By the time the afternoon rolled around, I was ready to be done. Unfortunately, I had a meeting with the Svenssons. Wishing I could cancel, I texted my sister as I headed outside.
Evan:I’m going to move to Fiji.
Mika:Noo! You have to be the man of honor!
Mika:What kind of brother abandons his own sister?
Evan:I have one more wedding left in me until I turn into a pile of dust. I’m saving it to be the man of honor at your wedding.
Mika:HA! I’m never getting married. I am so done with weddings. I’m already prepping for my future as the neighborhood cat lady.
I smiled as I read her text. I adored my little sister. Honestly, there wasn’t any man good enough for her. Ever since our mom had died when we were younger, I had taken it upon myself to look out for Mika. But did that also include participating in a wedding party against my will?
“You!” a woman yelled. For a split second, I thought it was Camilla. Then a lazy grin spread across my face as Ivy huffed up to me, dragging a big box behind her. Her curls were plastered to her head with sweat.
“You didn’t have to come all the way here to thank me,” I said, jerking my chin at the box.
“You!” Ivy leaned over and sucked in air.
“You seemed really upset that I ate your lasagna, so I bought more for you,” I said. “You’re welcome,” I added.
“I am not thanking you,” she replied, jabbing me in the chest. “Where am I supposed to put all of this?” She gestured to the box. “Huh? You’ve been in my apartment. You know how tiny it is. Where in the world do you think I’m going to store all of this? Are you seriously this clueless? You have no idea about how the real world works, do you?”
I glared at her. The wedding planner was puffed up with anger. She was sort of adorable if I ignored the shrieking.
“Excuse me for trying to do something nice,” I drawled.
“It wasn’t nice, it was inconsiderate.”
“You’re inconsiderate,” I retorted. “Throwing my very nice gift back in my face.”
“Very nice?It’s a box of pasta!”
“You like pasta,” I reminded her.
“Nice gifts are jewelry,” Ivy countered.
I raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’d rather have jewelry than lasagna with locally grown tomatoes, cheese imported from Italy, and pasta handmade by Cameli’s grandmother?”
Ivy glared at me. “Yes, of course.”
“Liar.”
“Go suck on a lemon!” she shrieked. “I can’t believe I ever wasted my time helping you!”
Ivy turned in a huff to head toward the subway. Then she stopped, backtracked, grabbed two trays of lasagna out of the box, and stomped off again.
“I knew it!” I crowed.
“If my hands weren’t full, I’d make a very rude gesture!” she shot back.
* * *
I hada courier take the lasagna to my penthouse. It was good pasta; there was no way I was going to let it go to waste. Plus I was going to need it and a good half bottle of Scotch to decompress from my next meeting.
The Svensson Investment tower loomed against the sea of other glass structures in downtown. I forced myself to adopt the bored professional demeanor that helped when you had to deal with the Svensson brothers. The Svenssons were all arranged in the conference room when I entered—all with the same blond hair and flat grey eyes. They were like evil clones poised to make my already rocky life even worse.
“You have not delivered the land as you promised,” Greg said from his spot at the head of the conference table. He was arguably the worst of the bunch—cold, sociopathic, interested only in money and keeping his brothers in line.
