“Yeah, I’m that guy. And just for the record, the jellies are my favorites.” He patted his belly and pushed his glasses up on his nose. His smile was the real deal. He was older, in his fifties, with a buzz cut and square glasses, making him look like a scientist from the atomic age. He was wearing a plaid shirt and khakis with a loosely knotted tie and comfortable shoes, which only added to the look. I liked him immediately.

Carson walked away, and I felt my tension ease as he went. He took a seat at the large table, leaving it to Trent to introduce me to the rest of the staff. Okay, then. Ultimately, it was better this way but it felt like a slight, and I didn’t for one second buy his bologna about me being promoted. What I had on my hands, I was quite certain, was a man with some entitlement issues and bullying tendencies who reported directly to me. Oh goody.

Meeting the rest of the staff was a blur of handshakes and good wishes. I didn’t get any weird vibes from anyone else, so that was reassuring. But I did catch myself giving Carson a cursory glance every now and again.

The meeting was primarily so that everyone could meet me, plus there was cake. One of those luscious white chocolate raspberry Bundt cakes with the cream cheese frosting piped in thick stripes from the center, over the top, and down the sides. Delicious. Personally, I don’t trust people who don’t like Bundt cake, and I noted that Carson was the only staff member who abstained. Just sayin’.

Back in my office, I sat down with Booker Stevenson, assistant creative director. I was hoping we’d click as he was essentially my right-hand man. Black, tall, lithe, with close-cropped hair, rectangular black-framed glasses, and wearing a tweed sport coat over a white dress shirt and black jeans, Booker had a soothing professorial energy about him that I liked.

“Favorite designer?” he asked by way of greeting.

“ ‘Bridge the gap between seeing and understanding,’ ” I quoted.

“Milton Glaser,” he said. “Nice.”

“And you?” I asked.

“ ‘Beige is the color of indecision,’ ” he replied.

“Paula Scher,” I said. I lifted my fist, and he gave me a knuckle bump. “So you’re a type guy.”

“It’s all about the font.”

“Booker, I think we’re going to get along just fine,” I said.

He grinned at me and we spent an hour chatting about our work histories and the various projects in play at V2 and my vision for the team.