Townsend called to give him the bad news. They’d since changed the company’s name from MajicSweep to Swept, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was the updated logo was virtually identical to the logo of a popular franchise in Florida. The establishment, named Sweets, boasted “Fifty Live Nude Girls a Night” on their marquee. Henry was not happy his flagship brand was, as he put it, “now associated with the dregs of society.”
Shane sorted through Crickitt’s desk drawer, locating the file for Swept, and lifted her desk phone. He spoke with Angel, arranging an emergency meeting in Tennessee. They’d work all weekend if needed, but this situation would be rectified by Monday. When she grew quiet, Shane realized he’d been on the verge of yelling, so he’d hung up before he took out his displaced anger on her.
He settled the phone onto the receiver and stared blindly at the file in front of him. There wasn’t anything worse than revisiting past business. For August Industries to continue growing, he needed to spend his time on new business, new clients. Snafus like the one with Townsend cost the company valuable time, money, and manpower.
If the signs had gone up and the ads gone to print, the oversight could’ve ruined Townsend’s chance at establishing a unique and remembered brand. Not to mention the risk of August Industries getting sued for stealing the strip club’s trademark.
Shane slammed the desk drawer shut. He swore again, the harsher word making him feel marginally better.
“Shane?”
The small voice belonged to Crickitt, who stood in her doorway, dark circles under her eyes, a slight flush on her cheeks. He had the unexpected urge to pull her into his arms, ask if she was all right. Then he remembered what she spent the evening doing, and who she spent it with, and frowned at her instead.
“Feeling better, I see.”
“We thought it might be food poisoning. He wasn’t feeling well this morning, either.”
She let him stay. So much for Shane hanging on to the thread of hope that he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion.
Shane stood stiffly and headed for her door. “Now that you’re here, you can pack your things.”
* * *
Crickitt’s blood chilled. Pack her things? Was she fired? For calling in sick?
“Shane—” she started.
“I’d like to leave in the next hour.”
Did he mean he’d like her to leave in the next hour?
“Angel and Richie are expecting us by nine tonight,” he said. “You can sleep on the way if you need to.”
When Crickitt responded, it was to his closed office door. Sighing, she turned to find Henry Townsend’s file open on her desk. Her color drawings for Swept’s logo had been crossed out with a bold black X. She lifted the paper, hands shaking. Crickitt spent several hours drawing it, the night she’d tentatively leaned in and kissed Shane for the first time. And he’d marked it through, effectively ruining the sketch, and in a way, nullifying a memory she treasured.
Swallowing down a gelatinous lump of sadness, she reached for the phone to call Angel and find out what she’d missed.
Crickitt had expected Shane to be grateful she’d shown up today. She could have stayed home, wanted to after she’d barely held down a bowl of vegetable soup for lunch. Too late now. She was here, and soon she would be on her way to Tennessee.
During the limo ride to her apartment, Shane remained resolutely silent, his eyes focused on the newspaper open on his lap. At her apartment, she reached for the handle, not wanting to interrupt him but needing to know how many outfits to pack. “How many days are we staying?” she asked.
“As many as it takes,” he said, spearing her with a look that made guilt swim in her stomach.
Fifteen minutes later, Thomas tossed her luggage into the trunk and she clambered into the backseat. Shane met her with an expectant glower.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, tempted to tack on the word “now.”
“You changed.”
She smoothed her hands along the skirt of the light summer dress. Stylish and comfortable, it was the no-brainer choice for a six-hour car ride. Instead of asking why her changing chafed him, Crickitt simply folded her hands into her lap and looked out the window.
The car was quiet save for the classical music drifting from overhead speakers and the occasional pencil scratch as Shane jotted down notes. The monotony of wheels rolling on pavement soon lulled Crickitt to sleep.
She stirred from a dream starring Shane, but in it he wasn’t cold and distant, he was holding her close, whispering promises into her ear. Before she could remember his pronouncements, the hazy, fringed edges dissipated, leaving her feeling empty and alone.