Chapter One
One little email threw Taylor Stockdale’s world into chaos. It was a simple email – it was only one sentence long. It was curt, like all of Cliff Bronson’s emails. It said, “I need to speak to you; I’ll be at the office at noon.”
Noon? That was a disaster. That meant the man Taylor had been long-distance fantasizing about for a year would be at the office in less than an hour.
Her hair was frizzy from the July heat, she’d spilled coffee on her skirt, and she had ink-stains on her fingers from an exploding pen.
And why did he need to speak to her in person? She was a receptionist, a nobody. Completely inconsequential. The sales reps at Bronson Sports Performance were quick to point that out to her all the time.
An image of Cliff swam before Taylor’s eyes. She was intimately familiar with his looks. It was all she could do not to zone out staring at that stupidly handsome face of his, and watching the movement of his lips as they shaped his words. For some reason, he always insisted on speaking to her via Skype, unlike everyone else at the office, who he spoke to on the office phone. In fact, it was a little odd that he called and spoke to her as often as he did – he could just as easily have checked in with Perry Martin, their office manager. He’d ask her to pull up the sales reps’ reports, he’d ask her who was in the office that day but decline to speak to them…it was all information he could easily have pulled up on his own computer. Sometimes he’d call up and ask her to transfer him over to the factory where their expensive sports supplements were packaged. Why didn’t he just call there directly?
He had a ruggedly handsome face and thick, dark hair. His eyes were strange and beautiful. They were the color of amber whiskey, just like his brothers’ – Grant and Austin. The Bronson brothers had eyes that were a shade she’d never seen before. If it had just been Cliff, she would have thought he was wearing some kind of exotically colored contact lenses, but all three brothers had the exact same eye color, and so had their late mother, Jessica. She knew that from the publicity photos she’d found on the internet. Not that she was cyber-stalking Cliff or anything.
Technically, one could argue that his younger brother Grant was even better looking than Cliff, and certainly a lot more charming. Grant was a notorious playboy; every week he was splashed all over social media with some new model or socialite on his arm. He hung out with movie stars on his mega-yacht and went to movie premieres. He’d stopped by the office in person once to congratulate everyone on exceeding their quotas, and all the sales reps had melted into puddles of simpering lust at his feet.
But Taylor only had eyes for Cliff. Every time he called, her heart picked up speed and she had to fight the breathlessness in her voice. She only hoped he assumed the flush on her cheeks was a color balance problem on his no-doubt hideously expensive computer screen.
Not that anything would ever happen, of course. Although Cliff talked to her all the time, he’d never acted the least bit flirtatious. He was all business, that one.
Once, a few months ago, out of the blue, he’d asked her if she’d enjoyed her weekend. She’d told him the truth – she’d gone to a cookout at her best friend Chantelle’s house. She’d done her best to make it clear that she’d been there without a date. And she thought she’d seen a flicker of interest in his eyes. But nothing had ever come of it. And why would it? Exhibit A, an impossibly handsome billionaire bachelor with whiskey-colored eyes and a voice that made panties combust every time he opened his mouth. Exhibit B, a plump, frizzy-haired receptionist with the world’s most pathetic crush.
Still – she did enjoy fantasizing about him, her impossible dream lover, late at night in her bedroom. And she didn’t want to look like warmed-over roadkill when he got there.
She was about to head to the bathroom to freshen up when Perry Martin, her office manager, bustled into the room. He had a tray of coffee and he handed her a cup. Perry, a short, chubby little man with cartoonishly thick glasses, was ever-solicitous of his employees’ caffeine needs.
She set it on her desk. Normally she’d have gulped it down, but right now she didn’t want to risk having coffee breath on top of everything else.
“So, I think we’re all ready for Mr. Bronson,” she said. “The reception area is spotless, the plants are watered, everything is in tip-top shape.”
“Mr. Bronson? He’s coming today?” Perry’s voice went up a notch, and his eyes widened with alarm. The glasses made them look like bug eyes bulging out of his head.
“Yes, he emailed me that he’d be here in about an hour.” Why the heck had he emailed Taylor but not Perry?
“Oh. Oh dear. Let me go clean off my desk.” He hurried off, clutching the tray, then paused and looked back over his shoulder.
“Are you doing all right?”
“Fine, thanks.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s really nothing to worry about. He hasn’t texted me in several days. I think he got the message.” She fought the urge to rub the back of her head, where the lump left there by Perry’s son Joel had mostly faded but lingering tenderness remained.
A look of relief crossed Perry’s face. “Good. I talked to him about it. He shouldn’t bother you again.” Perry nodded and vanished around the corner.
She’d briefly dated Joel, a handsome, stocky young man who worked as a night watchman at the Bronson family’s factory, next door to their sales building. After a few dates, he’d started acting angry and moody; he’d thrown her against a wall a few weeks ago, making her bang her head so hard she saw stars, and she’d promptly dumped him and threatened him with a restraining order if he came near her again. Perry had been mortified, and had apologized over and over. Afterwards, she’d found out that he’d left the army under rather murky circumstances.
Well, no time to think about that now. She stood up and grabbed her purse – and the phone rang.
“Not now!” she whispered fiercely, but she grabbed the phone and pasted on her happy receptionist face.
“Bronson Sports Performance, how—” she started to answer.
“Is the bitch squad on patrol?” Chantelle interrupted.
Taylor stifled a snicker. “Sadly, that is an affirmative. None of them are on the road, so today is going to be a double nightmare.” She lowered her voice as she said it, glancing at Shelley’s office.
Taylor sat at a desk facing big double glass doors, and on either side of the reception area, hallways stretched back behind her with rows of offices for the sales reps, marketing department, managers, accountants, and other personnel. Unfortunately, Shelley, her least favorite sales rep, had specifically asked for the office immediately to the right of Taylor’s desk.
“Why double?” Chantelle asked.
“Cliff Bronson is coming to the office today. And he said that he needed to talk to me. He’ll be here in less than an hour.”
