Wild Open Hearts (Bluewater Billionaires) - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,41
my situation, was what my parents had taught me to search for. It’s why we’d spent our weekends at foster care homes and local parks. It had been—was supposed to be—my driving motivation in founding Wild Heart, connecting compassion, justice and business.
And in this vital moment, it was all too clear to me how deeply I’d veered off course.
“I haven’t felt this way in a long time,” I said. I didn’t elaborate and Beck didn’t push. But he did reach out and very, very lightly touch my hand, the one holding the brush.
Then he pulled away.
Eventually Penelope retreated but Beck and I stayed still, not moving. I put the brush down, wrapping my arms around my knees. I laid my cheek there and looked openly at the man next to me.
“That picture you took,” he said, “how many people do you think will look at it?”
I thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe four, five million people?”
“That doesn’t make you terrified?” he asked.
“Not anymore,” I said. “Don’t assume I was this way immediately. Being friendly is my jam. But it took time to feel comfortable about exposing myself like that. Even before Ferris Mark, the trolls came after me. That took time to get used to. Time where I had to accept that I wasn’t going to please every stranger who hated me on the internet.
Beck looked past me, where the foundation folks were slowly making their way back to the parking lot. He’d stumbled a little bit, in their presence. But no more or less than most people would have. Jem and Elián were naturally enthusiastic and I couldn’t stand watching Beck look embarrassed.
It had made me want to clock Albert in the face with my Fendi purse—and generally speaking, I abhorred violence.
“Do you believe you’re the right person to lead Wild Heart?” he asked.
I hesitated. Thought about my obnoxiously happy signature on Ferris Mark’s contract addendum. You’re fixing it though, I reminded myself.
“Yes,” I managed.
He nodded. “I’m not sure I’m the best person to lead Lucky Dog.”
“Why?” I asked. “Because Elián and Jem are more natural on a tour?”
“Yeah.”
I lifted one shoulder. “Leadership is about delegating based on your employees’ strengths. Elián and Jem are charming with donors, yes. And that’s okay. You still impressed the foundation members.”
“I didn’t,” he argued. “You did.”
“I’ve had more practice,” I said. “Your comparison doesn’t work here, boss.”
“Lucky Dog needs a leader like you. Someone who’s… charming.”
“You were very earnest and honest,” I said, trying to ignore my body’s response to him calling me charming. “Those are the two most important qualities. Everything else can be learned.”
Beck was quiet, squinting into the sun.
“There’s an article floating around the internet right now you should know about,” I said, trying to keep my tone casual. Beck seemed a little more open, a little more vulnerable, and so even though it pained me to mention it, I wanted him to hear this from me. “It’s about the time you served in juvenile detention. Some asshole entertainment reporter dug up your mugshots.”
Movement rippled through the giant man next to me. Tension, anger maybe. “Can I see?”
I took out my phone, showing him the article in question. It was a garbage piece, reporting on the Ferris Mark scandal and dragging Beck’s background and family into it. I’d been relieved to see that donations to Lucky Dog didn’t seem to be affected.
But still, the middle of the article featured that picture of me on TIME Magazine, laughing and happy. Next to it, they’d placed one of Beck’s mugshots from twenty years ago. He was thinner, angrier, practically snarling into the camera. I placed my phone into his hand.
“This blowback…” I started to say. “It… I mean, I’m really sorry, Beck. It’s an absolute disgrace. Now I feel like I should…”
“What?” He was staring at the screen, forehead creased.
“Tell you to partner with someone else. Maybe you should associate yourself with someone who isn’t going to cause such unwanted negative attention on your very deserving nonprofit.” I pulled at a fraying string on the bottom of my shirt. “I wouldn’t be offended if you wanted me to leave. And I’d still keep giving you donations, make a large gift. That wouldn’t go away.”
He placed the phone back in my hand, screen down. “I haven’t seen that picture in a very long time.” I was still, awaiting his judgment. “But it looks like we’re stuck with each other,” he said, repeating my words from the other day.