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The recognition in his eyes had been instant, followed by something that looked like panic, quickly masked by professional detachment. “I look forward to some friendly competition,” he’d said, extending his hand like we hadn’t spent the previous night with his head between my thighs.

I’d shaken his hand on autopilot, too stunned to speak.

I’d watched in horror as he turned to a potential client and said, “You might want to check out our booth instead. Some companies”—his eyes flicked meaningfully to our vintage-inspired display—"rely on outdated techniques because they lack innovation. "

The rest of the day had spiraled into increasingly hostile territory.

He’d rearranged our display and left a sticky note saying, “Fixed it.” I’d replaced his business cards with a sketchy spa place down the street.

He’d told another client that my color schemes were “so 2019.” I’d started spreading rumors that his business was being investigated for price gouging.

By afternoon, we were in a full-blown war that culminated in me knocking over a candle display that set fire to his ridiculous foam photo backdrop (not that I’d told Anica that.

I may have spun a teeny-tiny little lie that the fire was his fault…).

The sprinkler system had activated, someone had found a fire extinguisher, and in the end, three booths were ruined.

Thanks to Anica’s smooth-talking, we were only ejected from the expo and not arrested.

I hadn’t seen him since, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t thought about him. Constantly. Infuriatingly. My brain kept serving up highlights from our night together at the most inappropriate moments, like during client consultations or while brushing my teeth.

I stuffed the napkin into my desk drawer and slammed it shut. I hadn’t told Anica about the one-night stand part of the expo disaster. As far as she knew, Hudson and I had taken an instant, professional dislike to each other. Which was true. I did dislike him. Professionally.

Other parts of me had different opinions, but they didn’t get a vote. Especially not my lady parts, which apparently had the decision-making skills of a toddler in a candy store, grabbing the shiniest, most appealing thing without considering the consequences.

My phone pinged with a text from Devonna, Anica’s assistant, who’d been assigned to help me remotely from New York:

Finalizing materials for tomorrow. Need anything else?

I typed back, but didn’t hit send right away. Just a personality transplant that makes me less likely to sleep with the enemy or commit felony arson. But I’ll settle for extra copies of the proposal.

I deleted it and rewrote the message.

All good. Thanks.

The office felt too quiet without Anica.

She’d always been the steady one, the planner, the voice of reason to my creative chaos.

I was the emotional one, the one who once threatened a DJ with garden shears when he tried to play the Chicken Dance after the bride specifically banned it.

(“It wasn’t a threat,” I’d explained later to Anica. “It was a promise. With visual aids.”)

My phone rang again. It was a bride calling about an emergency cake crisis for her wedding this weekend.

This I could handle. Wedding emergencies were my jam, my specialty, the thing that made Anica keep me around despite my tendency to say “fuck” in front of grandmothers and accidentally set things on fire.

“What’s wrong with the cake?” I asked, already reaching for my emergency vendor contact list.

“The bakery just called. Their refrigeration system broke down overnight, and my cake is ruined!” Her voice had reached a particular pitch that only dogs and wedding planners could hear.

“Okay, first, take a deep breath,” I said, using my Calm The Fuck Down Voice. “Second, cancel your plans for the next hour. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

“Where are we going?” She asked, the panic in her voice dialing back from ‘imminent meltdown’ to ‘manageable crisis.’

“We’re going to visit the three best bakeries in Chicago that owe me favors, and by the time we’re done, you’ll have a cake that makes your original look like something from a gas station vending machine.”

“But my cake had hand-painted sugar flowers that took weeks to?—”

“Trust me,” I interrupted. “I got a replacement cake once with six hours’ notice during a flour shortage. This is practically luxury timing.”

By seven that evening, I’d secured a last-minute cake from Chicago’s most exclusive bakery, confirmed all the details for tomorrow’s celebrity meeting, and stress-eaten half a pizza while going through our presentation one more time.

The bank’s rejection still stung, but I was Mari fucking Landry. I’d built a career out of making the impossible happen on deadlines that would give normal people aneurysms. One snooty banker wasn’t going to stop me.

I gathered my materials and headed out. Tomorrow’s meeting needed me at my absolute best.

Which meant I had approximately twelve hours to exorcise both the ghost of sex past and the nightmare of professional disaster from my brain before I faced the clients who could save our Chicago dream.

Maybe I needed to stop at the liquor store first…