Chapter 11
Daniella
The doorbell ringsat 7:45 a.m.sharp.
I’ve been feverishly waiting, fully dressed, since 6:30 a.m. I hardly slept last night, my mind greatly absorbed with thoughts of today. It’ll be my first presentation, since design school—and frankly, I have no clue how Antonio and Jonah are going to react to mysuggestions.
I examine my reflection in the floor-length mirror that clings perfectly to the wall by the frontdoor.
Hair done up in an Audrey Hepburn bun—which, on its own, took over an hour toperfect.
Black Dress. Black Heels. RedLipstick.
Yep. I’mgood.
I peek into my leather tote, scanning itscontents.
Phone. Wallet. Lipstick. Mascara.Laptop.
Yep. It’s allthere.
Taking in a calming deep breath, I clutch the leather tote bag, flinging it on my shoulder, and swing the door open, fully prepared to flash Antonio anoh it’s only youlook.
Then, like a groupie, I nearly passout.
Without a single measure of doubt, Antonio Michaels seems to grow yummier-looking.
Every. Single.Day.
“You’re ready?” he says, eyebrowsraised.
“You’re surprised?” I step out, closing and locking the door behindme.
“Well, in my experience, most ladies are never ready on time.” He simpers, as if he’s the only man in the world who’s come to that absurdconclusion.
“Perhaps I’m not most ladies,” Ipropose.
“Indeed, you’re not.” He winks and the two of us walk side by side toward his silver Mercedes. Like a gentleman, Antonio opens the passenger door. “Buckle up please, Miss PersonalAssistant.”
Honoring his command, I dutifully slide into the sleek leather seat and buckle up. The scent of his cologne consumes the atmosphere, and for a nanosecond my–ahem–honeypot, is overcome by salacious desire. I cross my legs, and sternly put her in check with a reprimandingdon’t you dare go there, missthing.
Once on the road, Antonio points to my cappuccino sitting in the cup holder. “I didn’t picture you to be the cappuccino with whipped cream kind of girl. I thought for sure you’d order something far moreintricate.”
“Judgmental?”
A skittish smile tugs at his lips as though they are bracing for his imminent quip. “Thatinquiry coming from the woman who called me a first-class jerk on theMetro?”
I twirl a loose strand of my hair. “Alrighty then…how do you takeyours?”
He turns to face me, heady gaze fixed on mine. “Hot. Smooth. Extra Cream.” His robust tone is as alluring as hisassertion.
Heat curls down my spine and I nearly melt into the passenger seat. He is talking about coffee,right?
We sip our respective cups of java in silence as Antonio zips along Wilshire Blvd, its sidewalks already riddled with a wide assortment of pedestrians. Hurried businessmen in stuffy suits racing to their meetings. Older ladies wandering aimlessly as they haul their carts full of groceries. Meter Maids issuing parking tickets. It’s like a people watcher’sdream.
The car crawls to a brief stop at a traffic light, and even though I’m avoiding eye contact, clearly trying to cool off from his off-putting comment, I can feel his gaze upon me. “What’s your specialty?” heasks.
I turn my head abruptly to face him. “I’m sorry?” I answer, feeling a tad thrownoff.
