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Chapter One
SAMANTHA
There's a flurry of people moving all around the banquet hall.
Tonight's dinner is a “pay for dinner” political fundraiser and my staff and I are working around the clock with the support staff to make sure everything is just right.
As owner of Transcend Events, Chicago’s biggest and best event planning company, I take pride in my work as an event planner. I’m methodical and like my events to run smoothly, like a well-oiled machine.
My partner, Philipa Sutton, is the face of the company. She schmoozes with the clients and networks for more jobs, while I work in the background to make the magic happen. Just where I like to be.
The clinking of glasses, plates, and cutlery being set amid buzzing conversations gives me a rush every time. The excitement and anticipation of getting an event running is infectious.
Gazing about the room I spot my mother’s delicate touches on every table. She had delivered the flowers I had ordered from her shop, and per usual out did herself. The stunning arrangements were my mother's signature treat. The fragrant white hydrangeas and vibrant boxwood accented with eucalyptus gave the tables the elegant vibe I had been hoping for.
Growing up, my mother was the one person who gave me hope that life could be more than what it was. I watched her work hard, putting in long hours to make her flower shop—Promise Me Petals—the best the city had ever seen. Her strength and drive pushing me to be the person I was today.
A loud crash pulls me quickly from my thoughts as I spin around to see where it had come from, the sudden movement causing pain to radiate through my neck.
“Man down boss, man down,” I hear in my earpiece.
My spine stiffens and I have a creeping sense of dread until the laughter begins. I know a sense of humor and good spirits are great when doing stressful high-stakes jobs, but I don’t like it when I'm the butt of the joke.
“Damn, boss, I thought you were going to get whiplash and snap your spine. Relax, it was just some plates. You won’t have to pay any workman's comp today,” the voice says, amused.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the button on the side of my walkie. “Who gave Jones a walkie? “Various people respond with denial, but there is one voice I don't hear in reply.
“Jones, give Lisa back her walkie and stay off the line.” I state with irritation, my furrowed brows pulled together as I tried to keep myself calm. “And you let her know her fifteen was up five minutes ago. I need everyone working at their posts–this has to go off without a hitch, people.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Jones answers. “But I thought you should know the stage chandelier never came in yesterday.”
I feel the beginnings of a headache and rub my temples. Why did my assistant choose now to have a baby? This captain needs her number one. I miss the simple days back in high school when I would help my friends back in Maine decorate school events or one of the town shops. I’d rather that than deal with seat placements and table politics.
Lisa is one of my support staff and she is filling in for my assistant who is on bed rest until the birth of her baby. It's still a little early to tell, but I don't think she can cut it. The woman needs some better time management and organization. Not to mention a backbone.
“Jones, I accepted that delivery myself, early this morning. They’re in giant crates that are pretty hard to miss. As a matter of fact, it should have been placed already,” I tell him as I begin to walk the room checking the tables.
I know they call me bosszilla behind my back sometimes, and honestly I think it’s a bit overkill. I just like things to go smoothly, for it to be …
I still at one of the round tables, my eyes focused on the name tags before my heart stops, frustration slowly bubbling within me.
“Who changed these seating arrangements?” My voice goes an octave higher causing the room to literally go silent as my high voice carries. The people who work with me already know what the tone means, and each of them is wary when it happens..
“I’m coming!” Lisa cries out as she comes running over at the same time my cell phone rings. My eyes scan the number before I briefly silence the call.
“Lisa, why actress Linda Tilly seated with the governor and his wife?”
The five-foot-seven, two-hundred-pound woman looks at me like a timid mouse. Her mouth opened and then closed quickly as she stared down at the place cards, and then back at me. I’m five-foot-four, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and slim with an athletic figure. I’m practically a pixie compared to her, and yet she is looking at me as if she expects me to swallow her whole.
“Umm, Philipa thought it would bring more media attention if she sat there,” she explains softly.
Of course, Phillipa would.
“Listen,” I say to her, plucking the place card off the table as I try to collect myself. “I make the plans. We can’t have videos and pictures of guests looking unhappy or uncomfortable at an event we cater. She is looking for media exposure, but it's the type of exposure we have to be careful about. Understand?”
She bobs her head and takes the place card from my hand. As I flip through the seating chart in an attempt to find a replacement for the governor’s table.
“Put Tilly at table four, behind the centerpiece. Out of sight and out of mind, hopefully. And bring Fire Chief Hartman over here. He is dining solo tonight so that should work just fine.” I mark the changes on the seating chart as Lisa runs off to change the place cards.
