Chapter 1
A chance of rain my ass.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Why didn’t I look at the forecast? Puddles on the rain-soaked streets splattered on my favorite Aquazzura pumps. My beautiful blush-pink suede shoes were now waterlogged and tinged with black spots. Welcome to New York City in the spring.
I cradled my cellphone close to my ear. “Rochelle, this is awful. What was the address again? I can’t find it.” Drops of water clung to my eyelashes, making it hard to see where I was headed.
“Why are you walking? Do you know it’s raining outside?”
If I had the time to stop and look at my phone to make sure I was speaking to my assistant and not someone who thought I was without sense, I would have. “I did take a cab for most of the way, but there was some sort of accident, so I decided to walk. Of course, it wasn’t pouring down buckets when I had that idea. How the hell did I know the sky was going to open up? Can you hurry please, my phone is getting water-logged.”
She sighed. “Sorry, I should have told you before you left that there was a chance of rain.”
I snorted, “A chance? Remind me in my next life to be a meteorologist. I want to say the word ‘chance’ in business and get away with it.”
Rochelle laughed and spouted off the address. “Do you want me to get you an Uber?”
“No, I should be close. I’ll talk to you later.”
After I tucked my phone into my purse, I cradled the leather satchel like a football under my arm, trying to protect the ridiculously expensive bag. I may as well have been a running back for the Jets the way I dodged people on the street—nudging shoulders, ducking under umbrellas, and knocking elbows. A helmet would be a welcome addition to this ensemble—my hair would look better than I assumed it did now. My peripheral vision spotted red curls starting to form. By the time I made it to my lunch meeting with a potential client, I’d look like a drowned, strawberry blonde poodle.
What sucked the most? I was a stylist. Yup. A personal fashionista to the rich. My new company, Exquisitely Yours, catered to those who didn’t shop for themselves. Not because they were old or sick, but because they were either too busy or just didn’t want to.
When I was young, I never really fit in with the popular crowd at school or with the socialites at the functions my parents loved to attend. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t as though I was a hermit, but studying always came first for me. I had something to prove to someone and that someone was myself.
My family was well-off and was well-known in the business world, but I didn’t want that for myself. I went to Europe to study what I loved—fashion. To say my father was disappointed that both his children wouldn’t be working for him would be an understatement. But giving up my dream to fulfill his wasn’t an option.
Finally spotting the green and white awning, I ducked under and headed inside. A perky blonde who could have been one of my cheerleaders—you know, if I really was a football player—greeted me. Her toothy Colgate grin faltered when she took in my appearance. “Hello, welcome to Tornitaro’s, do you have a reservation?”
A cold shiver ran through me as droplets of water fell from the ends of my hair down my back. “Yes, I’m meeting Mr. Conklin, do you know if he has arrived yet?”
She glanced at the book on the pedestal. “No, he isn’t here yet.” Thank God.
I nodded. “Before you show me to his table, can you point me in the direction of the ladies’ room?”
With a turned-up snout, she uttered, “Of course.”
Since it was just a bit past noon, some of the tables in the restaurant were empty. As I weaved my way to the restrooms in the back corner, a familiar looking man texting on his phone caught my eye. He looked like my brother Adam’s friend, Cade. But, it had been years since I’d seen him. Plus, this wasn’t the time to check him out.
But, out of all my brother’s friends, one stood out above the rest, Noah Winston. He was the center of my dreams for most of my high school years. Okay, he may have trickled into my nighttime fantasies in my early twenties, too. But, Noah Winston was everything a boy was supposed to be—tall, handsome, kind, smart, hair you wanted to run your fingers through—the entire package. Not that I knew what his package looked like; I was just the geeky younger sister who would conjure up scenarios in my head.
Each of those visions included Noah kissing me like I’d never been kissed before, touching my body in places no one had visited. Or wanting to hold my hand, bring me flowers, all of the Hallmark movie clichés.
The sad reality was he never looked at me liked that, no matter how much I tried to read into every smile or wink he’d tossed in my direction. He was just a sweet guy who was kind to his friend’s little sister. Cade was nice, too, and when they were all together, girls flocked to them. They could have had anyone they wanted, and the harsh truth was—Noah didn’t want me.
When we were younger, my brother’s friends were good-looking enough to make a teenaged girl wish puberty didn’t exist. Pimples, bad hair days, mood swings, bloating—not things a young girl wants when cute boys were at the house.
The heartbreak, even if self-induced, from all those years ago still hurt. I suppose that was why people called it a crush. Since then, I did my best to protect my heart.
I hustled through the door to the ladies’ lounge and gasped at my reflection. It was worse than I thought. Black smudges under my eyes—again looking like a football player—needed to be dealt with. I grabbed a paper towel, wet it, and cleaned the mess on my face. My hair was a different story. There was no way in hell the thin piece of paper would begin to absorb the water that still dripped off the ends. Thankfully, they had hand dryers on the wall. The unfortunate part was they were the type where you stick your hands in rather than under the blasting hot air.
Bringing my head as close to the contraption as I could, I dried my hair until it felt halfway decent . . . and I lost partial hearing. I reached into my quasi-dry handbag and rummaged around to grab the makeup case. I applied a fresh coat of lipstick, swiped eyeliner under my eyes, and I was back in business.
When I stepped out of the restroom, the hostess gave me a small wave and nodded toward the older gentleman sitting at a table. With a straight spine, and a slight ringing in my ears, I went to meet Mr. Conklin.