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All I know is that it’s almost certainly going to cause more work and chaos for me.
I’m not cut out to be a personal assistant.
In fact, I was never supposed to be one.
I applied for a completely different job at Galactic, and that’s what I was hired for, but Angus gets what he wants, and what he decided he wanted was me jumping at his beck and call, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
A waitress walks by with a tray of beautifully arranged pastry puffs.
I feel a pang of hopeless longing.
Not for the puffs, though they do look delicious.
I’m wishing I could follow that waitress back to the kitchen where I belong. Where I could be wrapped up in a nice cozy chef’s jacket instead of this god-awful dress and heels, amid the heat and steam and shimmering scents of butter, saffron, and oregano.
I went to theLe Cordon Bleu. I studied pastry and confectionery under the greatest masters in Paris.
Now I pick up dry cleaning.
And I onlywishthat was the worst of my duties…
The crowd starts to heat up, buzzing like bees. They’re expecting Angus to arrive any minute.
Angus will be fashionably late—meaning he may show up ten minutes to two hours after we agreed or not at all if something more interesting grabs his attention. It’s happened before.
“We’re already running low on champagne,” Martinique informs me.
“There’s five more cases in the walk-in fridge.”
“I’ll tell the bussers. Did you know you have paint on your nose?”
Could this day get any worse?
“Yes, Martinique—I’m well aware that I have paint on my nose. It’s to match the centerpieces.”
Martinique stares at me, blinking slowly. “Really?”
“No! Not really. Where’s the bathroom?”
Two minutes of scrubbing later, my nose is paint-free but now bright pink.
I hustle out of the bathroom, only to collide face-to-chest with a tall and extremely solid stranger.
Or at least, I think he’s a stranger.
Until he grabs my arms to steady me, saying, “Theo! It’s been a long time.”
That low, rich voice sends an electric current down my spine before I’ve even looked up into the dark and devilish eyes of Sullivan Rivas.
Somehow, I know it’s him and not his brother even though I haven’t seen either one in over a decade.
Everybody says they’re impossible to tell apart, but I never thought so.
For one thing, Reese Rivas is actually pretty nice. While Sullivan would eat your heart on a platter if he thought it tasted good.
We went to high school together, once upon a time. And let me tell you, there’s a reason I don’t attend the reunions.
One of those reasons is that I hoped to never lay eyes upon this man again. And definitely not when I’m sweaty, disheveled, and stinking of spray paint.
