Jenna stood next to her fiance, Reece, her ginger hair framing her face, her eyes focused somewhere over Megan's shoulder. Reece, the bar's general manager and co-owner, shot Megan a look of sympathy, which she would have appreciated more if she'd understood what the problem was.
It was Brent, the fourth owner and the bar's security guru, who actually spoke, his voice as gentle as if he was talking to his adorable five-year-old. "Thanks for coming in. Have a seat. I promise, we're not here to bite your head off, but we need to figure this out."
She continued to stand, then looked at each of them in turn, a horrible sense of foreboding welling in her gut. That, and disappointment. Because these people had given her a chance. Despite the fact that The Fix was trying to strengthen its financial position, they'd brought her on board without hesitation the moment that Jenna had heard that Megan was having a harder-than-anticipated time rebuilding her LA-based makeover business in Austin. She was ridiculously grateful, and she was terrified that somehow she'd screwed up--and screwed all of them by accident.
She drew a deep breath and forced herself to be calm. "I really want to make this right," she assured them. "But I don't even know what's going on? Why is Parker pissed?"
"Because of a mistake, we're sure," Tyree said, his gentle baritone filling the room. "But one that needs to be handled with care."
"Parker's got a lot of influence in this town," Reece added. "And if he decides to talk shit about The Fix, it won't be good for business."
Since that really didn't help, Megan shifted her attention to Jenna, who drew in a breath, then released it slowly. "I'm sure it wasn't your fault, Megan. But Parker called Tyree today and demanded that he be removed from the flyer and that The Fix issue a public apology."
Megan sat down with a thud. "What? But he can't do that. He agreed to participate. I gave his assistant all the details and he agreed."
Furious, she clutched the arms of her chair, afraid that otherwise she'd launch herself back to her feet and start reading Parker the Riot Act in absentia. Because this was bullshit. Seriously. The arrogant bastard. He thought that just because he had money and power he could pull the plug? He made a commitment, and dammit, he was going to stick to it.
She drew in a breath, forcing her temper down. This was a work issue, and no matter how absurd it was, she needed to handle it professionally. "If he's regretting his agreement, then I'm happy to speak with him. Or maybe it would be better coming from Reece and Tyree, since they've both been in the contest. He's made a fortune in the business world. Surely he understands that once he's given his word, there are repercussions for backing out."
"I'm sure he does understand that," Tyree said. "And I pointed out as much to him when we spoke. But here's the problem--he assures me that he never signed a contract."
"Of course he did. I talked to his assistant, Lisa. And she called me back and said that he'd be happy to do it, and that she'd get the agreement over to me by the end of..."
She trailed off, her stomach going suddenly queasy as she realized that she never got the contract back. She put her hand to her mouth to ward off the rising bile.
"Oh, God," Megan said. "It is my fault. I totally screwed up big time."
* * *
Megan dressed in her lucky outfit on Monday morning, a black linen and silk blend tailored dress under a blazer with a timeless, classic cut. It was one of the outfits she'd splurged on in Los Angeles, determined to look like the profess
ional she'd ultimately become.
It had cost her an entire month's profits, but it had been worth it, because she'd ended up making friends with Nancy, the Nordstrom tailor who'd done the alterations. Nancy had introduced her to Alice Gaines, the wife of a Los Angeles real estate developer whose friends included most of the rich and famous on both coasts. And within six months Megan had a steady stream of regular clients.
The dress had given her a career in LA. Maybe in Austin it could save her ass.
Because she wanted to look pulled together and professional, she accessorized with a string of pearls she'd inherited from her grandmother and the pearl earrings she'd bought for herself one Christmas.
She needed stockings to really complete the outfit, but pantyhose were out of the question in the July heat. And since thigh-highs invariably slid down her legs, she ended up wearing a garter and delicate nude stockings that she hoped she didn't run. Just in case, she tucked an extra one into her purse before sliding her feet into a pair of Chanel pumps with three inch heels that she'd scored at an online consignment store.
By eight-thirty she was out the door, and since the Austin office of PCM Enterprises was housed in One American Plaza, just a few blocks away from her condo, by eight forty-five she was standing in front of the reception desk, her heart pounding so hard it was a miracle the smiling gray-haired receptionist didn't offer to call the paramedics.
"I'm so sorry, Ms. Clark," she said as she ran her finger down a printed list, "but I don't see you on Mr. Manning's appointment list. Let me just log in to his calendar and take a look. I'm sure--"
"No, that's okay," Megan said, her nerves finally settled enough so that she could form words. "I don't have an appointment. But I'm certain Mr. Manning will want to see me. There was an, um, misunderstanding about a project, and he spoke with my boss yesterday, and..."
She trailed off, realizing that she was rambling and that this woman didn't need the whole gory story.
"Anyway," she ended lamely. "I just need to see him."
"I'm very sorry, but Mr. Manning isn't in yet. I'd be happy to put you on his appointment list."
Leave and come back? Honestly, her nerves couldn't take it.
"Could I wait? Maybe he'll have time to squeeze me in before his first appointment."
"Well, I--" The woman met Megan's eyes, the corner of her mouth crinkling as she offered an understanding smile. "Certainly. Make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to coffee," she added, nodding at a machine on the far side of the reception area.