Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 1

One

CAT

T here’s glitter in my eye. I try to blink, blink, blink it away but it’s lodged in there good.

While pulling at an eyelash I struggle to call out, “Keep going,” to the small but competent production team sweating right along with me on the downtown L.A. sidewalk.

The offending piece of confetti is infuriating. Add that to the fact this prima ballerina doesn’t know how to sell a lifestyle ad to save her life, and you’ve got a PR nightmare.

I check my slim black watch. My time to salvage this project before I board a plane is dwindling. It got delayed two hours this morning. I never thought I’d be grateful for a delay but I am now.

We need to get this shot.

“You twirl around the bench, see?” I do a janky spin in chunky Prada loafers with one eye open, the other still watering with my hand over it like a pirate’s patch.

“This is ridiculous,” the ballerina mutters .

I hold back a four-letter expletive. I’ve got two hours left of my workday to get this girl’s tulle-swaddled ass in gear. As a content manager for a full-service branding agency, time is everything.

Mercifully, the glitter disappears on my nine-millionth blink and I slide my sunnies back into place. Allyn, the fierce woman who founded Brand Hub when she was twenty, has taught me everything I know about marketing and utilizing social media to implement big brand strategy. But often, keeping clients and collaborators happy—especially sassy ones covered in Pepto Bismol pink—is the hardest part of my job.

“How can I help you through this?” I ask, employing my most delicate tone. It’s a stretch.

“Need an extra?” A man walking by with an armload of groceries hollers.

“Keep walking, buddy!” I toss back, without taking my eyes off Sabrina.

“Show me again?” she asks, definitely messing with me.

I twirl again to the best of my ability and botch my landing, twisting my uncoordinated ankle in a crack of concrete. With a grimace, I power through, snatching a cup from our barista who’s kindly volunteered to be in the video while on the clock.

My eye on the prize, I take a sip while managing to sashay toward the camera.

“And when you hit your mark,” I point with my loafer at a weird blue stain in the sidewalk we’ve noted as her end spot, “you deliver the tagline, and take a sip.”

A few cars honk on the street, some sort of tailgating argument ensuing at a stoplight through lowered windows. I hope they get it out of their system now. I’d like to use some natural background noise in the shot but I don’t need two yahoos exchanging pot-shots in my audio.

That’s not the vibe.

“Must I?” she yawns. Her ballerina bun is pulled so tight, it must be cutting off the oxygen to her brain.

I plaster on a tight smile because Beanie’s is depending on me and speak through my teeth, “You’ve already cashed the first check, Sabrina. No going back now.”

I’m a reluctant cheerleader, a project manager, and a brand rep who’s worked her way up from interning at the company after college, all so I can be married to my smartphone and stress over batching content. Allyn has been dangling the co-owner carrot for a while now, but even with that motivation I’ve been wearing a lot of hats for our women-owned-and-operated marketing agency.

Today they’re feeling quite heavy.

With no warning, the ballerina shrugs as she pushes up on her toes. I signal the camera to film as she twirls around an old bench outside Beanie’s coffee, and plucks a to-go cup off the barista’s tray while lifting her leg in arabesque.

The sun highlights the shimmer in her tights and she looks almost magical. The visual is exactly what I imagined in my head. Luxe, but approachable.

“Now the tagline! Keep going, Sabrina!”

I wave for our camera-woman to pull in tight with the gimbal to capture her pretty pink lips as she utters the words I worked weeks to come up with.

“Beanie’s Beans, keeping things bold since 1999.” Another glitter cannon explodes and rains down around us.

So, it’s not Shakespeare, or even a memorable McDonald’s I’m loving it tagline. If this was Nike, I’d be fired for sure.

“That’s it,” I yell. “Cut.”

“Thank God,” she huffs, pulling a sweater over her shoulders. “Next time just shoot me.”

The feeling is mutual, babe. “Don’t forget to hashtag when you post.”

Her assistant unties the ribbons of her toe shoes while she perches on a sidewalk table, then saunters to her waiting car in moon boots even though L.A.’s temperatures are still in the 80s despite the November date .

“Thanks, Hil,” I say to our sweet camera-woman who works a la carte for Brand Hub when I’m in town. “You’ll get Allyn’s check in the mail per usual.”

“No worries, she’s always prompt with payment. Sure you don’t want some help cleaning all this shit up?” Though offering to help, her tone is anything but voluntary. It’s full of pity, and rightfully so.

“I got it, thanks.” I grab a dustpan and broom that Beanie’s was nice enough to supply when we got here. The first glitter cannon blew up before its cue and sent a young, motivated manager scurrying out sputtering about clean-up being included in the contract with Brand Hub.

Of course, cleanup is included. So is editing and graphics, securing and keeping the talent happy, and holding them to post dates and hashtag requirements. Thankfully, we’ve got a small team to help, but a lot of it is executed by yours truly.

I deserve that co-owner carrot.

The owners, the Rushmores, who I’ve known for years, waddle over in all their post-middle-age, cable-knit glory.

“Thanks for letting us watch the magic happen.” Mr. Rushmore is excited, rosy-cheeked with a white beard that shines in the sun. You’d think this video was scheduled to air during a Super Bowl. “Did you get the shot you were hoping for?”

“We did. It’s going to be a great campaign.” I tick off a list of planned content to calm him. “All your socials are covered with new logos and branding, we’ve got local micro-influencers posting, and a new mailer circulating your surrounding zip codes for the over-sixty crowd.”

“You are such a dear. I’m going to tell your parents that next time I have a call with your mom,” Mrs. Rushmore adds. “I’m glad she reminded me this is what you do for a living. All grown up. You always were a responsible girl.”

“Hardest working ten-year-old I’ve ever seen. I still remember you running around your dad’s shop with a tag gun, marking all his latest finds. What was your family’s store called again?”

“Cotton Candy Carnie, but they sold and retired. They’re traveling the world now, sampling Mai Tais across the globe.” Dad knew my sister and I weren’t passionate about the carnival games business. It’s a niche crowd and you really gotta love scrubbing decades of grime from old dunk tanks.

Growing up working in the family business came with some perks. We were the fun family in the neighborhood with all the vintage games at our disposal and a cotton candy machine my dad pulled out every Sunday, but I also worked every Saturday, and often the household chores fell to me. The oldest, next to my baby sister, Frannie, who didn’t inherit the workaholic gene quite like I did.

“And so creative. I love the ballerina. Pretty, had a ‘tude though, didn’t she?” Mrs. Rushmore adds.

I came up with the ballerina angle, something unique to go along with the cozy fall-girl vibe and big pumpkin energy. Gourds I hauled here from a farm off the interstate this morning litter the sidewalk. The glitter cannon was because . . .

Who doesn’t love glitter ?

“Last month’s video really increased foot traffic.” Mr. Rushmore pats his wife’s hand.

Ah, the one where I recruited a hockey team to drink from Beanie’s cups while standing in a row on the ice, no shirts, sticks in hand. The cups were steaming and the men were just as hot. That was a good one.

“You are a talent,” Mrs. Rushmore smiles at me. She knows I’m holding out on the hugs but she’s going to kill me with kindness anyway.

“Tough cookie, too,” Mr. Rushmore chimes in. He can also read my discomfort, I think.

I attempt to school my features into whatever nice girls generally look like, trying to emulate the sugary smile my sister Frannie effortlessly wears, or the approachable likability our best friend Willow has in spades.

“Marketing is a tough job, especially these days, but I like what I do.” There, that was believable, and at least half true.

They both nod heartedly. I watched my parents struggle for years to hold their small business together. It’s become a passion, and a creative outlet, to help other small companies do the same.

“You certainly are driven, for such a young thing,” Mrs. Rushmore appraises me. I like her, and I really want to see them succeed with this coffee shop in their golden years.

“I’ll get your socials functioning where they need to be. This video should get a lot of traction. A lot of likes and comments.”

“And we want likes and comments, right? That will sell coffee?” Mr. Rushmore asks. He can’t wrap his mind around a video on the internet drawing customers.

“You do. It will,” I assure them, hoping my mask of black mascara and red lipstick hides my fear.

You’ve got to have some armor if you want to compete in this business. Because the dinging, buzzing, and constant content pings can be overwhelming. It’s not too far from feeling like you’re selling your soul when you’re schmoozing influencers, posting content to stay relevant, and trying to keep up with every trend. I have to keep my personal socials on point for business, or clients won’t believe I can produce the same for them.

I try to keep my guard up, but it always feels personal.

What are you worth in this industry? Is it your hard work, grit, and determination that speak for you? Or the little number at the top of every social account?

Truthfully, I’m jealous of the Rushmores with their wrinkles and their un-fried-by-the-internet brains. How long can I last hustling like this?

“Hang in there, kid,” Mr. Rushmore says, thankfully pulling me from my spiral. “You’re doing the Lord’s work.”

He pats me on the back and they both head into their shop while I pull my phone from my pocket, swiping at some glitter still stuck it my hair. It sticks to my fingertips as I snap a selfie with Beanie’s door in the background.

After a quick story post that I hope drives traffic their way, I sweep all the glitter sparkling on the sidewalk and dump it into a metal trashcan on Olvera Street.

My phone buzzes and if it weren’t for my paralyzing fear that I’ll miss something important from one of my clients, I wouldn’t drop everything to pick it up.

It’s an email from Allyn.

Cat-

Emergency meeting in my office this afternoon. Let me know when you land.

Don’t be nervous, it’s just the rest of your life on the line (evil monster emoji).

We’ve got an offer from Streamflix.

Allyn

My phone buzzes again as I’m reading Allyn’s last line. Streamflix?

What could a streaming company possibly want from us? We’re tiny. There’s no way we could handle their PR. Maybe for a small project, but surely they have in-house people for that.

She knows she’s messing with me only giving half the information. She enjoys it, and if I didn’t respect the hell out of her I’d never allow it.

My phone buzzes a third time, impatient for my attention—always.

When I minimize one screen to open another, I have a blaring red, emergency notice that my delayed flight has been moved back up .

I have forty minutes to fight with GPS, drop my rental car, and board my plane.