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CHAPTER ONE
“Quinn!”
At first, Sylvie’s exclamation hardly has me flinching. I’m not sure if she’s barged into my office at Eppacenter PR because of a broken nail or a building fire. The inflection is the same.
It’s early February in Los Angeles, meaning my tiny corner of the architecture is also my painstakingly constructed cocoon, with a jacket across my knees and a heating pad under my backside. But only on medium. I only use the high setting on rainy days.
“Quinn!”
“All right, all right,” I grumble and force my head up. Once that’s done, my brows crunch toward each other. “Syl? Sheez. What is it?”
Because even though the woman is always stuck on high octane with her vocal announcements, there’s a distinct difference in the corresponding angles of her expressions.
This look isn’t saying I just broke a nail. At all.
“Not what,” she rasps, working both ends of a pencil between her fingers. She massages the thing so hard, it’s going to thank her or snap in two any second. “It’s who.”
I narrow my gaze. “Eh?”
“It’s…Darian Z.”
I gulp as hard as she gasps it out. Who wouldn’t? The only logical answer to that is a dead person. Everyone on the planet knows the man by now. He’s on top of the musical world with a sound that defies categories but somehow fits all of them. Because of that, his songs sit on top of several charts at once, and his concert clips have hit astronomical numbers of views—on everyone’s page but his own. That’s because the man has no page. Not on the video sites, or anywhere else. He’s a sensual, beautiful recluse. A maddening as hell hermit.
But, for the time being, that’s beside the point. I’m in the middle of an intense project, so I push Sylvie to get to hers.
“What about him?”
“He’s—uhhh—he’s—”
“Syl. You remember Blanca’s waiting on this plan for the new video release on that K-pop band, right?”
The pencil gives up the fight. It comes apart as Sylvie stares harder and nearly hyperventilates. “Darian Z is in the lobby!”
I blink. Again. The words aren’t registering. Correction. I don’t want them to register. But they persist, stabbing the center of my belly with a swirling sensation that makes me squirm against the heating pad. And then turn it off. Too hot. I’m suddenly too damn hot.
“What lobby?” I finally blurt.
“The Four Seasons, down the street,” Sylvie deadpans. “Which is why I’m hot-flashing in front of you at least twenty-five years too early.”
I work my jaw up and down. Sadly, it does nothing for welcoming air into my struggling lungs. “Does he have an appointment?”
Stupid question. If he was here to see anyone, it’d be Blanca. Sleek, fun, flirty, I-can-run-a-marathon-in-stilettos Blanca. But our owner is likely midway through a CBD facial at the Golden Palm spa, sipping on cucumber water between chats with every industry mover and shaker at their secret-but-not-really retreat.
One thing that is a secret to the woman? Darian Z, waiting in our office lobby. If Blanca even had a whiff that he’d be showing up today, she’d have canceled on the getaway to Santa Barbara. If she got a whiff of it now she’d be dashing in, spa slippers and all.
“You don’t think I double-checked the book already?” Sylvie stage whispers. “He’s nowhere on it for today. Or tomorrow. Or anytime before Memorial Day.”
“Maybe it was made last-minute. Did you check with the answering service?”
“You think the service wouldn’t have called straight to Blanca with a call like this?”
I expel heavy air. “Okay, you’re right. It’s a code gold for sure.”
And yes, I’m saying that right. Not a code red, yellow, or green. Because nothing in Blanca’s world is primary colored. It’s all about the currency, baby—the best and worst reason I’ve agreed to work for her this year.
Onlythis year.
Which, right now, includes this surreal moment. Even more so for the theory I’m about to set free into the air.
