Chapter 3: Luna

Corban Drake’s office screamed money and power. Chromed out furniture, framed degrees and certificates on the walls, and expensive baubles on the shelves of his bookcase. What had I gotten myself into this time? In spite of Larissa and Ross’s golden stamp of approval on this guy, my stomach flipped over. He had to already know of me and hate me. Guilty until proven innocent. For the love of God, he worked in the IDS tower and had an account with the Twins front office.

I loved my own charming home office since I’d redecorated it, but damn, I could use a place like this to talk business with clients. It might help in my quest to be taken seriously again. It was super impressive. In this atmosphere, they wouldn’t care that I was the woman who’d supposedly ruined Thorn Edwards’ career.

Ha, who was I kidding? They’d probably pelt the windows with rotten fruit and spitballs, anyway. Throughout Minnesota, I was officially the pig clad in Michael Kors.

Corban Drake spun to face me in his high-backed black leather chair.

I lost my breath. All coherent thought left my brain as I struggled to inhale. Holy smokes, he was freaking amazing. Probably the most gorgeous man I’d ever laid eyes on. Pity, I’d forgotten my darn glasses at home. I’d tried squishing my disposable contacts in on the way over, but I’d lost one in the cab and dumped the other as a result.

I trundled closer to the desk to get a better look at the object of my blurry attention. Maybe my squinting made him look better in my mind than he did in real life. I’d hope for the best because judging from my reaction, I’d have a hard time working with him due to his effect on my equilibrium. I didn’t normally get so zipped up by a handsome man, rather liking them with a brain and a personality. Only time would tell if Corban was a triple threat.

I gazed at him for long seconds while he appraised me at the same time. Clean shaven, strong jaw line, and a bit of a bump to his nose. I liked that. It was as if he’d been in a fight, broken it, and it had never healed back the same way. Burly guys got my heart racing fast, and Mr. Drake had the broad shoulders to match his handsome face.

Too bad I wasn’t here to play around.

I cleared my throat.

“I won’t waste your time,” Mr. Drake said in the same panty-melting chocolate voice I’d heard over the phone.

It’d been a long time since I was in close proximity to a man who wasn’t about to be married, a father of a ten-year-old hosting a birthday party, or one who wanted to tell me how much he hated me.

“Of course,” I said and leaned in closer to get a better look at his face. I stumbled forward and knocked his pen holder off the corner of his desk. “Shoot, sorry.” I bent over in front of him and chased a pen across the floor, my black briefcase slapping against my thigh.

“Leave it,” Mr. Drake said.

I snapped upright. I’d totally just presented my ass to him, so my cheeks colored bright red. He had to think I was unprofessional now. Damn and double damn. I needed this gig. If I could get just one highly connected suit like Mr. Drake to believe in me, that could jump start my stalled career. According to Larissa, this man’s opinion carried a lot of weight in corporate Minneapolis.

I straightened my skirt, then lowered myself into the chair in front of his desk. It had chrome rims and reminded me of a performance car without the wheels.

My mind drifted back. The call from Larissa was the last thing I’d expected. A call about work, at least. My bestie and I spoke a lot. I owed her big time for helping me out, and I’d make sure I repaid her with mani-pedis and lunch at her favorite restaurant.

Corban checked his flashy watch. “I’ve got another appointment in… now, actually. Listen, I don’t know what Jolene told you, but I’m not interested in the delivery of Maine crab cakes after the fact. We’ve already moved on from your company.”

I blinked at him. What the hell was he talking about? He never even mentioned Maine crab cakes on the phone. Anyone with any catering experience would know how impossible a task that would be at this time of the year in a northern state. It didn’t make financial sense, so unless the company had very deep pockets, Maine crab was a no-go.

“Huh?” I stammered, not sure what to say in this odd situation.

“And would you like to know the reason?” he continued, tapping his elegant fingers on the polished glass. If I had my glasses, I was sure I’d be able to see my own confused reflection staring back at me.

I hunched forward and leaned my elbows on his desk. If only I could actually make out the expression on his face, I’d be able to tell what the hell this was about. Some kind of a test? What was this, amateur hour?

Corban stalled.

I realized, too late, that I’d almost crawled onto the table to get a better look at the guy.

“And let me say,” Drake continued, “I don’t appreciate your unprofessional attitude. I’m not interested in anything other than a new caterer.”

Oh god, he thinks I want him. He can sense my burgeoning lust. Between the accidental ass flash and my narrowed-eye staring, he thought I had a thing for him. My cheeks burned hot enough to fry an egg. Heat infiltrated every cell in my body. I wanted nothing more than for a huge hole to open up in the middle of this fancy office and swallow me whole. If it wasn’t for Larissa’s involvement, and my desperate need for a client, I’d turn tail and run. Pride be damned.

I cleared my throat and cast my eyes downward. “My name is Luna Faye, Mr. Drake. There appears to be some confusion because I don’t know anyone named Jolene. You hired me to organize your charity event with the Minnesota Twins. We spoke on the phone. I’m Larissa’s best friend.”

Corban’s jaw dropped. His gaze swept up and down my shirt and came to rest on my face. “I’m so sorry.”

“I forgot my glasses, which is my excuse for my bumbling and getting too close,” I said, feeling the heat creep into the top of my scalp. Without being able to see my reflection, I knew I’d flushed crimson. A look that didn’t match my eyes and hair. “But it seems you’re expecting someone else for a meeting. I’ll leave and come back when you’re free for our appointment.”

His assistant, Jeffrey, had specifically set this time for the meeting and insisted I get here on time. It was the reason I’d shoved my portfolio, dessert example book, and other materials into my case without my glasses.

Corban smoothed his large, tan hands over the surface of the desk, then knocked his fists on it once. “It seems we’ve started off on the wrong foot. Let’s call it a misunderstanding. The appointment I was referring to was a meeting with you, Miss Faye. You are my next meeting.”

“Oh,” I said, still highly confused. “And the Maine crab cakes?”

“I thought you were a solicitor for one of our suppliers. Normally, my meetings are escorted and announced, but Jeffrey’s on an errand.”

“Yeah, but why would you want Maine crab cakes when there are so many local suppliers in St. Paul that could produce a fresh and far more appropriate catch of the day? Like walleye?” I asked.

A shadow of a smile teased the corners of his lips. “That’s exactly why I need your help, Miss Faye. Let me walk you through this. I think you might just be the woman for this challenging job, and Larissa raved about your skill set. Let me give you some details.”

I’d be more than happy to sit back and listen to him drone on. He had a voice for radio and a face for acting. “Go ahead,” I said and pressed my briefcase into my lap.

“I’ve been trying to nail down the Minnesota Twins as one of our accounts at Unique.” Wrinkles appeared on his forehead. “I had my last caterer do a presentation for some of the front office people utilizing the locker room as a backdrop, but they never really gave me a go ahead. I pressed forward anyway, call it an executive decision because I didn’t have the time to waste on a dry run. It backfired spectacularly. My initiative could cost me a lot more than money if I don’t pull this off.”

“So, you need me to reach out to suppliers, organize the event and–?”

“Present your plan to the Unique executives first and foremost,” Corban finished. “After this last issue, they want the charity event to go off without a hitch.”

I flipped into business mode, fingers itching to unzip my briefcase so I could lay out a few ideas that had popped up in the interim. The Minnesota Twins were a big deal for me too. If I could redeem myself in their eyes, maybe I’d finally downgrade from town pariah to mere annoyance.

“What do you have in mind?” I asked.

“Obviously, it’s got to be Twins themed. I want them refreshed and happy after they win the game. All the players are required to attend.”

Win – that was optimistic. The Twins had been on a spectacular losing streak since Thorn left the team. Yet another reason my stunning brick home got egged on occasion. I’d become an expert at getting yolks off any exterior building material.

It was the reason I’d taken a taxi downtown instead of driving my Mercedes. Some of the hardcore sports fans knew the car and license since it’d once belonged to Thorn. I didn’t want to spend another dime on repairing my paint job.

I unzipped my bag, brought out my notepad, then flattened the top page – it’d gotten crumpled during the flurry to get everything together. “Do any of the players have specific likes or dislikes?”

“That’s where the crab cakes came in,” Corban said. “Chad Monroe is from Baltimore, and he’s addicted to Faidley Seafood. He wanted their crab cakes flown in for the locker room event. Specifically requested it. And we let him down. He’s the star first basemen, you know.”

I didn’t roll my eyes, but it took a lot of effort to keep them in place. I jotted down the note, Mick Jagger’s words floating through my head about not always being able to get what you want. After being engaged to Thorn, I knew all about the sense of entitlement that many of the pro athletes possessed. When man, woman, and child bent over backwards to grant your every whim, you started to think the near to impossible was old hat. I could see Chad’s dimpled smile asking for fresh crab cakes from Faidley Seafood be beamed to his door without even batting an eyelash.

“I’m thinking local cuisine and an exceptional pastry chef. I know some of the guys have a sweet tooth. Many of the request cards had cheesecake and pie as a desire.”

“I thought they were all on strict diets,” I replied, snorting a little bit as I laughed at my own joke.

Corban didn’t join me. He shrugged his shoulders beneath the snug-fitting suit – probably an Armani. “I don’t know about that. But they do like to drink after a game, and I’m not talking beers. This is definitely not my forte though. I’m not a foodie or an event organizer.” Corban sat back in his chair. “That’s where you come in.”

“Actually…” I slipped my notepad and pen back into my briefcase, “I’ve got a couple samples of a Twins themed cake we did for a wedding. It’s from Wuollet’s, and they did a phenomenal job. Their whipped cream frosting is always a huge hit. One moment, please.” I placed the case on the ground, drew out my dessert example book and rose from my seat.

I leaned across the table and held it out, then looked down at the cover. My breath caught in my throat. If I could have thrown my body through the plate glass window to plummet to my death, I might have considered it the best option in this situation. I’d just done the most boneheaded thing in my entire life. I’d never live it down. I’d never get over it.

Oh. My. God.

I’d intended to grab the book with professional photos of all my best wedding cakes, cupcake towers, and chocolate fountains, but in front of Corban Drake was not the ten-tiered red velvet from the Miller/Rayne wedding. No. It was my personal journal.

The two had very similar covers, and I must’ve snatched up the wrong one in my rush to get out of the house so as not to be late for my very important consultation with my hot new client. And now, I’d presented it to Corban Drake, the very man I’d written about last night.

I flushed at the memory of what I’d scribbled down after half a bottle of Merlot. The exact words had been, hot phone voice and I wonder if he’s a Baldwin or a Howard? Corban reached out to flip open the cover of my journal, probably wondering where the photos of desserts were hiding.

In a panicked moment of insanity, I lifted it and whacked him on the back of the hand with the leather-bound book. Hard.

“Ow!” He snatched his hand away. “Why on earth did you do that? I need to see the desserts.”

I’d gone and done it now. Ruined everything.

Mr. Drake stared at me as if I’d lost my damn mind. Maybe I had.

“I – uh.” The stammers continued for a good thirty seconds. I couldn’t push a single syllable from my dry throat. I had to get the hell out of here. There wasn’t a chance I could recover from this. As an I’m an idiot and must run shot of adrenaline raced through my system, terror laced my gut. I’d have to move out of the state now. This was an unrecoverable faux pas. I’d blown it like a schizophrenic tornado.

I had to cut my losses and not leave my house again until the sting of humiliation faded. I ducked down and grabbed my briefcase, yanking it up. My portfolio, notepad, and pen tumbled out, along with a few designs I’d been working on in anticipation for this meeting.

Corban rose from his seat.

I held out a palm to stop him, then scrambled my stuff into the bag. I zipped it halfway and darted for the door.

“Miss Faye,” he called out. “Where are you going? We’re not finished. I really need your help with this situation. It’s imperative.”

I didn’t stop moving. I wrenched the door open, bumped my case into the jamb, stumbled out into the hall and crashed into the wall opposite. “Well done,” I groaned and muttered under my breath, irate at myself. “Why in the hell did you pick today of all days to forget your glasses, Luna?”

Corban’s footsteps crossed the carpet in his office.

I lurched off the wall and sprinted down the passage, past an alarmed intern and a woman carrying a tray of coffees. I avoided crashing into her by the skin of my teeth.

God, how could I have screwed up this bad? Nausea traveled up from my stomach to take residence in my esophagus, cutting off the oxygen to my racing brain. I took the stairs instead of the elevators – I didn’t want to give him a chance to catch up with me. Not that my employer would chase me after I hit him. Hit him! Oh, God. I lurched forward, clutching my midsection.

I let the thought sink in and took the stairs two at a time.

After an entire year of crap, crap, and more crap, this was the corn kernel on top of the steaming pile. I’d thought this would be my ticket out of hatred and obscurity and back into the limelight. So much for that. I should’ve known digging my way out of the hole that Thorne had tunneled into the earth wouldn’t be easy. It couldn’t be.

“No,” I muttered to myself. “Don’t be negative. This is salvageable.” I’d call him when I got home and apologize for what happened. I’d figure out how to explain it, cook up some likely story as to why I’d just whacked him on the back of the hand like a spastic nun.

Ooh! I could say I saw a spider. Or a fly. No, that was pathetic.

It was only when I’d gotten in the cab, and we’d hit Summit Avenue that I realized how badly I’d screwed up. My journal wasn’t in my briefcase. It was back in Corban Drake’s office. In my haste to flee, I’d left it on his desk, wide open to the parts where I was speculating about him.

Shit.

I just lost my one shot at nailing an event that didn’t involve Bobo the Clown.