One Mad Night Read Free

was crazy—there was nothing adolescent about it. This was a campaign that would speak to the thirty- and forty-something hotshots looking for a cool car, but who also wanted to be on the cutting edge of alternative fuels and energy.
    â€œRun it again,” Ian said to the kid in the back of the media room. The ad started up again, and Ian could feel a big fat smile spreading across his face as he watched it. When it was over, he looked at Zach Zimmerman, another account guy. “It’s good, right?”
    â€œIt’s better than good, it’s great ,” Zach said. “I’d buy that car. I’d do that car.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m talking about,” Ian said and stood up; he tapped his friend on the shoulder with his fist. “You’re going to be my wingman when I get the account.”
    â€œI’d rather be your wingman at the W Hotel,” Zach said. “There are some hot chicks hanging around that lobby, and I could use you to lure them in.”
    â€œIt’s a date. Just let me get past this presentation, and we’ll do it.” Ian winked at his friend, gestured for the assistant to lock it all up, and went out, heading back into cube nation.
    This presentation was more important than he let Zach—or anyone—know. They’d brought him into this firm because he was so good at what he did, and Ian could, with all due modesty, agree that he was one of the best. Grabber-Paulson had approached him several months ago and told him they wanted him to be the guy who took great ideas and kicked them across the Grand Canyon. They wanted him to be a pitch guy, the face of Grabber-Paulson. Brad Paulson and Jason Sung had wined him and dined him, made him some pretty grand promises about fast-tracking to partner, and paid him a hell of a lot of money to leave the Huntson-Jones Agency.
    Over cocktails one night, they’d explained to him that he’d be the “it” guy, that there was only one other person in-house that was good, but still not as good as he was. Her name was Chelsea Crawford. “She’s great at some things but not others,” Brad had said. “And we’re not sure she’s right for cars. That’s where we want to go.”
    â€œYeah,” Jason said cheerfully as he popped some nuts into his mouth. “Chelsea’s the type who does all the research and knows what the market is. But when it comes to sex appeal, she doesn’t deliver.” He popped more nuts into his mouth.
    Ian had pictured a middle-aged woman in sensible shoes, someone with thick glasses and a desk lamp to study the graphs and charts of market trends. He knew he could work rings around that faceless woman.
    â€œYou know what we need, Ian?” Brad had asked, leaning across the table to him. “We really need to step it up. Give consumers that thing they’ve never seen, that thing that makes them crazy, that thing that makes them think they have to have it. And we think you’re the guy to deliver that oomph .”
    In the end, Ian had been persuaded to take the job. He’d given no more thought to Chelsea the researcher until he met her, and damn it if the woman didn’t knock his socks off. He wasn’t expecting a dark-haired, green-eyed tall drink of water. He wasn’t expecting her to have enticing curves and a pair of legs that he kept imagining wrapped around his waist. He didn’t get why Jason said she didn’t deliver on sex appeal, because in his eyes, she was oozing it.
    Chelsea had been friendly, but at the same time, she’d given off a vibe of being too busy, too involved with her life to get to know him. That was cool, he understood it. When they first went up against each other to compete for the Zoot Restaurant account, he’d tried to befriend her. Ian didn’t know why—he was competitive, sure, but he didn’t live or die by winning an account. He’d thought