I hung up and pressed my fingers to my temples. Everything was fine. Totally fine. I just had to?—
A knock at my door. Two o’clock on the dot. Mollie Gregory was nothing if not punctual.
“Come in,” I said, straightening my tie.
The door opened, and there she was—wearing jeans, a cream sweater that looked way too soft for its own good, and a cautious smile that should’ve come with a warning label.
“Mr. Thorne.”
“Ms. Gregory.” I gestured to the chair across from my desk. “Please, try not to destroy anything today.”
That earned me a smile. Dangerous, that smile. I’d been thinking about her for three days. Told myself it was professional concern—that I needed to make sure the coffee incident hadn’t scared off a client, that her vision board had interesting elements, that someone needed to teach her about realistic event planning.
That was a lie. I’d replayed that meeting at least two dozen times. The way her eyes had flashed, the way she’d accused me of sucking the joy out of Christmas. The way she’d taken those damn muffins with her when I’d secretly hoped she’d leave them.
“I promise I’m on my best behavior,” she said, crossing her legs.
“Good to know. Now, before we dive in—how did you get here?”
She blinked. “Rideshare. Why?”
Perfect. “Because I have to pick up a package from my building, and I don’t want to reschedule. I could drive you home after, and we can talk through your event on the way.”
“You live nearby?”
“Reboot Condos.”
Her eyes widened. “I live there.”
I stopped mid-thought. “You’re kidding.”
She laughed, and the sound hit low in my chest. “Small world.”
Apparently.
Five minutes later, we were in my car—a midnight blue Porsche so clean, it could’ve been a surgical suite. She slid into the passenger seat and looked around before shaking her head.
“Do you detail this thing daily?”
“Weekly.”
She grinned. “Of course you do.”
The grin did not help me focus on the road.
We pulled into downtown traffic, and she opened her laptop. “I’ve been thinking about the ceiling issue. What if we used freestanding trees instead of hanging ornaments? Same effect, no weight-load drama.”
I shot her a quick look. “You’ve been thinking about weight loads?”
“Fire codes too. We could use LED candles instead of real ones.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
She shrugged, but I could see the pleased flush on her cheeks. “I want this to be perfect. These people…they’re my family. Not by blood, but by choice. They took me in when I had no one.”
Something in her voice made me look at her again. She was staring out the window, her expression softer now. Vulnerable. Something about it made my hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“Tell me about them,” I heard myself say.
