He glares in response.

At me.

There is a moment when you look at a woman for the first time. It’s an up or down moment. Thumbs up: yes, I’ll sleep with her. Thumbs down: she never enters my consciousness again sexually.

Chloe gets considerably more than a thumb’s-worth of up from me.

I shift uncomfortably in my chair and try to wrest control back from the strange tension that has infused the room.

This is a business meeting. Branding. My specialty is branding, and on paper, Chloe’s spa line has some serious weaknesses. Significant investment in an unproven market means that high risk needs to pay off.

You can’t put that kind of trust in just anyone.

“Very easy,” Chloe replies, reaching for a clicker and pulling up a PowerPoint spreadsheet. “Take a look at O Boston. Here’s the initial investment. Here’s the profit and loss statement.”

“Seventy-three percent growth in Year Two?” Andrew lets out a low whistle. My shoulders relax. I had no idea they were tight.

My pants are tighter.

Why am I invested in whether the CEO of Anterdec buys into the O Spa expansion? Until three minutes ago, this was just another pitch.

“Hold on,” Amanda interrupts. “That line for marketing and advertising. That figure is impossibly small. Did you forget a digit?”

Andrew gives Amanda a satisfied smirk. “A typo would explain that crazy profitability.” He leans back and reaches for his phone. When Andrew McCormick reaches for his phone in a meeting, it’s over.

“No.”

Chloe’s single word rings out like a gunshot.

Andrew’s hand freezes.

“That is not a mistake. Word of mouth is our primary form of advertisement.”

Andrew makes a grunt I know too well. It’s the sound I make when one of my college-age kids asks to borrow the car for a week. In Mexico.

“Isn’t that a little too 1990s?”

“Every customer who walks through our doors converts.”

“One hundred percent?” Andrew’s eyes telescope. “You’re certain?”

Click. A new graph appears.

“And each of those customers brings in an average of 3.8 new clients?” Amanda says, reading the slide.

“And that’s without paid advertising?” Andrew says skeptically.

Chloe remains unflappable as they read and analyze, talking about O as if she weren’t the expert. “Yes. In fact, our business model is counter-intuitive. The more we advertise, the less we sell.”

I frown. “That’s impossible.”

“No, Nick,” she says, her voice like velvet and chocolate. “That’s O.”

“You’re saying there’s some disconnect between paid ads and foot traffic?” Amanda asks.

“It’s lifestyle,” I murmur. “The advertising taints the allure. The appeal is in the secrecy. In being told by someone in the know. Women want to be part of the exclusivity, and it’s not special if everyone knows about it.”

Chloe studies me.

“Like an affair?” Andrew asks. Amanda glares at him.

Chloe pales. It’s the first hint of insecurity in her, and it intrigues me. This is a complicated woman.

She recovers quickly. “No. This is nothing like an affair. An affair is a secret because of shame. O is a secret because of pride.” She squares her shoulders and blinks exactly once, mouth slack and flat, devoid of emotion.

Andrew’s voice goes tight. “This is also nothing like any profit and loss statement I’ve ever read. It’s either brilliant or a giant waste of money.”

“Brilliant.” The word’s out of my mouth before I even decide to say it. Our business meeting has lost all pretense of being a corporate affair. Chloe’s chest rises and falls rapidly, yet her breath makes no sound.

“You’re telling me that Anterdec should make a significant investment in a subsector of the spa industry by trying an unproven and sweeping lifestyle niche—the fourth space—based on a blip in a spreadsheet and promises that word-of-mouth marketing is superior to data analytics we can track on paid ads?” Andrew makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat.

“No,” Chloe says, before I can blurt out the opposite. “We have data analytics as well.”

Click.

“Does that column actually say ‘sex toys’?” Andrew asks, giving Amanda an arched eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me that they—”

“The average client owns 3.2 devices.”

“Only 3.2?” Amanda mumbles.

Did Andrew just kick her under the table?

I don’t care who is screwing whom at the company, but knowing who is screwing whom is strategically important. Catalogue that.

“Before they begin patronizing O, that was the figure. After two months of membership, that average increases to 7.9,” Chloe explains.

Amanda interrupts her. “Do we sell batteries and chargers on-site at the O spas? If not, we need to.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow and tents his hands, index fingers pressed against his lips. “Good point.”

What’s next? An O Spa porn channel? I almost open my mouth, but stop.

Because they might take me seriously.

“I will add batteries and chargers to our inventory. Great suggestion. All devices purchased on-site,” Chloe says to Amanda. “All via careful customer relations management that allows staff to learn their preferences and anticipate their...”

“Kinks?” I ask helpfully.

“Preferences is the term I would use,” Chloe says, her voice smooth as silk. “We optimize our device sales. Private label, all made in the USA, no BPA—”

It occurs to me that this is the first professional meeting I’ve ever attended where the casual discussion of sex toys as a profit-making venture has been a primary topic. Staying cool is key. The CEO acts like we’re discussing cars or magazines or lamps.

I wonder what Chloe’s preferences are.

All 7.9 of them.

Then again, she’s hardly average. Bet her number is higher. That mesh corset, after all.

Down, boy.

I raise my hand to a spot above my ear and run a tense hand through my hair. Across the table from me, Andrew McCormick does the same. With great concentration, I return my attention to the screen, where it should be, and not on Chloe Browne’s cleavage.