businesswoman about to pitch you if I didn’t know who you are.”

“Good.” His gaze rises over my shoulder, his neck twisting as if he’s missing something. “Is this everyone? Do you have everything you need?”

I point to the laptop. “Just little ole me.” I attempt to project confidence despite the nervous quiver in my voice.

“Okay. We booked the arena because…” He starts to explain and halts, realizing he doesn’t need to say the words. I complete it for him because every other company knew enough to bring the thunder. We aren’t just in the sport apparel business but also the entertainment business.

“If you’d be more comfortable, we could go back to my office.” I can tell David is a kind man. His offer is his way to help stave off the embarrassment that’s surely to follow when I underwhelm him with my pitch.

“I’m good right here.” I don’t want to delay this a moment longer.

He plants his feet, shoulder-width apart, folding his arms across his chest, and gives me his complete attention. “Before you begin, I do have to tell you that you’ve set a high bar for yourself.”

He states the obvious. “I’m not surprised my competitors have set a high bar. They’re all very talented. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

His chuckle should act as a warning bell, but it has the opposite effect. I find it comforting, giving me a confidence I shouldn’t possess. “Humble, I like that.” He points to the Magic baseball cap I have on the top of my afro. A last minute, why the hell not decision. “My daughter goes to school with your younger sister. May I?”

The mention of Stacy immediately put a smile on my face. “Yes, Stacy.” I tip my head to allow him easy access to the ball cap. Thank goodness Devon at least left me this tiny scrap to distract David from this pathetic start.

David retrieves the hat, and I pause, unsure whether to jump into my pitch right away or give him a few moments. With his focus clearly on the hat, I do the latter. A soft hum escapes his mouth as he runs his fingers across the crease of the hat, inspecting the seams. It’s a surprising move, not one I would expect from a CEO. Rather than feeling concerned, his action causes me to relax. My words to Mrs. Whitehead earlier repeat in my head, They’re evaluating my design. Not me .

“My daughter can be a klutz sometimes,” He starts in an unlikely place that tugs at my heart. “First day at college, nervous, looking to make a good impression. She spills her latte across her shirt.” I feel tears well up in my eyes. The image of Devon gliding across the café, offering a wink at me right before spilling a drink. “Your sister Stacy was there, grabbed her by her wrist, marched her to the women’s room and gave the shirt off her back to my daughter Allison. It was a Zara original. You designed it for your sister’s first day at college.”

My smile bursts wide. Pride brightens every corner of this enormous arena. “She’s a special young woman.”

“She said the same about you. They became fast friends, and when she found out who her father happened to be, told her to wear it when she spoke about getting you on today’s docket. My daughter sang your praises. Told me if I didn’t allow you to pitch, it’ll be the biggest mistake of my life.” David’s gaze remains locked on the baseball cap. “I took the shirt into my office the next day. Called in contacts from six design firms to give me their impressions. Hence my earlier comment, you’ve set a high bar.”

He twists the cap, holding it up high, then lowering it. Inspecting it from every angle. While he’s focused on the hat, I try to remain tethered to the earth. His compliment serves like jet fuel to my damaged heart. His words of validation are more than I’ve ever received from my employer.

“I love my daughter very much. Allison will be twenty-two next month; she’s almost grown. This franchise is my baby now. My daughter and your sister got you to the table.”

I nod. Message fully received. “I understand. Thank you in advance for this opportunity.”

David places the cap on the small table, repositions himself directly in front of me, and waves a hand. “Let’s see what you got.”

***

I respond to his questions on autopilot. Hours upon hours of preparation saving me from making nervous mistakes. I know this information inside and out. “As you can see here on the detailed project plan, we address the issues of scalability and seasonality here and here.”

I direct David to two additional subsections of the three hundred lines of the project plan. I give him a moment to review them while I try to maintain my faltering focus. A few minutes ago, David asked his assistant to connect my laptop to the giant jumbotron. His ask coinciding with when I flashed my photos of Devon in the various designs.

I had planned every element of this presentation except my reaction to seeing Devon on the giant screen. How did I not know this beautiful man was an actor? He’s made for the big screen.

Seeing him like that makes everything click. Up there, I don’t see the bumbling barista trying to play last minute fill-in model. I see an accomplished actor in his element. David’s comment on the third picture nearly breaks me.

“Handsome guy. Please tell me you have him under contract. If we decide to move forward… I’m just saying.”

He’s a handsome guy. And I kicked him to the curb. Told him to never call. That I never want to see him again. He isn’t the only one who spins lies.

“You’re extremely thorough.” David’s comment pulls me back to the present. Our scheduled five minutes of Q I have a three-hundred-page dossier that can attest to that. I have talent, despite the fact my colleagues don’t see it. And I’m na?ve enough to think that a millionaire starting up a new venture might entertain selecting a one-woman firm with zero experience. It’s the last one, the one he says I need the most, which is the red flag. I’m standing here alone. “Three out of four won’t cut it, huh?”

The door to the arena slams open, and David doesn’t turn. He knows who’s coming and doesn’t have to. “I’d say four out four.”

I turn to see a massive security guard holding the door open. “They’re in here.”

“If your delay at the security desk made us late…” My eyes fill with happy tears at the sound of my sister’s voice. She’s here.

She has a sixth sense as to when I need her. I told her about Devon, and she must’ve feared my pitch would be a disaster. She’s here to pick me up off the ground.

“I see your pitch isn’t quite over,” David says.

I wipe the tears in my eyes as my head plays catch up. David told security to let them in. Stacy said making us late. She’s not alone.

My vision clears, and I wipe it twice more; what I’m seeing can’t possibly be right. I’m not alone, and based on who I see entering the door behind Stacy, neither is she.