1
MOLLIE
Being early for an eight o’clock meeting was a rookie mistake.
And yet, there I was…early. Always early. If punctuality were a crime, I’d be serving a life sentence with no chance of parole.
People said it was a virtue, but honestly? Sometimes it felt like a curse. Especially today, when I was about to plan the most important event of my life.
The reception desk sat empty, taunting me with its total lack of receptionist. After an awkward minute or two, I started wandering, trying not to look like a lost intern.
My laptop bag was cutting into my shoulder, my storage container of cranberry-orange muffins was threatening to slip from my arms, and I had two precariously balanced coffees on top like some sort of festive Jenga tower. Peppermint mocha for him, gingerbread latte for me. Because if I was going to charm a billionaire, I’d better start with caffeine.
The hallway was quiet as I marched down it, squinting at the gold plaques mounted to the left of each door.Conference Room A,Storage,Conference Room B—there it was.
I took a deep breath. My palms were sweaty. Why was I nervous? I won this gig fair and square with my badass snowman cookies. Technically, that made me the client. This billionaire dude worked for me.
Right?
I eyed the door to my right. The plaque on the wall to my left readConference Room B. This had to be it.
Except now that I was standing here with my arms full and zero free hands, I was realizing this whole beverage situation was poorly thought out. I had no hands free to open the door.
Maybe I could hip-check it open? I set my weight against it, gave it a solid nudge?—
The door flew open from the inside.
Time slowed down in that special way it does right before disaster strikes. I lurched forward, stumbling into the office as the coffees launched themselves off the muffin container. The peppermint mocha arced through the air, splattering across the sleek desk directly ahead of me. My gingerbread latte followed, hitting the floor with a dull splat that sounded expensive.
I let out a noise somewhere between a squeak and a whimper.
Standing slightly back, holding the door open, was a man in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my rent. He was tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair, a sharp jawline, and eyes that were currently staring at the coffee dripping down his desk with an expression of barely contained horror. He had a phone pressed to his ear.
“I have to call you back,” he said, his voice deadly calm.
He hung up without waiting for a response.
“Oh my god.” I dropped to my knees, frantically pulling napkins from my bag. “I amsosorry, I thought this wasConference Room B, I had an eight o’clock meeting, and I brought coffee—which was clearly a mistake—and I just?—”
I scrubbed frantically at the carpet, probably making it worse, definitely creating a scene.
“Stop.”
His voice sliced through my panic. I froze, looking up at him from my position on the floor.
He was holding out his hand. “You’re rubbing it in.”
I let him pull me up, and that’s when I realized he was really tall. And really handsome. And really,reallynot smiling.
“This isn’t Conference Room B,” he said.
“I’m getting that now.”
“And you are?”
“Mollie Gregory. I have an eight o’clock about the private party booking? Wait.” I blinked up at him. “Are you… Are you Grady Thorne?”
“I am.”
