Page 28

I spend the rest of my Sunday cursing Dalton and daydreaming about the man.

Yes, we had agreed there would be no glass slippers, a clean cut.

But since the elevator door slid shut in his ridiculously handsome face, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m making the wrong choice.

Every inch of my body screams to press against him again.

The presence of the photos and dress in my bag are proof Dalton feels the same.

The difference is, he put the puck on my stick.

In this fucked up fairytale, somehow I’m both Cinderella and Prince Charming.

If something’s going to continue between the two of us, it’s my choice.

Not only do I know the location of his hideaway apartment and have his phone number, but I can also find the man all over social media.

I am a ghost. Private accounts, unlisted numbers, not even Charles knows where I live.

Other than knowing my place of work, Dalton has little to no chance of finding me in this vast city of aggressive pocket stuffing panty droppers—an issue that will only be made worse when Ramona posts our photos for the auction’s marketing campaign. Women are going to swarm the man.

While getting ready for work Monday morning, my eyes are constantly finding the photo laying facedown on the nightstand, drawn to the number scrawled there like the digits have a gravitational pull.

While hanging up the dress last night, I got damn close to putting those numbers to use.

Going as far as adding them to my phone, typing out “Hey” before chickening out and deleting the three lame letters.

I then shoved the dress to the back of my closet after that moment of weakness.

I thought sleeping on it, detoxifying from the drug-like high of Dalton Ward, would help clearer thoughts prevail, help me remember why I didn’t want a relationship right now.

As I dab cover-up over the dark circles under my eyes, it’s clear I was wrong.

The restless night’s sleep, dreaming of Dalton’s hands and hot showers, has only given me ample time to admit that even without the presence of his phone number burning a hole in my mind, the likelihood of me eventually trying to get in contact with the man is high.

I try to tell myself it’s just the sex, but that’s a lie.

Less than twenty-four hours have passed since I’ve seen him and damn it, I am missing the connection.

I’ve been more open, more connected with Dalton in two days than in four years with Steve.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if the two days timeline struck the spark.

Dating Steve had the intention of having a future, a long-term plan.

A slow burn with all the pressure. Is Dalton only easy to be myself with because we were planning on not having a future? All freedom and no pressure?

Fuck. Why am I overthinking this? Because last time you didn’t overthink a relationship, you got betrayed. The voice in my head reminds before I can shut it up. At least today, I have work as a distraction.

I’m on the subway, halfway across the city when my phone dings, Ramona’s name popping up with a message. All thoughts of Dalton vaporize.

New client coming in today. Need a breakfast spread. Get here ASAP.

Meeting starts at 9am.

I roll my eyes with a glance at the time.

Eight-seventeen. Of course, the meeting starts at nine.

I double-check my calendar, grateful I always stow the sexy work shoes for the office in my oversized bag, and opt for my trusty sneakers during the commute.

With a swipe, I check the calendar. Clear until 1 pm.

At least the planning fuck-up isn’t mine.

I curse the woman I also idolize. Ramona is the best at marketing and PR, but shit at communicating in a timely manner with client prep.

She’s a boss ass bitch, but she’s been in the boss role far too long.

All reality with how long it takes to set up swanky food spreads or gather weird items for our VIPs is lost on her.

Sure, I make it look easy, because I bust my ass to make magic happen.

There’s a reason I wear sneakers until I’m in the office and don’t waste money on a gym membership.

I chew my thumbnail, plunging into planner mode.

There are thirty-five minutes left on the commute, and with the need to pick up new client-wooing snacks, there is no way I can be at the office by nine, spread ready.

Guffin’s is near the office. Their food’s only okay, but they’re fast. Another ding on my phone from Ramona.

The woman must be a mind reader. I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Or she’s a sadist.

Not Guffin’s. Bagels were too flat last time. And get drip coffee from Social Grind - we’re out of pods.

Shit, the pods were my fault. I was supposed to order more, but the news of Steve’s and Steph’s engagement, plus the charity event prep, derailed that task last week.

“Plan B,” I mutter to myself. Social Grind is a block from the office and Ramona’s favorite place, but their food options are dismal.

Comprising of sad muffins and coffee cakes that are on par with a gas station’s.

At least they’re on speed dial and we have a good standing with their owner.

I always over-tip. One quick call while mentally trying to push the subway car to move faster and Walt reassures me they’ll have a fresh pot brewed and in a to-go pour box before I can get there.

“Walt, if you weren’t a married man, I’d kiss you.

You’re the best.” I say, right before hanging up.

A man two seats down gives me an appreciative once over and a suggestive eyebrow raise like he would take the kiss.

I turn a shoulder, shutting out his advance and focusing on my phone to order the coffee pods.

As my finger sweeps the place order button, Dalton floats his way back into the forefront of my thoughts.

What I wouldn’t give to be in that oversized bed curled against him with an amazing cup of coffee in my hands.

I swat the intrusion down before stumbling on an idea.

Second Chance. The bakery isn’t too far from the office and if they deliver, I might be able to get the food set up just a few minutes late for the meeting.

And if Ramona likes their food, I can probably convince her to take them on as a new Pro Bono client.

Two birds, one slightly unplanned panic lobbed stone.

I pull up their page, fist pumping at the Delivery button.

If the ETA is right, I should arrive at the front doors of our building, slightly sweaty, coffee in hand, about the same time as the delivery guy.

Damn, I am good! With both orders in, I have the next fifteen minutes to sit back, breathe, bounce an anxious knee, and gear back to thinking about the photos Dalton slipped into my bag.

And his hands on me. And the way he smells of woodsy cologne and spearmint.

And how utterly stupid I am for walking away from him.

The urge to text Lacey has my fingers itching, but I already know what she’ll say. Call him, dummy!

My head thunks back against the glass window.

Dalton has been good with the deadlines I’ve set so far, knowing our time together had an expiration date.

Could he be fine with the idea that after a year, I’m leaving New York?

I slap my presumptuous self. Hell, we might not even make it a week, much less a year.

We could be a ‘burn hot and flame out’ kind of relationship.

But that week will be filled with some of the best sex in my life.

Before I can second guess myself, I open the text messages and pull up the number I entered last night and type.

Then delete it three times, only to start again.

“You’re making this awkward. Pull your shit together!” I mutter, earning a side look from an older woman occupying the seat opposite mine. I flash a sheepish smile.

Closing my eyes, I picture Dalton’s face and then type the first thing that comes to mind. One quick proof read, and I hit send before going back down the-delete-the-message death spiral.

In the mood to renegotiate terms?

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

Definitely.

The flutter in my chest is borderline humiliating. Down girl!

Three more dots. I watch them dance, stop, disappear, and then start again.

Headed to a meeting right now. Negotiations after?

Deal.

Good to hear from you, forty-eight. Talk soon.

Abigail, our receptionist, scrambles to open the huge glass door as soon as she sees me staggering under the weight of our new-client-offerings. She grabs for the bags balancing in my arms.

“Thank you!” I say, easing them over and re-juggling the coffee containers. I sneak a peek at my watch. 9:04 am. Late, but not unforgivable. Especially when arriving with sustenance and caffeine.

She matches my stride as we hurry to the kitchenette, filling me in.

“The clients got here just ten minutes ago. They’re all in the meeting room and prospects are good !

I’m jealous I can’t join. Ramona’s in there, wooing them with her fabulous self and starting introductions.

Cups and plates are already in the conference room.

” Abigail’s voice drops. “Sorry about the coffee pods, I would have gotten them this morning on the way in, but she didn’t put the meeting on the calendar.

I saw you placed an order on the account already.

Thank you.” Her forehead pinches as she rearranges Second Chance’s pastries on the platter. “Shit, these smell amazing.”

“Don’t sweat it, Abby. The coffee fuck up was all me.

You’re a saint. Thanks for prepping the cart and plates.

I’ll kiss some ass when I go in and these should make up for being late.

” I gesture to the delicacies she’s arranging while I pour the coffee into a carafe and pull out all the sugars and cream.

“There’s also a white bag in there with gluten-free raspberry pastries. One has your name on it.”

“Have I ever told you you’re my favorite person, Jenna?”

“Pretty much every time I bring you food.” I pull the cart away from the wall.

“Well, my heart is in my stomach. Shoes!” Abigail snatches my bag, rifling inside to pull out my lucky pumps before trading for my sneakers.

“We could never run this place without you. Thank you.” I say, then head down the hall toward the meeting room. There’s a moan, then a muffled “favorite person” around a mouthful of raspberry pastry.

As I approach the oversized room, I do a full on double-take.

Ramona is doing her usual prowling and hand gesturing at the head of the table with a megawatt, red-lipped smile.

Likely mid “look how amazing we are and how you made the right choice” speech.

That’s not new. She does it with every client.

What catches my attention is all the other bodies crammed in the space.

At least twenty-five people crowd around the oversized table, a few standing even against the walls.

Who the hell is this new client and what’s with the massive entourage?

Thank Lady Luck, I went overboard on ordering the food and coffee in hopes of leftovers.

Aiming for the door at the back where Abby set up the dishes, the goal is to slip in without interrupting.

The cart has a different agenda, a rogue wheel taking a severe wobble right before I reach the door.

I focus back on not spilling the food I scrabbled to get this morning all over the recently re-carpeted floor.

Backing in, I use my ass to push open the heavy glass door.

Someone clears their throat, then quick steps head my direction.

The weight of the door vanishes. I glance up at the young man holding it open.

He has a baby face with dark chocolate eyes and raven locks peaking out from under an Adidas cap.

“Thank you,” I whisper, trying not to interrupt Ramona’s pitch.

He nods with a shy smile before returning to his place against the wall. I don’t miss how his eyes light up at the food rolling past. Score a point for me and Second Chance!

I’m still parking the cart when Romana says my name.

“Right on time! This is my Gal Friday, Jenna Grant. She will be working with me on your new campaign. When I’m not on site, she’s my eyes, ears, hands, and balls of steel.

She’s going to get to know each and every one of you, then dish the shit to me so we can help rebrand.

Get to know that face. You’re going to be seeing a lot of her over the upcoming weeks. ”

I straighten, smoothing my hands over the black pencil skirt and turn on my professional charm before facing the room.

“Jenna, meet our newest and biggest client. New York’s own Vortex!

” With a gleam of excitement in her eyes, Ramona’s hands sweep wide, gesturing to the room packed with what I realize is mostly men.

Every one of them staring at me as I freeze, smile locked in place, stomach slamming into my pretty pink pumps with the g-force of a roller coaster.

Surrounded by his team, sitting dead center at the table, hands folded in his lap, is Dalton Fucking Ward.