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Chapter One

ERIN

I hate red eyes.

The late-night flight to New York’s JFK had a mom with a screaming kid on one side and a man-spreader on the other. The mom and kid I normally wouldn’t mind, but I’d barely slept the night before the flight, and I had to be in a boardroom pitching a new ad campaign, the biggest of my career, the moment my car picked me up at the terminal.

The car that was late.

And now… after a day that started with a quick bathroom change and a baby-wipe bath and mind-numbing presentations, topped off with a sweaty subway ride to the Maynard Hotel on West Seventy-Second and the Park, an old swank hotel full of yesteryear’s grandeur, I’m ready for the bar.

The hotel’s sandstone exterior and intricate black wrought iron on the doors and Juliet balconies are stunning. Inside, the lobby’s marble, rich reds, brass accents, and cherrywood finishes make it a place I’d want to stay for more than a night.

But first, I need to check in.

“I’m sorry, Miss Banks, but your room isn’t ready yet.”

I stare at the concierge. “Not…” I try to find the right words that don’t involve an explosion of swearing. “Not… ready?”

“I’m sorry.”

“But check in is at noon. It’s almost six o’clock.”

The concierge smiles his practiced smile. “There was a mix-up, but the room will be ready in half an hour.” He taps something on his computer. “Make it one hour. And dinner is on us. The restaurant here has a Michelin star.”

He clicks some more and slides a key to me. “For when it’s ready. Top floor. I’ll come personally and let you know. If you’re heading out for the evening…” His eyes move over me. “We’ll let you change and clean up in one of the empty rooms.”

I try to regulate my breathing. “Just give me whatever’s ready now.”

“Trust me, you don’t want one of those.”

“I’ll be at the bar,” I mutter, taking the key and throwing a thank you over my shoulder.

I head straight for the sleekly curved, gleaming cherry-red wood and sit on the barstools, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in my dress. The bartender comes over, a good-looking guy, the type who knows it, and his easy smile has women lined up at the bar. I order a gin and tonic, and he asks for my room number. I hesitate.

“There was a mix-up and…”

“We also take cards,” he says.

I dig mine out of my purse and put it down. Everything on the room is charged to the company. Anything outside that’s out of pocket. Apart from the car service provided. But Manhattan traffic can be so bad that taking the subway’s faster to get downtown to where the meetings are in the Financial District.

That’s something I learned the hard way last time I came to the Big Apple.

As the bartender puts my drink down, someone leans over me and whispers in my ear, “Hey, baby, you wanna hit the town or just paint your room red?”

I laugh and spin around, hugging my best friend, Kara. “Are you talking about turning it into a murder scene?”

“No!” She stops and gets the giggles as she takes the seat next to me, and my night suddenly cheers right up. “I got the thing mixed up; it’s paint the town red or go to your room?”

Kara pushes her black curls over her shoulder, taking in the old school swank, the cherry red of the bar, the velvet seats and brass fixtures. “Oh my. Are you boning Old Man Clearwater?”

“He’s about seventy.”

“And he likes them young,” she says about our boss. The owner of the entire company.

I smack her playfully on the arm as the bartender finishes serving someone else and comes over, taking his time and drinking her in.

“What can I get you?”