One Mad Night Read Online Free Page A

desk. He could see Chelsea across the room, still in the conference room, still walking back and forth, reviewing her pitch.
    Okay, Ian could at least admit to himself that he was a little worried now. It just seemed a little too coincidental that Chelsea was feeling so confident and the managing partner was trying to get in touch with him on the eve of the presentation. He decided to take a look at his pitch again.

Chapter 3
    Farrah stuck her head in the conference room door. “I’m going home. It’s snowing.”
    If Chelsea hadn’t been so laser focused on getting her pitch just right, she would have mentioned to Farrah that it snows a lot in New York and that most people didn’t leave at three in the afternoon because of it. But she didn’t have the energy or the patience to explain it this afternoon. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”
    â€œYeah, if the trains are running.” Farrah was also an eternal pessimist.
    Chelsea looked toward the window and noticed the snow was coming down pretty thick. Great, just great. She didn’t have boots with her, only a pair of raggedy tennis shoes. The right one had a hole forming in the big toe. She had the pumps she’d worn to work, but those were cheap and would not hold up in the snow. Why couldn’t she remember to leave some boots at the office, for heaven’s sake?
    And speaking of shoes, an hour of wearing the insanely expensive ones she’d bought for the presentation had made her feet numb. She kicked them off and turned the page of her notes. She was ready. She’d reviewed her pitch many times and had practiced saying it all aloud. The best use of her time at this point was to review her ad once more and see if there were any last-minute refinements she could make in the pacing.
    She left the conference room and noticed that the floor looked deserted. She could see Caden Trent, his head bent over a light board. Sarah Fedrovsky was still at work too, probably on her new paper products account. Across the floor, the light in Jason’s office was on, and Chelsea assumed he was there, tossing that damn Nerf ball around. Just outside his door was Ian Rafferty’s cubicle. It seemed like every time she’d walked by Ian’s cubicle in the last few months, he was leaning back in his chair, his suit jacket off, his tie loosened at the throat. He generally had one leg propped up on his desk and was gabbing away into the telephone. It didn’t seem to Chelsea that Ian worked as much as he talked.
    The other thing Chelsea had noticed about his cubicle—in addition to the papers and books and sports bags everywhere—was the award on his desk. It was a flying magazine in bronze, won for some print campaign. Yeah, well, it wasn’t a Clio, which was what Chelsea was after. She was determined to win one and put it in her new corner office.
    Chelsea moved on to the media room and queued up her ad.
    Good-looking man with silver-streaked hair and a woman with fashionable gray hair and equally attractive come out of a restaurant and wait for the valet to bring their car around. It’s a Tesla. They drive off into a starry night. Camera cuts to images of their life—grandkid’s car seat in back, tennis rackets, a ski pass hanging from the rearview. They drive up the Pacific Coast Highway, talking and laughing. An approaching car swerves around behind a truck; driver reacts quickly and veers out of the path. Woman looks back, her hand on the man’s arm. They exchange a look, a shared lifetime flashing before their eyes. Camera pans out, Tesla zipping down the highway. Tesla: Superb handling. Because you expect it.
    It was a good ad, a great ad, and Chelsea was excited about presenting it. But she thought that the ad could use a tiny bit of tightening in the middle and spent a bit of time with that until she was satisfied it was perfect. And because she believed no one could overprepare, she ran through