Present Day
"For the love of everything I hold dear, please tell me that's not the bouquet for Iris!"
My assistant stares at me like I just turned into Medusa, so I force myself to breathe.
It's fine, Roxy. You can fix this. You always fix things.
"She asked for white chrysanthemums, Yuri. Not marigolds."
"They look the same. She'll never notice." My soon-to-be ex-assistant shrugs. He's the seventh one in two months, and I swear, it's not my fault.
Ignoring him, I pull my phone from my purse and stride to the window, dialing the florist I've worked with for five years.
"Yes, Roxy?" Simona answers, all chirpy and cheerful.
"Simona." I keep my voice level. "I get that Yuri has the attention span of a six-year-old discovering Fortnite for the first time, but what the hell did you drink this morning that made you send me marigolds instead of chrysanthemums?"
Silence. I can hear her rifling through her notes.
"Ohhh…no."
"Ohhh, yes." My grip tightens on the phone. "And I'm supposed to deliver this bouquet to the church in an hour. The bride is waiting."
More rustling papers on her end.
"I don't care how you do it," I continue, "but you will bring me the correct flowers to Harvest Chapel." My voice turns to steel. "Now."
I hang up.
Nobody can get anything right around here. I've been with this event-planning firm for almost six years, since college, and I've always found it easier to organize other people's lives than my own. Perfect career choice, or so I thought. What no one told me? Managing chaos is one thing. Surviving it without losing your mind is another. This job means dealing withpeople. Lots of them. And most don’t have two working brain cells.
Case in point: Yuri, browsing food delivery apps instead of worrying about the bride’s bouquet.
“Yuri, you’re fired.”
His head snaps up from his phone, confusion written all over his face. We stare at each other for a solid ten seconds before his bottom lip starts trembling. Then he's crying. Full-blown ugly crying.
My eyes widen. None of my other assistants have burst into tears at being fired. Before I can process what's happening, he drops to his knees in front of me, hands clutching at my legs.
I'm one second away from swinging my purse at his head when he pleads, "Please, Roxy. Give me one more chance. My mom will kill me if I lose this job too. Just one more shot. I'll do anything. Well, almost anything. Please don't make me deal withthe old lady that works at the bridal shop; she terrifies the hell out of me. But anything else, yes."
I pinch the bridge of my nose.Why do I always attract lost causes?
"One chance, Yuri. Mess this up and I'll make your life more miserable than a DMV visit. Clear?"
I don't even hear his answer. I'm already late for this wedding, and my dress is wrinkled at the bottom where he clung to it like a lifeline.
The second I step outside the office building, I feel it. That prickle at the back of my neck, the tiny hairs standing on end. I've gotten far too familiar with this sensation over the past few months ever since I gained my very own stalker. One who's terrible at staying hidden.
Instead of heading straight to the church, I duck into the café next door and order a vanilla latte for myself. And something extra for the guy sitting at the end of the street on his Ducati, pretending he's not watching me.
Once both cups are ready, lids secured, I walk straight toward the motorcycle that practically screams for attention.
Damien's eyes widen for half a second when he sees me coming. Then he masks it, sliding back into that cool, unreadable expression.
"So," I say, shoving the drink at him, "what's today's excuse?"
One year ago, my best friend's ex kidnapped both of us and ruined a stunning Zadig & Voltaire dress in the process. I'm still bitter about that dress. Her boyfriend, Roman Borisov, who happens to be the Chicago Russian mafia leader, saved her life. And introduced me to the man standing in front of me now. Damien Kaminski. My personal headache for the past twelve months.
