Chapter One
Connor lowered himself gingerly onto one of the plush armchairsscattered around the reception venue, his knees protesting at the sheer amountof time he’d spent bending down today.
The idea of having armchairs, couches and coffee tables instead offormal seating for a wedding reception had sounded great in theory. Right upuntil he’d had to arrange all that heavy furniture plus a hundred centerpiecesin the space of two hours, with only half an hour’s sleep last night.
Right now, though, the results looked amazing. A sea of plushfurniture in gold and cream with accents in all shades of pink, from delicateto shocking, made the whole place look like something out of Louis XVI’s court.Just like his brief had said.
It was a setup worthy of a princess, which the bride practicallywas. Dominique Williamson was fashion-conscious America’s sweetheart of themoment, an heiress and a successful businesswoman in her own right.
Connor had beenshockedto hear from her about planning herwedding. This was his big break.
The stomach ulcer he’d probably developed pulling it off wastotally worth it. She couldn’t be anything other than thrilled with this.
Connor closed his eyes for a moment, letting the chair beneath himtake all of his weight, giving sore, abused muscles a break. He just neededfive minutes, and then he’d get right back to work.
“What the hell is this?”
Connor’s eyes opened wide, and he found himself staring up atDominique herself, dressed in a power suit with shoulders sharp enough to take someone’seye out.
The scowl on her face looked a lot more dangerous, though.
Connor stood automatically, not wanting to seem as though hewasn’t paying attention. She had a thing about that.
She’d been a nightmare to work with, but he’d always rolled overand given her whatever she wanted, because having his name on this weddingwould change his life.
“Itoldyou, no magenta,” she said, shaking a silk flowerat him.
One of the ones he’d just spent two days hand dyeing. Hisfingernails were still stained from it, no matter how much he’d scrubbed.
Connor looked at the flower in her hand, confused. He didn’tremember ever hearing that, and even if he had, it was decidedlynotmagenta, more of a fuscia shade. The dyeing process wasn’t perfect, but Connorhad been proud of the effect, and his brief had beenpink.
He’d even shown her a sketch of the centerpieces where the flowerswere all different shades.
“I… can pick out all the magenta ones,” he said, hoping that wouldbe enough to make her happy. “I’m sorry.”
“Not good enough,” she said, tossing the flower on the floor. “Andthese chairs are too low. How is my ninety-year-old grandma supposed to get upoff them?”
Connor swallowed. “I’m sorry, these are, uh, the ones youapproved, I didn’t realize you were looking for something higher up…”
“I didn’t approve these,” she said.
Connor had been standing next to her when she’d agreed to them, sohe knew that wasn’t true.
“Of course.” He nodded. “There must be some kind of mistake. I’llcall the hire company, but I don’t think I’ll be able to get this fabric in adifferent style today…”
“I don’t want a different style,” she said. “I want these chairs,five inches higher.”
Connor looked at her, tears pricking at his eyes. He was used toimpossible requests from his clients, and prided himself on being able to meetthem.
This one, though, wasliterallyimpossible. The chairs hadbeen purpose-made. There weren’t other ones like them, but five inches higher.They just didn’t exist, and with only a handful of hours’ notice, he couldn’tget this many made.
“I can’t do that,” he said. “But I might be able to find a chairsuitable for your grandmother and upholster it to fit in?”
He’d do ithimselfif that would make her happy.
“Are you trying to ruin my wedding?” she asked, her voice suddenlycold.
Connor swallowed. That was the last thing he was trying to do.He’d poured his heart and soul into this for weeks and barely taken enough timeto eat and sleep.
