I hung up and resisted the urge to throw my phone into the Chicago River. Instead, I did what any mature professional would do. I grabbed the emergency tequila from my desk drawer and took a swig straight from the bottle. The good tequila, too.
The burn hit my throat, and I coughed. I missed Anica. She’s spent the last four years trying to break me of my emergency alcohol habit. She called it “problematic coping.” I called it “cheaper than therapy and faster than meditation.”
This celebrity wedding wasn’t just important anymore; it was the lifeline our Chicago dream needed. Without it, Anica’s faith in me would crumble, and I’d officially become the family disappointment my parents always predicted I’d be.
As I sorted through my presentation materials, a white napkin fluttered to the floor from between my portfolio pages. I bent to pick it up, and the sight of the scrawled room number,805, sent a rush of heat straight to places that had no business heating.
“Damn it,” I whispered, staring at those three digits like they were an incantation that could summon the devil himself. Or in this case, the devil’s hotter, better-in-bed cousin.
Two weeks ago. The hotel bar. The night before the expo disaster.
I’d been doing a final check for the next day, and more importantly, avoiding Anica and Callan after they made their icky bedroom eyes at each other, when I decided one drink wouldn’t hurt. Just something to take the edge off my pre-expo jitters.
One drink turned into three, and three drinks turned into making eye contact with the most fuckable man I’d ever seen, sitting alone at the end of the bar.
Tall, with dark brown hair that looked like he’d been runninghis hands through it all day. A jawline that could cut glass. Eyes so intensely green they should be illegal. And hands. Jesus Christ, his hands. The kind of hands that made you imagine them gripping your thighs, your hair, your?—
I’d never done the one-night stand thing before. I was more of a three-date-minimum kind of girl, partly because I had trust issues the size of Texas, and partly because my work schedule meant dates usually ended with me taking emergency calls about missing boutonnieres and drunk groomsmen.
But something about this man—the way he looked at me like I was the highlight of his day, the slight curve of his mouth when I made him laugh, the way he listened to me—had me writing my room number on a napkin before my better judgment could tackle my libido to the ground and put it in a chokehold.
What followed was a night that should be classified as a national security risk because I’d probably give up state secrets if someone promised me a repeat performance. His mouth should have a PhD in female anatomy. His hands knew exactly how much pressure to apply and where. And the way he’d looked at me while he was inside me had broken something open in me that I hadn’t known was closed.
And then morning came, and with it, the harsh reality that we’d never exchanged names or numbers, just body fluids. He was gone when I woke up, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of his cologne and muscles I’d forgotten I had screaming in delicious protest.
I’d rushed to the expo, running on caffeine, endorphins, and the lingering high of multiple orgasms, ready to conquer the Chicago wedding world. I’d been arranging our display when I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“You must be from Knot Your Average Wedding. I’m Hudson Gable, of Perfect Day Planning.”
I’d turned, coffee in hand, to find myself face-to-face with my anonymous hotel bar sex god. Only now he wasn’t anonymous, and he wasn’t looking at me like I was the answer to every question. He was looking at me with what I assumed was the same look of utter shock.
I blacked out, but I’m pretty sure I swore.
Yeah, I probably swore.
The recognition in his eyes had been instant, followed by something that looked like panic, quickly masked by professional detachment. “I look forward to some friendly competition,” he’d said, extending his hand like we hadn’t spent the previous night with his head between my thighs.
I’d shaken his hand on autopilot, too stunned to speak. I’d watched in horror as he turned to a potential client and said, “You might want to check out my booth instead. Some companies”—his eyes flicked meaningfully to our vintage-inspired display—“rely on outdated techniques because they lack innovation.”
The rest of the day had spiraled into increasingly hostile territory. He’d rearranged our display and left a sticky note saying, “Fixed it.” I’d replaced his business cards with a sketchy spa place down the street. He’d told another client that my color schemes were “so 2019.” I’d started spreading rumors that his business was being investigated for price gouging.
By afternoon, we were in a full-blown war that culminated in me knocking over a candle display that set fire to his ridiculous foam photo backdrop (not that I’d told Anica that. I may have spun a teeny-tiny little lie that the fire was his fault…). The sprinkler system had activated, someone had found a fire extinguisher, and in the end, three booths were ruined. Thanks to Anica’s smooth-talking, we were only ejected from the expo and not arrested.
I hadn’t seen him since, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t thought about him. Constantly. Infuriatingly. My brain kept serving up highlights from our night together at the most inappropriate moments, like during client consultations or while brushing my teeth.
I stuffed the napkin into my desk drawer and slammed it shut. I hadn’t told Anica about the one-night stand part of the expo disaster. As far as she knew, Hudson and I had taken an instant, professional dislike to each other. Which was true. I disliked him. Professionally.
Other parts of me had different opinions, but they didn’t get a vote. Especially not my lady parts, which apparently had the decision-making skills of a toddler in a candy store, grabbing the shiniest, most appealing thing without considering the consequences.
My phone pinged with a text from Devonna, Anica’s assistant, who’d been assigned to help me remotely from New York:
Finalizing materials for tomorrow. Need anything else?
I typed back, but didn’t hit send right away.Just a personality transplant that makes me less likely to sleep with the enemy or commit felony arson. But I’ll settle for extra copies of the proposal.
I deleted it and rewrote the message.
All good. Thanks.
