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The late summer heat steamed off the sidewalk when I finally exited the building. It was at least ninety degrees, the air so thick and muggy it condensed like soup in my lungs.

I had two hours until my fitting at the Stella Alonso showroom, so I stopped by a nearby café for caffeine first. Fashion Week started tomorrow. Between the grueling prep and wedding anxiety, I was running on little sleep these days.

The café was packed, but I took solace in the rush of people. The noisier it was, the easier it was for me to retreat into myself.

I stared at the chalkboard menu and tried to calm my racing heart.

I’m fine.Everything was fine.

Emmanuelle hadn’t banished or blacklisted me, and she didn’t know about my plans to leave. If she did, she would’ve been less subtle with her threats.

As for the wedding…well, that was another matter.

It was Thursday, nearly a full week after Jordan dropped his bombshell at the Vault. Since then, it’d been a scramble to update our logistics and notify the guests and vendors.

Jordan and I agreed that moving the reception up on such short notice was impossible, so we settled on an alternative: a small, intimate ceremony for our closest friends and family in New York, followed by the Irish and Ethiopian receptions in February, as originally planned. His grandmother cared more about the vows than the party.

My parents freaked out when they first heard about the change in plans, but since the church ceremony shouldn’t affect the party they’d planned, they eventually calmed down.

Logistics aside, getting married earlier than planned shouldn’t be a big deal. Most brides and grooms would probably welcome it. The sooner the wedding, the sooner they could spend the rest of their lives together. An earlier date also meant I’d get my money faster. If I was lucky, I’d be out from under Beaumont’s thumb before the holidays.

But Jordan and Iweren’tspending the rest of our lives together, and October loomed in a way February hadn’t. Even the prospect of leaving my agency couldn’t untangle the knots in my chest.

“Miss?” The cashier’s prompt brought me back to the present. I’d made it to the front of the line without noticing. “What would you like to order?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, flustered. “Just a large green tea. Hot. Thank you.”

I paid and stepped back—straight into the person behind me. I whirled around, but my second apology in as many minutes died when I saw the dark buzz cut and blue eyes.

“Vuk.” My pulse ratcheted up again. “What are you doing here?”

He raised his eyebrows and glanced at the espresso machine.

Right. Coffee. Duh.

I composed myself while he placed his order and joined me next to the pickup counter.

He was dressed for work in a black suit, no tie, but that didn’t dampen the air of danger he exuded. It was in the way he moved, the way he stood, the way his eyes took in every last detail of his surroundings.

No amount of tailored clothing could hide the fact that he was made for the battlefield, not the boardroom.

“Did you have a meeting nearby?” I asked.

I hadn’t seen Vuk since he abruptly excused himself after Jordan’s announcement. I imagined he was busy doing CEO things and planning the bachelor party, so it was strange to see him in here in the middle of the day. The café was nowhere near his house or his office.

He nodded but offered no elaboration.

Shocker. The day Vuk willingly shared information about himself was the day I willingly wore Crocs in public (i.e. never).

“Green tea for Ayana!” the barista called out.

I picked up my drink and hesitated. Despite his reticence, Vuk’s presence calmed my earlier nerves—probably because I was too busy overthinking every detail of our interaction to focus on anything else.

“You’re welcome to join me if you want.” I threw out the invitation on impulse and sat at a recently vacated table nearby. “I have some free time before my next appointment. I could use the company.”

I’d brought my knitting materials. I’d planned to work on my latest project (a hat made from a beautiful cerulean yarn I’d picked up in Scotland) before I ran into him, but I’d rather talk to him than knit.

I wanted to know him better. He was Jordan’s best friend, which meant we’d be around each other for years to come. He’d also accompanied me to California and calmed my nerves during the flight back. Strangely, I wanted to see more of that side of him. The softer, gentler side, though nothing about Vuk could be considered particularly softorgentle.