Chapter One
I’m late. I’m never late. I don’t do late.
It’s Dominic Salvatore’s fault.
Okay, maybe that’s far-fetched, even to me, but seriously, does he have to infiltrate every thought? Even my dreams? Dreams that leave me sweaty and panting and…and…damn it.
I stare at myself in the mirror and shake my head.
Get it together.
I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time for him. I have a day packed full of meetings and appointments with potential clients. No time to dwell on the hot Italian that I can’t seem to shake from my subconscious.
My hair doesn’t want to cooperate as I twist it up into its usual knot and secure it with bobby pins. What’s up with my hair today? I do my best to smooth it out and try again, but at just past 7:30 in the morning, my day seems to already be in the crapper.
I blow a wayward lock of hair off my forehead with a deep sigh and prop my hands on my hips, glaring at my hair. I wear it up every day. Every. Day. It’s professional.
I’m not wearing it down today.
So I do my best, then dress in my favorite pink summer suit—maybe it’ll improve my luck today—with pink Jimmy Choo heels and turn back to brush on my makeup and dash out the door. But just after I finish with my mascara, I sneeze, leaving black marks on my cheeks from the wet makeup.
Seriously? If this is the way my day is going to go, I should just go back to bed.
My phone rings just as I wipe away the black marks and am heading for the door.
“This is Alecia.”
“Hey, boss lady. I’m already here. Where are you?”
“Wishing I were back in bed,” I reply dryly, and press the call button for the elevator. “This day sucks. Is the client there?”
“Not yet. You’re just now leaving your condo?” Emily, my assistant, sounds shocked. And for good reason.
I don’t do late.
The elevator arrives and as I step on, the heel of my shoe catches in the rail of the door and snaps right off.
“Son of a bitch!”
“What’s wrong?”
“I just broke my favorite Choo heel.” I throw my arm out to stop the doors from closing, pluck my precious heel out of the track and walk back to my door, up, down, up, down, swearing ripely the whole way.
“Wow, that’s some language you have going there.”
“Eight hundred dollar heels, Em.”
“You can probably have them fixed,” she says.
“I can hear you laughing at me.”
“I’m not. I swear. I think the client just got here, and you’re still thirty minutes out?”
“That’s if I don’t hit traffic. Damn it. Start without me. Buy her coffee. Chat her up. I’ll get there in twenty.”
“A speeding ticket won’t help.”
I hang up without responding and take a precious two minutes to mourn the loss of my shoes. The break on the heel isn’t fixable.
So much for my favorite suit turning my luck around today.
***
The speeding ticket I got on Interstate 5 held me up by an additional fifteen minutes, putting me almost forty-five minutes behind. Emily jinxed me.
Damn her.
“I’m so sorry,” I begin, as I walk briskly to the table Emily and a potential client, Summer James and her fiancé, Robert, are sitting at. I hold my hand out to shake theirs and smile brightly. “Traffic this time of day is horrific.”
“I would think you would have planned for the traffic,” Robert replies and glances down at his phone, checking the time. Summer scowls at him and then smiles at me.
“I understand. Emily has already given us a lot of great information.”
“Perfect.” I grin at Emily, who is eyeing my hair like it’s a three-toed sloth, and I turn my attention back to the couple. “I’m sure you’ve already discussed some of your thoughts and plans with Emily, but I’d appreciate it if you’d quickly fill me in.”
As I ask the couple about their date and go over some of their preferences on bridal party size and guest count, Emily fetches me a much-needed coffee.
Thirty minutes later, after we’ve covered the basics and I’ve gone over the prices for my services, Robert looks mildly sick to his stomach from information overload and sticker shock, and Summer is beaming.
Typical.
“I think…” Robert begins, but Summer interrupts him.
“I think we should hire her too!”
“No, babe, I was gonna say I think we can do this ourselves.”
Her jaw drops and she blinks rapidly. “Really? When will we have time?”
“You have weekends off,” he reminds her.
“So do you. But this is a full time job. I can’t do this alone!” She’s becoming very shrill, making the pounding at my temples even worse, so I do what I do. I step in to avoid a crisis.