Oh, crap. This wasn’t just some random office I’d destroyed. This washisoffice. The office suite of the man I was supposed to be impressing. The man who controlled whether my party happened at all.
My stomach dropped somewhere into the coffee-stained carpet.
His eyes flicked to the container I was still somehow clutching. “And those?”
“Cranberry-orange muffins. With white chocolate chips. They’re…Christmasy.”
I sounded defeated. I felt defeated. This was not how this was supposed to go.
A long pause stretched between us. I was sure he was about to kick me out, ban me from the venue, and possibly call security.
“One of those coffees was mine, I assume?”
“Yes. It was a peppermint mocha.”
“I’m allergic to peppermint.”
My face fell. “Of course you are.”
Another pause. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—amusement? Disbelief? A silent prayer for patience?
“Conference Room B is the next door down. On the left. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes after I call maintenance.”
“I can pay for cleaning?—”
“Conference Room B. Next door. Ten minutes. Don’t bring beverages.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
I clutched my muffins to my chest like a shield and backed toward the door, trying to salvage what was left of my dignity. “Right. Yes. I’ll just…go.”
He was already reaching for his phone.
I speed-walked into Conference Room B and collapsed into a chair. The muffins sat in front of me, mocking me with their perfect cranberry-studded tops.
Great start, Mollie. Really nailed that first impression.
I pulled out my laptop with shaking hands and tried to calm myself. This party was too important to let a little coffee catastrophe derail everything. These people—my people, the only family I’d ever really had—deserved the perfect Christmas party. And I was going to give it to them.
Even if it meant dealing with a billionaire who probably thought I was a walking disaster. Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
Ten minutes later, the door opened. Grady Thorne walked in like he owned the place. Okay, technically, he did. He’d changed his tie. The coffee-splattered one was gone, replaced by a deep navy that matched his suit jacket perfectly.
He sat down across from me, set his tablet on the table, and folded his hands. “Ms. Gregory.”
“Mr. Thorne.” I pushed the muffin container toward him like a peace offering. “I really am sorry about the…incident.”
He glanced at the muffins but didn’t touch them. “Let’s review the venue contract first. There are liability clauses you’ll need to initial.”
I blinked. “Oh. I thought we’d start with the concept. I have this whole—” I turned my laptop around excitedly, showing him the vision board I’d spent three days perfecting.
Twinkling fairy lights woven through evergreen garlands. A hot chocolate bar with twelve different toppings. A photo backdrop that looked like a winter forest. Hanging ornaments catching the light like stars.
He studied it for exactly three seconds. “Hanging installations from the ceiling require engineering approval. Next slide.”
“But this is the feeling I’m going for?—”
“Feelings don’t pass fire inspection, Ms. Gregory.”
