I pull my cross-body purse over my neck and scoop up the drink tray. Note to self: learn to contain quirky sense of humor when making business decisions.

I push with my hip through the double glass doors and pause at the reception desk.

“Morning, Veronica. Is everyone here?” I ask, setting the tray down and searching for the soy latte.

“They’re in the conference room,” she informs, smiling as I hand her the coffee. “You’re late. Rough weekend?”

I force my expression into something I hope looks saucy. “The roughest kind.”

Veronica laughs. “I’m free for lunch if you want to tell me about it. Mine was totally dull.”

“I never kiss and tell,” I counter with heavy meaning.

I grab the tray and continue down the short hallway to the back office we’ve converted into a conference/screening room. Struggling to balance the tray in one arm, I open the door and the room quiets.

“Sorry to keep everyone waiting,” I say in a rush, moving quickly toward my seat. “Traffic,” I add lamely, wondering why I felt it necessary.

Maybe it’s because I’m the youngest person in the room and it still feels kind of strange to sign paychecks. Or maybe because someday they are going to figure out that I haven’t a clue what I’m doing and haven’t since the first moment I took over this defunct production company and inherited this team.

The business acquisition was a mistake, it was too burdened with debt and I should have listened to my dad about that, but I was excited about starting my career after graduation and the team is definitely a winner. I may not like each and every one of them, but I respect them, they are enormously talented and I’m getting great on-the-job CEO/documentary-filmmaker training here.

I smile and start to hand out the coffee drinks. I pull out a notepad from my bag and it gets a few funny stares. All around the table are laptops and tablets. I like paper, so shoot me. I grab a pen and start to tap it on the scarred wood table.

A sheet of paper is shoved across the table at me. “Should we start at the top of the agenda?” Justin asks.

I quickly scan the list. Jeez, there are a dozen bullet points here. Who has time for that much meeting? Too much discussion with every gathering of the creative team. No wonder this company released too few projects and went bankrupt.

I stop tapping the pen. “I would prefer just to view the latest cut and go straight into the postmortem.”

A flash of irritation shows in Justin’s eyes, but he doesn’t argue and the lights are quickly turned off and the latest version of our documentary begins to play. I lean forward in my chair, elbows on the table, chin in my hands, carefully dissecting it frame by frame almost as if I can slow it down to edit speed and view it piece by piece. It still doesn’t feel right. Not even after the latest cut. It’s close, but not quite there. Damn, this should be finished by now. We need finished projects to start pulling in dollars.

The documentary ends and the room is silent. It’s not right. I try to digest what I’m feeling into words that won’t offend. I run my fingers over the top of my head and fill them with a tight scrunching of black curls.

“I don’t like the title,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “And it’s not right, how we’ve cut this. It just feels out of sequence, almost like we’re manipulating the images and injecting opinion rather than just showing the story.” I close my notepad. “It needs to go back to editing and we really need to think of a new title. Ghosts of Stockton Boulevard just doesn’t do it for me.”

Silence. I hate it when everyone holds back speaking their mind. Or worse, when they do it without including me. We’re a team, an equal voting team. Someone just say I’m wrong and get it over with. I shift my eyes to fix on Justin.

“I think it’s an excellent piece of finished work, as is,” he says. “What don’t you like about the title?”

“We’re making a film about sex trafficking in urban California and we’re calling these women ghosts. It’s demeaning, like they are somehow invisible and valueless. I don’t want them to be ghosts. I want them to be seen.”

He pauses to consider my comment. He leans forward into the desk, toward me.

“Then we’ll come up with something new,” Justin agrees. “And the latest cut?”

“Let’s go back to editing this afternoon. I’ll have an outline of changes I want to make by then.”

The meeting quickly ends after that. I’m relieved that it didn’t turn into a three-hour argument session. Maybe I’m getting better at leading the team. That was almost too easy.

I stare up at Allie, my assistant, as she begins to clean up the room.

“Am I wrong? Just tell me if I’m wrong, Allie. I trust you the most here.”

Allie smiles, pauses in her task, and looks flattered over my confession. “You’re not wrong, Kaley. You’ve got a vision. Follow your gut. At the end of the day it’s your name and reputation that walks out the door with every documentary.”

“Follow my gut, huh? My gut says that it’s not right.”

“Then it’s not right and we go back to editing.”

I nod. It was what I was going to do anyway, but it’s nice to have a little support. I lean back into my chair, shaking my head. “You’ve known Justin a long time. Why does he dislike me so much? I’m just trying to produce quality work and keep the company out of bankruptcy.”

“Ah, maybe because you’re drop-dead gorgeous. Justin thinks he’s God’s gift to women, and you’re not interested. That could have something do with his attitude.”

I blush. “Is that all you ever think of? The relationship thing?”

Allie laughs. “Pretty much. Once you’re married that only leaves meddling in other women’s love lives.”

I gather my things from the table. “Well, stop meddling in mine. I’m spoken for.”

Allie’s face snaps up. “Really? Glad to hear it. When did you start seeing someone?”

My insides go cold as all the heat in my body rises to my cheeks. Shit, what had made me say that? I’m not dating anyone.

“Just recently.”

“Maybe all the twelve-hour days you’ve been putting yourself through will stop. You work too hard. You’ve got to remember to take a little downtime or you’ll burn out quickly.”

I rush from the conference room since I’ve never been comfortable with lying, and disappear into my office. I dump my things on my desk and flip on my computer.

As I wait for the programs to load, I start listening to the messages in my phone. Without thinking, I click open the link to my Fembot blog. I start to scribble names and numbers on my desk calendar, calls that I need to return before lunch. Bank. Dad. The distributor I hope to wow with the documentary pitch. Zoe I’ll call during lunch. Best friend chatter over tofu is exactly what I need today. Maybe she can make sense of what’s up with me.

I start to rummage through the mail that Veronica left on my desk. Ding. I freeze. I stare at the computer. The chat box for my blog is obediently waiting to be opened. I click it full screen.

Love-struck Trainer: Are you free for lunch?

Oh no, what’s up with that? Is he playing with me, pursuing me, or some kind of weird stalker? Does he somehow know who I am? OK, stop being paranoid, Kaley. It’s not possible for him to know who you are. No one knows this blog is mine. I was certain that I was very careful there was nothing to link this blog to me.

I hold my fingers above the keys, searching for something safe to respond.

Response: I’m sorry. I don’t date anonymous virtual fans and I have a boyfriend.

I sit back and wait.

Love-struck Trainer: When do you find time to blog?

Response: While he sleeps.

Love-struck Trainer: He doesn’t sound very fun. Sure you don’t want to go out with me?

I start to laugh. He’s quick. I’ll give him that. And because he disappeared on me Saturday, it’s my turn to return the favor. I exit the chat and log off.