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Chapter Two
Talia
Ilove an early afternoon brunch. Especially Sunday brunch. My favorite meal is huevos rancheros with spicy black beans, enjoyed with a mimosa while perched on the patio at my sister’s restaurant—with her, if I’m lucky enough to reserve a Sunday brunch when she’s not on the clock.
Calista is the head chef at Mango’s, a swanky yet approachable restaurant I absolutely adore. The food is epic, the view of the water is phenomenal, and the company of my sister is better than meeting the pope in person.
Sadly, this Sunday’s brunch will offer no huevos rancheros, mimosas, or stunning view of the ocean. I’m at work, bleary-eyed after an exhausting grand opening last night. I smiled my face off for hours upon hours and ended up getting very little sleep. As tired as I was, I stared at the ceiling for a long, long time wondering what Archer was doing. All after I sent him a late-night email that screamed anything but professionalism.
I know. Ridiculous.
A teetering tower of wholegrain muffins on a massive tray is sitting alongside a smorgasbord of fresh, tropical fruits. Pineapples, mangoes, grapes, kiwi—you name it. There’s a juice bar with a barista of sorts, ready to turn those gorgeous fruits and veggies into the latest trendy health concoction. My coworker orders a carrot, mango something-or-other. I flash her a smile and move down the line. Thank God Ed allows coffee in the office. I grab a mug and meander over to the carafes, my yawn reminding me I should have started with coffee at home rather than wait until now.
As I raise my hand to pump the caffeinated beverage into my mug, the elevators ding open, drawing my attention. I freeze, my jaw dropped, my mind having trouble believing my eyes. The man of my dreams is standing in Lotus Leaf’s lobby. Or, rather, the man who invaded my thoughts and kept sleep away last night.
Archer Owen is as tall, fit, and delicious as I remember him. He’s wearing a pair of charcoal-gray pants with a white button-down shirt tucked into them. It’s open at the collar, revealing his neck (yum), which leads to a neat, dark, perfectly trimmed beard. His thick, equally dark hair is a smidge longer than when I saw him last month.
I stare, my empty mug dangling from my fingers, and watch as the billionaire scans the bustling office area for me. He finds me a second later, sparkling green eyes surrounded by a million lashes taking me in. My chest leaps. I like being sought out by him way too much. I set my mug down and stride over to him, knowing I look like I’m excited to see him, but unable to contain my excitement long enough to play it cool. Playing it cool takes preparation. I was not prepared for him.
“You’re here,” I observe needlessly and a tad breathlessly. “Why aren’t you in Chicago?”
No smile, but merriment plays around his fantastic lips. I regret never having kissed him, and wonder if him being here uninvited, and after the project is over, means I might soon have the chance. Unless he’s here to see my boss, Ed. A disappointing possibility.
“No crown?” He pulls a small square of fabric, likely for cleaning his sunglasses, from his pocket. “I was going to help you with the polishing.”
“Not yet. You’re early.”
“Well, you said brunch. That’s a wide window.”
“You could have asked,” I say with a grin.
“And ruin the surprise?” He tucks the cloth back into his pocket. “Forget it.”
He flew from Chicago to Miami to see me. Because I sent him an email in the middle of the night. He looks half as tired as I am, the circles under his eyes giving away his lack of Zs.
“It’s a nice surprise,” I can’t help mentioning. I flip my hair over my shoulder and he follows the movement, his head tilting, his gaze trickling down only to ascend again. It’s probably for the best that he hasn’t been in Miami more than twice since he took on our project. I might’ve compromised my job by doing something truly scandalous. Like wrapping my legs around his waist and asking him to kiss me like he means it.
Ahem.Anyway.
Several dozen people behind me erupt into applause. Lotus Leaf’s employees are crammed in the small area between our desks and the food tables, cheering on Ed Lambert, President’s arrival to a short stage. The microphone is hot, the speaker system offering feedback when he wishes us good morning.
“Looks like your timing is perfect,” I tell Archer as I turn to face my boss.
Ed is dressed in suspenders and brown suit pants, a short-sleeved button-down shirt stretching over his broad belly, his belt spanning the generous circumference. His nephew, Brandon, steps out of his office, buttoning a tailored navy blue suit jacket. Paired with a red-and-navy-striped tie, his patriotic attire lends him a political air. He has gelled blond hair, a nice smile, and for about eight months I thought he was going to be my future.
I never should have moved in with him.
My sister, Calista, also my roommate then and now, had fallen in love with a line cook back in the day. In what has become her usual, she’d been infatuated with a man who wasn’t worth her time. She moved out of our flat with little notice, and I couldn’t afford the place alone. I mentioned to Brandon I was going to put out feelers for a new roommate, and he invited me to stay with him.
I wasn’t in love with him. I just assumed we’d continue on with the motions, living together for years to come, neither of us questioning what worked. He and I split up a year ago, a few weeks before I made it my mission to hire Archer Owen and finagled my way into a fundraiser I had no business attending.
Brandon slides his cool blue gaze over to me before he notices Archer and does a double-take. Then his eyes harden, seemingly displeased by my unexpected guest. When I sneak a peek at Archer, he blinks slowly, lazily. As unaffected by Brandon’s glare as a lion napping in the sun would be to a fly buzzing by his ear.
They’ve met before. Twice. Both times I had the idea they didn’t like each other. I was on Archer’s side on that one. I don’t like Brandon much, either. And not for the reasons one might expect. I’m less a woman scorned in a romantic sense. It’s more personal. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. He hasn’t worked for Lotus Leaf as long as I have, and yet we are both team leaders. Nothing anyone could say would convince me he’s not paid way more than I am for the same position. Never say die, misogyny!
It was Ed’s brilliant idea to put Brandon and me in charge of Lotus Leaf’s aesthetics and design department. I have no idea if forcing us to work in such close proximity was for sheer entertainment purposes for Ed, or if he was instead ignorant to the fact Brandon and I had dated at all. That could be the case. Brandon and I made it a point to keep our relationship under wraps at work. There were no stolen elevator kisses or meet-me-in-the-supply-closet sex. Ours was not a passionate relationship.
Brandon steps around the stage and joins the crowd, hands folded in front of him like he’s waiting to be knighted. Presumptuous asshat. He boasts two business degrees, which, in case you’re keeping count, is two more than I have. He brags nonstop about his accomplishments, something I didn’t notice until I lived with him. He’s exhausting. He has told me more than once that he’s a natural in our department, even though I’ve been making most of the decisions on this project. I picked what night to have the grand opening. I arranged for Archer to help us with PR. I hand-selected the contents for the lavish gift bags. It was my idea to give away gift certificates to five different radio stations. He had no problem taking the credit whenever Ed praised our efforts, that was for damn sure. Me, I wasn’t spoon-fed my position or given a hefty raise for no reason. I started out at Lotus Leaf as a receptionist, dreaming of the day I would be in upper management.
