Token

by Beverley Kendall

Genres: African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance; Multicultural & Interracial Romance

Synopsis

A sexy, whip-smart, enemies to lovers romcom that’s fresh and topical, tackling racism and tokenism as experienced by a young Black American woman in the cutthroat world of Publicity.

Kennedy Mitchell is brilliant, beautiful and tired of being the only Black woman in the room.

Two years ago, she was plucked from reception for a seat at the boardroom table in the name of “representation”. Rather than play along, she and her best friend founded Token, a boutique PR agency that helps diversity-challenged companies and celebrities. With famous people getting into reputation-damaging controversies, Token is in high demand and business is booming, but when her ex shows up needing help repairing his reputation, things get even more complicated and soon Kennedy finds herself drawn into a PR scandal of her own.
 
'This romance has it all - flirty banter, deep emotion, and a smart, sassy heroine.' JENNIFER PROBST, New York Times bestselling author
'A smart, sexy rom-com that had me chuckling from the first page. I loved it.' BRENDA JACKSON, New York Times bestselling author
'Token is a smart and sexy romantic comedy...that is quick-witted, funny, and dives into contemporary social issues.' BUZZFEED, These 12 Romance Novels Will Knock Your Socks Off

Release date: January 3, 2023

Publisher: Graydon House Books

Sample

1

Looking for a job sucked.

Getting laid off sucked even more.

Three weeks ago, Kennedy Mitchell found herself in both unenviable positions.

While searching for a new job in her field of expertise—marketing and five solid years of it—she’d accepted a four-week receptionist position to tide her over. Hey, student loans didn’t pay off themselves and they couldn’t care less about your employment status. But, as grateful as she was to have money coming in, she hated the part of the job that had her slapping herself awake every five minutes.

That also sucked.

It would be one thing if the place were a bevy of human activity (she generally liked people and they tended to like her back). Nope, that wasn’t even close to what she was dealing with. Per the visitor log, a grand total of six had passed through the first-floor lobby of ECO Apparel in the two weeks she’d been there. Three on one day alone. And during the hours when the employees were upstairs ensconced at their desks, the place resembled a ghost town. Seriously, she wouldn’t be surprised to see tumbleweed roll past the reception desk one fine windy day. Although, for a ghost town, the lobby was sleekly modern, all sharp angles, and glass and chrome.

Glancing down at her cell phone, Kennedy released a long-suffering sigh. How was it possible that only three minutes and not an hour had passed since her last five-minute check-in? This was usually when she prayed for one of two things: the power to control time, or another job.

Since the chances of either happening within the next seventy-two hours were zero to none, she grudgingly resigned herself to her fate and tapped the keyboard, bringing the sleeping monitor back to life, and the email from an interested recruiter back into view. Seven hours to go, and the jury was still out on whether she would make it until noon—much less to the end of the day.

The ding of the elevator broke the lonely silence and was soon followed by the click of heels on the faux marble floors. Twisting in her seat, Kennedy spotted Nadine from Administrative Services striding purposely toward her, folder and purse in hand. She hastily closed out of her email and treated the brunette to a bright smile.

“Hey, Nadine, is it break time already?” The pretty admin assistant usually came to relieve her for a midmorning break at ten. Currently, it was an hour shy of that, and taking a break right now would upset the monotony of her day. How would she cope with the upheaval?

“Mr. Mullins wants to see you in his office, and I’ll be filling in for you for the rest of the day,” her coworker announced abruptly.

Kennedy stiffened and her eyebrows rose at the hint of annoyance and resentment threading Nadine’s tone.

Well, good morning to you too.

What the hell happened to the pleasant, chatty girl of not even twenty-four hours ago? And why on earth did the director of Human Resources want to see her in his office? Especially as she, like Nadine, reported to the manager of Administrative Services.

Then Nadine’s folder landed with a splat on the desk near the monitor. Kennedy’s gaze flew to hers and she found herself on the receiving end of a very pointed come on—get a move on, girlie. There’s only one chair and you’re sitting in it look.

That was enough to galvanize Kennedy into action even as her jaw ticked and she prayed for calm. She hurriedly collected her purse from the bottom drawer before surrendering her seat to her visibly impatient coworker.

As if it’s my fault she’s getting stuck down here answering the phone.

Despite Kennedy’s own growing annoyance, she paused and turned before leaving, her shoulders squared, and chin lifted. “Any idea why Mr. Mullins wants to see me?” Her voice was stiff but scrupulously polite.

Since her interaction with him was limited to a brief walk-by wave on her first day during a tour of the offices, she was at a loss.

Nadine gave a bored shrug. “I hear no evil and speak no evil. They tell me nothing. I just go where I’m told to go, and do the work they pay me to do, if you know what I mean.”

Kennedy’s heart instantly softened, and she excused Nadine’s uncustomary churlishness for what appeared to be the frustration that came with being the Jane-of-all-menial-work of the company.

“Believe me, I know exactly what you mean.” They shared a commiserative what we women have to put up with look before Kennedy took the elevator up to the eighth floor.

Honestly, the drawbacks of possessing a vagina were sometimes too much. Giving birth was only one of them. Or so she’d been told. Her turn in the stirrups hadn’t come yet, but she assumed one day it would, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

The company directory alone pointed to an obvious gender bias. Not one woman held an executive, director, or senior-level management position.

Not. One.

And it had been eight years since the previously all-male clothier had ventured into female clothing. One would think that one woman would have made it to the ranks of at least a senior manager position by now. What were they waiting for, a march on Washington?

But wait. If she didn’t think it could get worse, it did. Kennedy had yet to see one Black face of any hue in the parade of employees who walked by her every day—that was, unless she looked in a mirror, and her hue skewed to the lighter shade of that spectrum. She wouldn’t be surprised if that was one of the reasons she’d been picked to grace the reception desk.

In the twenty-first century, one would think that impossible. Especially in the city that didn’t sleep, and could be touted as America’s United Nations, every race, ethnicity, language, andsexual orientation duly represented on the postage-stamp island.

Be that as it may, Kennedy knew better than most that the city tended more toward separate individual dishes—separate being the operative word—rather than one big old melting pot.

Once off the elevator, she detoured to the bathroom, where she freshened her lipstick, powdered the shine off her forehead, and gave her long, thick brown curls a few twists.

With her hair and face in order, she ran a critical eye over her outfit, a purchase of pure indulgence. Although had she even the vaguest idea that she’d be unemployed a week after she bought it, she most assuredly would not have indulged. But the cream pencil skirt and the baby blue fitted shirt ensemble had called out to her. Buy me. I come in your size. Your body will thank you in the end. And Kennedy, self-proclaimed clotheshorse that she was, hadn’t been able to resist the Siren’s call.

Okay, so maybe due to financial constraints she was more a clothes pony.

After ensuring no visible panty lines ruined the overall effect of polished professionalism and stylishness, she proceeded to Mr. Mullins’s office.

She found him at his desk, the door to his office wide-open. Upon seeing her, a smile broke out across his face. “Ah, Miss Mitchell, come in.”

Kennedy met him halfway, where they shook hands, and she offered a pleasant greeting. He then gestured toward the table and chairs at the other end of the room. “Please sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

Average in height and build, hair graying and thinning at the crown, the man himself was as nondescript as middle-aged white men came. If his smile—wide and genuine—was any indication, she could relax, which she did one vertebra at a time. It didn’t look as if she was about to be let go early. Typically, people didn’t smile like that when they were about to deliver bad news. Unless, of course, they were psychopaths. No, they tended to furrow their brow, feigning concern and sympathy.

Kennedy took a seat where instructed as Mr. Mullins swiped a sheaf of papers off his desk before joining her. She looked around for somewhere to put her purse that was not on the table or the floor and found nothing suitable. In the end, she simply plopped it on her lap.

Sliding on a pair of reading glasses, Mr. Mullins glanced down at the papers in front of him before directing his attention back to her. “So how are you settling in? Everyone treating you all right? No one bothering you, I hope.”

Yeah, nope! Absolutely not. No way was she falling into that trap. This was the kind of throwaway question people asked when they didn’t want or expect an honest answer.

“No, everyone has been great.” She certainly wasn’t going to tell him that two of the managers had asked for her number and the head of IT asked her out for dinner. As someone personally opposed to mixing business with pleasure, and that included dating coworkers—been there, regretted that—invitations like that were shot down faster than a clay pigeon at a skeet shooting competition.

“Good, good, good. Now, I’ve just been looking over your résumé—” he paused, glanced at it and then back at her over the rim of his glasses “—and by the looks of things—your previous experience and education—it’s apparent that you’re overqualified for the receptionist position. Any receptionist position, for that matter.”

For the measly sum of two hundred and fifty grand—the majority of which had been covered by scholarships or else she wouldn’t have been able to afford a school like Columbia—for both her undergraduate and graduate degrees, she sure hoped she was overqualified for the task of greeting visitors and forwarding calls.

“Yes, but this wasn’t supposed to be permanent. The agency said it was a four-week assignment.”

Mr. Mullins nodded. “That’s right. I’ve been told Nancy should be back in a few weeks.” He lowered her résumé, but still held it loosely between his fingers. “Does that mean you aren’t interested in a permanent, full-time position? I might have thought you’d prefer something in Marketing.”

Kennedy watched as he turned the situation over in his mind. He seemed determined to solve the mystery of the overqualified temporary receptionist. But this wasn’t Agatha Christie-level stuff. No amateur sleuthing required.

“I was laid off and this just sort of fell into my lap. The right job at the moment,” she stated simply.

There were layoffs and then there were layoffs. Hers had been the latter, as she’d been assured she’d keep her job after the merger. The following week, she’d walked into the offices of Kenners in the morning and was carting a box with every personal item she’d accumulated over the course of five years—including a dazzling pink slip—out the front door by the time the clock struck noon.

Just like that, five years of job—no, financial security—ripped out from under her. And to add insult to injury, two weeks of severance was all she had to show for years spent busting her ass putting in fifty-and sixty-hour weeks.

God, how she hated them, pink slips, which shouldn’t be pink at all. They should be black like the hearts of the people who played favorites with other people’s livelihoods.

“Completely understandable,” he replied, nodding. “Now, getting to the reason I wanted to speak with you. I assume you’ve heard of Sahara, right? She’s a singer. Won several Grammys. I believe she’s recently gotten into acting. Really a lovely young woman.”

Have I ever heard of her?

Almost everyone on planet Earth had heard of Sahara, and she wasn’t just some wannabe actress. Her first role garnered her an Oscar nod. Not too shabby for a small-town girl from New Jersey, who bore such a striking resemblance to Aaliyah, some people in the music industry called her Baby Girl. Rumor had it she hated the name with the fires of a thousand suns. If true, Kennedy didn’t blame her.

She’s a woman. Call her by her stage name, dammit!

Ironically, her real name was Whitney Richardson, a name she decided not to use professionally, fearing it would invite certaincomparisons. One Black superstar singer named Whitney was enough.

“That’s a pretty sound assumption.” Especially since her songs were on heavy rotation on every major radio station in almost every major city in the country. “She’s very popular.”

Popular was an understatement. Sahara was huge. As big as Beyoncé but with first-rate acting chops. And her social media game was, bar none, the best Kennedy had ever seen. Her fans called themselves the Desert Stormers and congregated at OASIS, an online community, to discuss everything Sahara. And God forbid anyone say one bad word about their Desert Queen, they went after them guns blazing.

“I had a feeling you would,” he said with a smugness Kennedy found hard to fathom. It wasn’t as if he’d discovered Jimmy Hoffa’s remains or the identity of Jack the Ripper. “Well, this afternoon we are going to have the pleasure of her company. She and her representatives will be meeting with our executive team.”

“That’s...wonderful.” She didn’t know what he expected her to say. Was he looking for tips on how to interact with young Black women and assumed she was an expert on the subject? Should she tell him she hadn’t yet read this month’s issue of The Secret Guide to the Black Female Mind?

His expression became earnest as he leaned forward, bringing his face closer to hers. “The CEO of the company would like you to attend.”

Her jaw dropped. A sound escaped from her suddenly dry throat.

Okay, that she hadn’t seen coming.

She reflexively convinced herself he couldn’t have meant what she thought he did, since she was certain she’d heard him correctly.

“Do you mean attend the meeting? With Sahara?” She needed to make sure they were reading from the same hymnal.

His mouth twitched. “Yes.”

Her fingers curled around her purse strap. “Why would Mr. Edwards want me there?” She was a temp. How did the CEO of the company know who she was? Or that she even existed? She only knew his name because it was at the top of the company directory. She couldn’t say for sure she’d actually seen him in the flesh, and if she had, he certainly hadn’t introduced himself.

“Well, you see, Kennedy, I believe the collective thought was that you represent exactly the type of young woman Sahara will be targeting with her clothing line, and having you in the meeting would make her...more comfortable. Put her at ease.”

Ah, yes. She got it, all right. As clear as glass.

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean. What type of woman is that?” she asked, all wide-eyed and guileless.

Surely, he meant intelligent, professional, ambitious, and highly educated?

Yeah, right.

The crests of his cheeks reddened, but he was stalwart in his determination to hold her gaze. “Well, you’re a beautiful young woman with an obvious eye for fashion, and her line hopes to encompass all aspects of work, life, and play.”

Nice save, bub. But not good enough.

“And the fact that I’m Black didn’t have anything to do with the decision? Not even a little?” she coaxed, doubting anyone had ever taken him to task on the subject of race this directly, if at all.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Well, yes, there is that too.”

No, there was no too—that was the whole of it.

Suddenly, his expression turned apprehensive. “I hope that didn’t offend you. With this whole #MeToo movement, I’m not sure if I just crossed the line. Am I still allowed to compliment you on your looks?”

Oh dear lord, shoot me now.

Did this man not interact with any women in a professional capacity? A sensitivity class or four wouldn’t go awry at this company.

“No, I’m not offended.” At work, she generally took such compliments in stride. As long as they weren’t accompanied by a suggestive leer and a hotel room key card pressed into her palm during a handshake. True story. That had actually happened.

“Things have changed so much lately, sometimes it’s best to ask, or the next thing you know... Well, who knows what will happen,” he finished, flashing her an awkward smile.

“Anyway,” Kennedy said, eager to get back to the subject at hand, “about the meeting. As much as it would be a thrill to meet her, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with that. I don’t know very much about the inner workings of the company. I’m probably not the right person—”

But Mr. Mullins was having none of that, bulldozing her objections with, “For your additional responsibilities, you’ll receive five thousand dollars.”

Kennedy had to steel herself from physically reacting. On the inside, however, it was nothing but fits of jubilation. Cartwheels and back handsprings that would make the women’s Olympic gymnastics team proud.

Five thousand dollars! Found money, all of it. And to think of how happy she’d been last month when she found a twenty between the cushions of her sofa and last year when she’d discovered a ten spot in the pocket of an old pair of jeans.

Careful to calibrate her response, she began slowly, “That is—”

“No, no, my mistake,” Mr. Mullins interjected again, his eyes darting from her face to the paper in front of him, which he proceeded to tap repeatedly with his finger. “I meant seventy-five hundred. An additional seventy-five hundred.”

Kennedy sat there utterly gobsmacked. “Mr. Mullins—”

“Ten thousand.”

Another minute and Kennedy was certain the strain in his voice would give way to full-blown panic.

Ten thousand dollars for one meeting? Oh my god, that’s wild.

But the best kind.

With dollar signs flashing like a bright neon sign in her mind, she smiled. “What time should I be there?”

2

Some stereotypes existed for a reason and Maureen Somers turned out to be the quintessential efficient, unflappable middle-aged woman one would expect to hold the position of the executive assistant to the CEO.

In the span of sixty short minutes, she put all those qualities to effective use, setting up a space for Kennedy in the smaller of the two conference rooms on the ninth floor, supplying her with a gold executive name badge, a spare laptop, a quick overview of the company, and a thumb drive containing the PowerPoint presentation being delivered to Sahara and her representatives that afternoon.

No one expected that Kennedy would be asked any questions—that was the VP of Marketing’s wheelhouse—but just in case, she was instructed to respond in generalities and make sure to emphasize her social media experience. Next, she went down to see Sally in HR, who not only took care of the housekeeping issues that allowed them to pay her the bonus directly, rather than through the temp agency, but shed total light on the seeming urgency of the situation.

It appeared yesterday Sahara had walked into a meeting with one of their competitors, looked at those in attendance, and had promptly walked out without saying a word when she didn’t see one Black face in the room. Which was why ECO Apparel was willing to pay ten grand to make sure the same thing didn’t happen to them.

Ten grand!

Every time Kennedy thought about it, she wanted to pinch herself. She was torn between the desire to pay down what remained on her student loan or stash the bulk of it away for a rainy day. Like if she didn’t get a job right away, she’d at least be able to pay her rent for a few months without emptying her savings.

By the time lunch rolled around, Kennedy’s stomach was filled with too many butterflies to accommodate actual food, so she donned a pair of sunglasses and went to the deli across the street. There, she bought a large lemonade, grabbed an empty table in the back where it was quiet enough to have a conversation, and hit the speed dial on her phone to call her best friend, Aurora.

The two met when they were seventeen, their senior year in high school, at a national debate competition and had been best friends since. She was the one who’d convinced Kennedy to apply to universities in New York. They’d both been accepted to Columbia, become roomies, and the rest, as they say, was history. Now, after nine years in the Big Apple, Kennedy couldn’t imagine herself anywhere else. This was home.

Aurora picked up on the first ring and skipped preliminary greetings. “Hey, I was just thinking about you, and I have a plan. If you don’t find a decent-paying job by the end of the month, I can talk to Nate.”

Near-bursting with excitement over her newfound fortune, Kennedy’s train of thought was immediately sidetracked. “Ror, for the last time, I’m not working for your brother,” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes.

This wasn’t the first or undoubtedly the last time Aurora would raise the subject. She’d said the same thing when Kennedy started looking for a job after they’d graduated, and then every time she expressed an inkling of dissatisfaction with said job.

Work for Nate, he’s brilliant. Work for Nate, he’s good to his employees. Work for Nate, he pays great.

While all of that might be true, Nate could be a teensy bit intimidating—okay, plenty intimidating. And coming from someone who pulled off cool and collected as if she’d been born to play the role, that said a lot.

Kennedy had dealt with her fair share of good-looking men of all strata her entire adult life. Nathaniel Robert Vaughn, however, was an entirely different species. He was too everything: too good-looking, too smart, too opaque, too driven, too cool and detached, and way too far out of her league.

And that was the rub. Something she hated admitting even to herself. Suffice it to say, the less she had to do with him, the better. A job at his company would open a door best kept closed.

Her objection wasn’t entirely personal. At the age of thirty-two, he was the founder and CEO of Constellation, a tech company in the vein of Amazon and Apple, and she had no technical skills to speak of.

“Look, I know my brother can be a little...standoffish, but I promise, he likes you. He thinks you’re a good influence on me. Anyway, you wouldn’t be working directly for him, and you’d barely see him.”

He likes you.

That was debatable.

Agitated, Kennedy began toying with her hair, winding a dark ringlet around her index finger. “It’s not a matter of having to see him,” she lied. “It’s a tech company, which means he’d literally have to create a position just for me.” Not a lie, that one.

“Actually, he’s been talking about bringing Constellation’s marketing in-house.”

For a brief second, that piqued Kennedy’s interest, before she squashed it beneath her stiletto-clad toe. “Well, until he does, this discussion is over.” Softening her tone, she continued soothingly, “Don’t worry. I’ll find something by the end of the month. As a matter of fact—”

“And if you don’t, do you promise you’ll let me talk to Nate?” Aurora cut in. “You know he’d hire you in a heartbeat.”

Because his baby sister would make him.

The thought brought a reluctant smile to her face. Not just her best friend in the whole world, Aurora was her fiercest defender. Her blonde ninja. And she loved her to bits because of it. “I promise.”

“Cross your heart?”

“Oh, you wound me!” Kennedy exclaimed, feigning affront. “Is my word not good enough anymore?”

Aurora snickered. “Hey, I know you.”

“Have faith, Ror. I’m going to get a fantastic job. Speaking of which, can we finally get to the reason I called?” she asked, breathless excitement back in her voice.

“Of course. What’s up? You sound jazzed.” The distant blare of an ambulance could be heard in the background.

“I’ve just been tokenized,” Kennedy stated in her brightest fake it till you make it voice. “But it looks like it’s going to pay off for me this time.”

“Wait—hold on. Let me put my earbuds in. The traffic out here is too damn loud,” Aurora muttered, and after a pause said, “Okay, now back the truck up and tell me what happened and whose ass I need to kick.”

Kennedy chuckled at the image that came to mind. Mama Bear Vaughn to the rescue clad in skinny jeans and a pair of Jimmy Choo heels, wielding a Gucci shoulder bag. Fierce.

“You heard me. But here’s the thing—for once, being the token Black female in the entire company comes with benefits. At two o’clock, I’m going to meet Sahara, the Desert Queen, herself.” She paused a dramatic beat to allow the news to sink in. “Andthey’re paying me ten grand to do it.” Had she not been out in public, she would have squeed with joy. This must be how people felt when they won the lottery, because let’s face it—this was the closest she’d ever come.

Several seconds of “street noise” followed her announcement. She heard the occasional car horn, but apparently her friend was speechless.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Aurora sounded semi-outraged and flummoxed at the same time.

“Shitting about which part? Meeting Sahara or the money I’m being paid to do it?”

“I don’t know. All of it, I guess. How is being a token ever a good thing, and how the hell are you getting to meet Sahara?”

After Kennedy calmly recounted her meeting with Mr. Mullins, Aurora exclaimed, “They’re paying you ten thousand dollars for that?”

“Yeah, but listen, there’s more.”

“How much more can there be?”

Kennedy flashed a smile at the couple taking up residence at the table next to hers, lowered her voice, and told Aurora what she’d learned from Sally in HR about Sahara walking out of the meeting yesterday.

Aurora let out a short burst of laughter. “Oh my god, I love it! You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m ten grand richer.”

“I’m not just talking about the money.”

“You haven’t seen my bank balance,” Kennedy remarked dryly. “Right now, money is my number one priority.”

“No,” Aurora said, a note of urgency to her tone. “Listen to me. Right now, they need you a lot more than you need them.”

“Again, my bank balance begs to differ.”

“Ken, if things go the way I think they will, they’re going to offer you a job. And you’re going to negotiate yourself a salary fifteen percent—no, twenty percent—higher than what you made at your last job.”

Kennedy let out a dismissive huff. “Why on earth would they offer me a job? They’re already paying me a small fortune just to attend the meeting. ...