by Cat Carmine
I may not want to wear the shoes. I may not want to go to this party. But I sure as hell want to do a good job while Trent’s away. And if that means kissing a bunch of corporate ass, then consider me puckered up.
Once I’ve got the shoes, I’ve got no other reason to procrastinate, so I grab my keys. I’m just about to head down to the parking garage when my phone rings. I glance at the call display — Trent.
“Hey.” I shove the phone against my ear as I hunt for my wallet.
“Are you going to the Design Times party tonight?”
“Of course I am.”
“Good. There are going to be lots of clients there.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t say anything and I roll my eyes. “What, Trent?”
“Nothing.”
“You sound like you want to say something.”
“Nothing. Just … I know you hate these things. But these are clients. And just … you know. Be cool.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course. I’m not an idiot, you know.”
Trent chuckles. “I know. But I also know how you can be.”
“I promise to be on my most Trent-like behavior.”
He laughs again. “Good, good. Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”
“Yeah. All good.” I say it pointedly, because the last thing he needs is to be worrying about me and about our company, Loft & Barn, right now. He’s got quite enough on his plate with a new baby.
“Good.” He pauses. “Oh! I forgot to tell you something.”
I roll my eyes and try not to laugh. Trent’s been the CEO for so long that it’s apparently proving quite difficult for him to step out of the role.
“What’s that, Trent?”
“The Trinity Central Hospital fundraiser. There’s a meeting next week.”
“Shit. That thing?”
“Yes, Luke, that thing.” I can practically hear Trent rolling his eyes, but there’s also a satisfaction in his voice. He’s much more comfortable in the role of CEO than anywhere else, and I can tell he’s enjoying this. “We do it every year. The Homes for Hearts Home Lottery is their biggest fundraiser, and our biggest corporate event. But it shouldn’t take up too much of your time — after the initial meeting next week, there’ll probably be a launch party, a photo op or two and then the closing gala. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”
I chuckle. “Did you seriously just say easy peasy lemon squeezy?”
Trent laughs too. “Sorry. I guess I’ve been spending too much time with Hannah and Libby.”
“Uh huh. Anyway, yeah, okay, the hospital thing should be fine. Nothing I can’t handle, right?”
“Right.”
He doesn’t sound entirely certain and I again refrain from rolling my eyes. Giving up control isn’t exactly Trent’s strong suit.
“Anything else?” I ask, getting the feeling that he wants to keep going.
“Are you meeting with Shapiro next week?”
“No. I mean … I don’t know, actually.”
He sighs. “Luke …”
“I’m sorry I don’t have my entire calendar memorized.”
“This isn’t just any meeting.”
“I know that. And I promise I’ll be ready for the meeting when it comes.”
George Shapiro works for Preston & Walker, the company that’s underwriting our initial public offering. After more than ten years in business, Trent and I have finally decided to take Loft & Barn public. Unfortunately the timing has worked out terribly. It was all supposed to be finished by the time Trent went on leave, but it’s been one setback after another, and now it’s ended up in my hands.
I don’t mind, exactly — after all, I stand to profit as much as Trent does if our IPO is successful — but it’s added a lot of extra pressure.
“Well, make sure Bernie gets the accounting paperwork in with plenty of time to spare. I’d like to take a look at it before it goes to Preston & Walker.”
“Sure.” I scrub my free hand across my face. Despite the fact that I just shaved a few hours ago, my jaw is covered with a fresh layer of stubble. “So I guess I should get going —“
“Oh, hold on,” Trent says, cutting me off. This time I really do roll my eyes.
“Yes, boss?”
He chuckles ruefully. “Funny, Luke. I just wanted to mention that I saw that Bailey Living had a huge ad spread in The Post yesterday.”
I glance in the mirror one more time and make a last ditch effort to smooth down my hair. “Yeah, so?”
“So, I thought it was interesting. They haven’t splashed out on advertising like that in a long, long time.”
Bailey Living is, according to some, our biggest competitor, and I suppose in terms of market share, that’s accurate. But everything they put out is so dated and sad that most of the time they barely register on my radar. In fact, I’d assumed it wouldn’t be long before old Lyle Bailey retired.
I grab my wallet and keys and slip out of the condo. “Come on, Trent, really? I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. There’s a reason people call them Barely Living. Unless we’re vying for a contract at a senior citizens’ residence, I don’t think we have to worry much about Lyle Bailey and Co.”
“Maybe I should just give Lyle a call…” Trent says.
“Why in the hell would you do that?”
He’s quiet for a minute. I can practically hear the gears grinding in his mind.
“We were supposed to meet,” he says finally.
“When? About what?”
“I don’t know. It was about two months ago — just before I left. He’d set up a meeting but then his assistant called at the last minute to cancel it. I’d completely forgotten about it till just now — it was right before my leave started so I guess it just slipped my mind.”
I straighten my tie as I wait for the elevator. “I’m sure it was nothing. Maybe he wanted to ask if you had any suggestions on how to bring their collection into the twenty-first century.” I chuckle at my own joke.
Trent doesn’t laugh. I can tell this is going to drive him crazy now. Just as the elevator arrives, I hear him sigh. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Yes. I am. Now I’m getting into the elevator so I’ll talk to you later, okay? I need to prepare myself to dazzle them tonight.”
This time Trent laughs. “No one dazzles like you do, Luke.”
“Why, thank you.”
I head down to the parking garage and hop in my SUV. Trent had offered to lend me his driver while I was staying here, but I figured with a new baby, he and his wife Hannah needed a driver more than I did. And anyway, I’ve never been quite comfortable with the whole driver thing. I like to do things for myself. And besides, I like driving. When else do you get to control six thousand pounds of metal going ninety miles an hour?
I don’t quite make it to ninety miles an hour tonight, but I do lay on the gas as I make my way to the Grand Windsor Hotel. There’s something about flying through the Chicago downtown at night that thrills me — it’s probably one of the only things I miss about living downtown. Then again, lead-footing it out on the open road outside the city is pretty sweet too.
I get to the hotel in record time and toss my keys to the valet before heading inside. There’s a big crowd already, and I can hear what sounds like a string band coming from the ballroom. I follow the sound and step into the packed room.
The first thing I do is head for the bar. There are waiters passing by with trays of champagne, but I want some of the hard stuff. Trent keeps bottles of scotch in his office, and it’s become my drink of choice over the last couple of months.
I signal the bartender and he pours me a thumb’s worth of the amber liquid. I take a sip and then turn back to survey the crowd. It’s an anniversary party of some kind, I think, and of course Design Times has splashed out. Probably so that their advertisers will think they’re just rolling in profits.
Everyone’s in suits and evening dresses, mingling in little groups.
A few brave couples are swaying on the dance floor. It’s not my scene but from here at the bar, the people-watching’s not bad. Unfortunately I know I can’t stay here all night. I’m supposed to be mingling, after all.
I spot a couple of people I recognize from the last time Trent dragged me to one of these things — journalists, I think. I’m just debating going over there to say hello when it happens.
She happens.
Auburn hair. Green dress. The kind of curves you want to grab hold of and never let go.
She’s sipping a glass of champagne and looking nervously around the room. She looks about as comfortable here as I do, but somehow, even in her uncertainty, she manages to look elegant and composed.
Her skin is creamy white, and under the dim light cast from the chandeliers she looks almost … luminescent.
I shake my head. That’s a word I don’t think I’ve ever used before, except maybe when I’m talking about lamps. But somehow it seems to be the only word I can think of now.
She’s luminescent.
I can’t take my eyes off her. As she sips from her glass of champagne I imagine how the tiny bubbles must pop against her copper red lips. I’m surprised to find my tumbler of scotch pressed to my own lips, and I take one sip and then another as I keep watching her.
A man approaches her. Fuck. I recognize him right away — Randy Cattalano, aka The Carpet King. He runs a chain of rug stores, though the nickname could just as easily apply to the very bad toupee he insists on wearing.
He also happens to be a notorious perv.
My blood pressure rises as I watch them. I feel my hand start to squeeze around the glass, so hard I’m afraid I’m going to shatter it. I want to be the one talking to her right now. When she throws back her head and laughs, baring her creamy white throat, the feeling intensifies.
The bartender is saying something to me, and it takes me a second to realize he’s asking if I want a second glass of scotch. I shake my head, unable to form words right now. Unable to do anything but watch her. My cock is already starting to stir, and the thrum of blood rushing through my veins is enough to propel me out of my seat.
I have to talk to her.
More than talk, if all goes well. But we’ll start there.
3
Bree
It had taken all of five minutes at this stupid party for someone to ask me how my father was doing. I had smiled politely and said fine, then changed the subject, which is exactly what Rich had told me to do. It feels wrong, though. It feels wrong to lie to people, but worse than that, somehow, it feels like I’m dishonoring Dad’s memory by not telling people he had passed away a month ago.
It had been Rich’s idea to keep his death under wraps for now. Bailey Living was already struggling, and the fact that Dad had turned everything over to me in his will was … I guess a surprise to some people. Namely Rich Howe, who had thought he’d be in line to take over, after working under my father for the last twenty years.
But Dad had left the company to me, and Rich was convinced that the world wasn’t ready to hear about a 27-year-old fashion designer taking over an established furniture company. I had agreed, mostly because I was so overwhelmed with everything else that was going on at the time. We’d had an intimate close-family-only service and kept his death announcement out of the paper, but I knew it was only a matter of time before news started to leak. After all, I’d effectively been running Bailey Living for the last month — people were eventually going to start to notice that Dad wasn’t around.
I take a gulp of champagne as another elderly gentlemen approaches me.
“You must be Bree Bailey,” he says with a kind smile. “An absolute spitting image of your mother. I knew both of your parents well. How is your father these days?” he asks, not giving me time to respond to his first comments.
“Good, thank you.” I take a long swallow of my champagne, trying to burn away the bitter taste of the lie. “Just taking a little downtime right now.”
“Ah, well-deserved, I’m sure,” the man says. “Well, when you see him, let him know he owes me a round of golf.”
“I will.” I plaster on another fake smile. This is excruciating. So much worse than I thought it would be. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Oh, goodness. It’s Randall, my dear. Randall Cattalano. Though you probably know me as The Carpet King. You can call me Randy, of course. I tell all beautiful women to call me Randy. Unless of course, you want to call me Your Highness.”
He winks lecherously and I swallow a little wave of bile.
Right. The Carpet King. His company was one of our biggest suppliers. I smile as Randy offers his hand. I take it to shake, only instead he lifts my hand to his lips and plants a wet kiss against the back of it. I try not to shudder and tell myself he’s just being polite, but as I slip my hand out of his, I notice his eyes graze across my cleavage. I’m suddenly wishing I’d worn a less revealing dress.
“Would you care to dance?” Randall — Randy — asks. He gestures to the dance floor, where only a couple of people are swaying to the music. I’m about to decline when he reaches for my arm. His fingers grip the fleshy part of my arm and he squeezes. Hard. His eyes are on me and I suddenly notice how glassy they are — Jesus, he’s hammered.
“Please, Bree, give an old man a bit of pleasure, won’t you?” His words are polite enough but the lecherous way he’s staring at me — or more specifically, at my tits — is making me nervous. I try to pull my arm away, but his grip is surprisingly firm.
“There you are,” comes a deep voice from behind me. A heavy arm drapes across my shoulders. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
I glance back, startled, and come face to face with the most attractive man I think I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s got a strong jaw, soft lips, and a thick layer of stubble covering his chin. His eyes are a deep soulful brown, and they seem to burn into me somehow, sending a shiver right down to my toes. Even in my heels, he’s a good six inches taller than me, and the way he fills out his suit tells me that the body underneath is just as impressive as the expensive and well-cut fabric covering it.
“Luke,” Randy says, sounding surprised.
“Randall.” The man’s voice is distinctly chilled.
“You two know each other?” I ask, trying to swallow.
“Very well,” my would-be savior answers, as he stares down the Carpet King.
Randall makes a non-committal noise, scratches his neck, then slowly wanders away.
I giggle as I turn to face my rescuer.
“Thank you,” I say, quietly in case Randall is still in earshot.
“No worries. I’ve known that guy a long time and I have no doubt that every bad thing people say about him is true.”
I look over in the direction Randall has wandered, and see him talking to another young woman in a long black dress.
“I don’t doubt it either,” I say. “Well, thank you again — Luke, is it?”
“Yes. And you are?”
“Bree.” I reach out my hand and he takes it to shake. Unlike Randall, he gives me a proper handshake — firm, professional, as if he actually believes I could be an equal.
But — also unlike with Randall — the feeling of Luke’s palm pressed against mine sends a burst of warmth coursing through me. I’m not usually a sweaty-palms kinda girl, but right now, every part of me seems to be damp.
Every part.
I slowly slip my hand from Luke’s, and though he releases me, his fingers linger just a little against mine before he lets go completely. I can already tell the feeling will linger even longer — my hand feels hot and tingly, like I slept on it the wrong way. I switch my drink to that hand, hoping the champagne will help cool it down a little.
“So Bree, are you having fun?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Honestly? Not really. I kind of hate these events. I’m only here because my father … couldn’t make it.”
He nods, grinning ruefully
. “Same here. Only replace father with brother, and hate with loathe.”
I laugh. “Loathe is a very strong word.”
“Well, in this case it’s an accurate one.”
“I suppose it could be worse.”
“How?”
“Hmmm.” I actually have to think about that. “There could have been a dinner. With assigned seating.”
Luke shudders. “You’re right. That would be worse.”
“There could have been lots and lots of speeches.”
“A bad DJ.”
“A KISS cover band.”
“Mimes.”
I snort into my champagne. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a party with mimes before.”
Luke shudders again. “Trust me, you don’t want to. What’s the deal with mimes? Is that box really so hard to get out of? Come on.”
I giggle. “I see mimes are another thing you have strong feelings about.”
“I have a lot of strong feelings.”
His words are light but the way he’s looking at me makes my toes curl in my four-inch heels. I take a sip of champagne and try to get my heart to stop its silly pitter-patter.
“So, Luke, what do you do?” I say, trying to change the subject.
He waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t want to talk about work.”
“Another thing you loathe?”
“Oh, no, I love my job. It’s small talk I hate.”
“Loathe, even,” I tease.
He grins. “You catch on fast.”
“So what should we talk about?” I ask, taking another sip of my champagne.
“You.”
I almost choke on my drink.
“Me?”
“Yes. Like, how come I haven’t seen you before?”
“How do you know you haven’t?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Trust me, I would remember.”
“Fine. I’ve been living abroad for the last five years or so.”
“Abroad?”
“Paris.”
“Very nice. What for?”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about work?”
He raises his glass. “Touché. Tell me something else about you then.”
