You’ve got to be kidding me.

I stare down into the toilet, where my cufflink winks at me from beneath the clear water. I had just been about to fasten it to my sleeve when the damn thing slipped out of my fingers and — of course — landed straight in the porcelain bowl.

“I didn’t want to wear that anyway,” I announce, to no one in particular. I unbutton the cuff of my button down white shirt, roll up the sleeve, and then reach my hand in to rescue the stray cufflink, tossing it on the side of the vanity before washing my hands. Then I unhook the other one and let it join its friend. Cufflinks are fucking overrated anyway.

If I had my way, I’d be wearing jeans and boots to this thing, not cufflinks and these fucking wingtip shoes that make me feel like a 1940s tap dancer or something.

Actually, scratch that — if I had my way, I wouldn’t be going to this thing at all. Full stop. I’d be at home, maybe in my workshop, maybe having a beer, maybe watching some Netflix and sketching up some designs. I wouldn’t be getting ready to go to another fucking party or fundraiser or whatever the hell this is, where I’m going to have to schmooze and smile and make fucking small talk with boring corporate types.

This kind of thing is my brother Trent’s jam, not mine. Unfortunately, I’m acting in his place for six months, as CEO of this company we’d built together, and that means I have to do all the bullshit he normally keeps me comfortably away from.

Which is why I’m currently wearing a three-piece suit and preparing to give up yet another Friday night to rub elbows with assholes.

I sigh as I run my fingers quickly through my dark hair. There’s not much I can do to make it any more presentable — it’s shaggy enough that it has a mind of its own now — so I just comb it down as much as I can. I straighten the tie I’m wearing and sigh. It’s a good thing I can make any outfit look good.

I step out of the bathroom and head to the bedroom to hunt down my shoes. I have the sudden worry that I might have left them at home. I pull open the closet doors and start pulling shit out of my way but there’s no sign of them.

I’ve been staying at Trent’s old condo, the one he hadn’t quite gotten around to selling yet. He and his new wife had bought a new place together, and his old place was still sitting vacant. When he decided to step away from work for a few months, leaving me to act in his stead, he offered me the condo to crash at. I’d accepted, since my own house was an hour outside the city, but now I was regretting my decision. None of my stuff was here, and I was constantly finding myself looking for things, only to realize they were still back at the house.

Just please don’t let that be the case with my shoes. Otherwise I really am going to be wearing boots to this thing.

I don’t find them in the bedroom closet, so on a whim I try the hall closet. I breathe a sigh of relief when I spot the shiny leather wingtips tucked into the back corner.

I may not want to wear the shoes. I may not want to go to this party. But I sure as hell want to do a good job while Trent’s away. And if that means kissing a bunch of corporate ass, then consider me puckered up.

Once I’ve got the shoes, I’ve got no other reason to procrastinate, so I grab my keys. I’m just about to head down to the parking garage when my phone rings. I glance at the call display — Trent.

“Hey.” I shove the phone against my ear as I hunt for my wallet.

“Are you going to the Design Times party tonight?”

“Of course I am.”

“Good. There are going to be lots of clients there.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t say anything and I roll my eyes. “What, Trent?”

“Nothing.”

“You sound like you want to say something.”

“Nothing. Just … I know you hate these things. But these are clients. And just … you know. Be cool.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course. I’m not an idiot, you know.”

Trent chuckles. “I know. But I also know how you can be.”

“I promise to be on my most Trent-like behavior.”

He laughs again. “Good, good. Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

“Yeah. All good.” I say it pointedly, because the last thing he needs is to be worrying about me and about our company, Loft & Barn, right now. He’s got quite enough on his plate with a new baby.

“Good.” He pauses. “Oh! I forgot to tell you something.”

I roll my eyes and try not to laugh. Trent’s been the CEO for so long that it’s apparently proving quite difficult for him to step out of the role.

“What’s that, Trent?”

“The Trinity Central Hospital fundraiser. There’s a meeting next week.”

“Shit. That thing?”

“Yes, Luke, that thing.” I can practically hear Trent rolling his eyes, but there’s also a satisfaction in his voice. He’s much more comfortable in the role of CEO than anywhere else, and I can tell he’s enjoying this. “We do it every year. The Homes for Hearts Home Lottery is their biggest fundraiser, and our biggest corporate event. But it shouldn’t take up too much of your time — after the initial meeting next week, there’ll probably be a launch party, a photo op or two and then the closing gala. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”

I chuckle. “Did you seriously just say easy peasy lemon squeezy?”

Trent laughs too. “Sorry. I guess I’ve been spending too much time with Hannah and Libby.”

“Uh huh. Anyway, yeah, okay, the hospital thing should be fine. Nothing I can’t handle, right?”

“Right.”

He doesn’t sound entirely certain and I again refrain from rolling my eyes. Giving up control isn’t exactly Trent’s strong suit.

“Anything else?” I ask, getting the feeling that he wants to keep going.

“Are you meeting with Shapiro next week?”

“No. I mean … I don’t know, actually.”

He sighs. “Luke …”

“I’m sorry I don’t have my entire calendar memorized.”

“This isn’t just any meeting.”

“I know that. And I promise I’ll be ready for the meeting when it comes.”

George Shapiro works for Preston & Walker, the company that’s underwriting our initial public offering. After more than ten years in business, Trent and I have finally decided to take Loft & Barn public. Unfortunately the timing has worked out terribly. It was all supposed to be finished by the time Trent went on leave, but it’s been one setback after another, and now it’s ended up in my hands.

I don’t mind, exactly — after all, I stand to profit as much as Trent does if our IPO is successful — but it’s added a lot of extra pressure.

“Well, make sure Bernie gets the accounting paperwork in with plenty of time to spare. I’d like to take a look at it before it goes to Preston & Walker.”

“Sure.” I scrub my free hand across my face. Despite the fact that I just shaved a few hours ago, my jaw is covered with a fresh layer of stubble. “So I guess I should get going —“

“Oh, hold on,” Trent says, cutting me off. This time I really do roll my eyes.

“Yes, boss?”

He chuckles ruefully. “Funny, Luke. I just wanted to mention that I saw that Bailey Living had a huge ad spread in The Post yesterday.”

I glance in the mirror one more time and make a last ditch effort to smooth down my hair. “Yeah, so?”

“So, I thought it was interesting. They haven’t splashed out on advertising like that in a long, long time.”

Bailey Living is, according to some, our biggest competitor, and I suppose in terms of market share, that’s accurate. But everything they put out is so dated and sad that most of the time they barely register on my radar. In fact, I’d assumed it wouldn’t be long before old Lyle Bailey retired.

I grab my wallet and keys and slip out of the condo. “Come on, Trent, really? I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. There’s a reason people call them Barely Living. Unless we’re vying for a contract at a senior citizens’ residence, I don’t think we have to worry much about Lyle Bailey and Co.”

“Maybe I should just give Lyle a call…” Trent says.

“Why in the hell would you do that?”

He’s quiet for a minute. I can practically hear the gears grinding in his mind.

“We were supposed to meet,” he says finally.

“When? About what?”

“I don’t know. It was about two months ago — just before I left. He’d set up a meeting but then his assistant called at the last minute to cancel it. I’d completely forgotten about it till just now — it was right before my leave started so I guess it just slipped my mind.”

I straighten my tie as I wait for the elevator. “I’m sure it was nothing. Maybe he wanted to ask if you had any suggestions on how to bring their collection into the twenty-first century.” I chuckle at my own joke.

Trent doesn’t laugh. I can tell this is going to drive him crazy now. Just as the elevator arrives, I hear him sigh. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Yes. I am. Now I’m getting into the elevator so I’ll talk to you later, okay? I need to prepare myself to dazzle them tonight.”

This time Trent laughs. “No one dazzles like you do, Luke.”

“Why, thank you.”

I head down to the parking garage and hop in my SUV. Trent had offered to lend me his driver while I was staying here, but I figured with a new baby, he and his wife Hannah needed a driver more than I did. And anyway, I’ve never been quite comfortable with the whole driver thing. I like to do things for myself. And besides, I like driving. When else do you get to control six thousand pounds of metal going ninety miles an hour?

I don’t quite make it to ninety miles an hour tonight, but I do lay on the gas as I make my way to the Grand Windsor Hotel. There’s something about flying through the Chicago downtown at night that thrills me — it’s probably one of the only things I miss about living downtown. Then again, lead-footing it out on the open road outside the city is pretty sweet too.

I get to the hotel in record time and toss my keys to the valet before heading inside. There’s a big crowd already, and I can hear what sounds like a string band coming from the ballroom. I follow the sound and step into the packed room.

The first thing I do is head for the bar. There are waiters passing by with trays of champagne, but I want some of the hard stuff. Trent keeps bottles of scotch in his office, and it’s become my drink of choice over the last couple of months.

I signal the bartender and he pours me a thumb’s worth of the amber liquid. I take a sip and then turn back to survey the crowd. It’s an anniversary party of some kind, I think, and of course Design Times has splashed out. Probably so that their advertisers will think they’re just rolling in profits.

Everyone’s in suits and evening dresses, mingling in little groups. A few brave couples are swaying on the dance floor. It’s not my scene but from here at the bar, the people-watching’s not bad. Unfortunately I know I can’t stay here all night. I’m supposed to be mingling, after all.

I spot a couple of people I recognize from the last time Trent dragged me to one of these things — journalists, I think. I’m just debating going over there to say hello when it happens.

She happens.

Auburn hair. Green dress. The kind of curves you want to grab hold of and never let go.

She’s sipping a glass of champagne and looking nervously around the room. She looks about as comfortable here as I do, but somehow, even in her uncertainty, she manages to look elegant and composed.

Her skin is creamy white, and under the dim light cast from the chandeliers she looks almost … luminescent.

I shake my head. That’s a word I don’t think I’ve ever used before, except maybe when I’m talking about lamps. But somehow it seems to be the only word I can think of now.

She’s luminescent.

I can’t take my eyes off her. As she sips from her glass of champagne I imagine how the tiny bubbles must pop against her copper red lips. I’m surprised to find my tumbler of scotch pressed to my own lips, and I take one sip and then another as I keep watching her.

A man approaches her. Fuck. I recognize him right away — Randy Cattalano, aka The Carpet King. He runs a chain of rug stores, though the nickname could just as easily apply to the very bad toupee he insists on wearing.

He also happens to be a notorious perv.

My blood pressure rises as I watch them. I feel my hand start to squeeze around the glass, so hard I’m afraid I’m going to shatter it. I want to be the one talking to her right now. When she throws back her head and laughs, baring her creamy white throat, the feeling intensifies.

The bartender is saying something to me, and it takes me a second to realize he’s asking if I want a second glass of scotch. I shake my head, unable to form words right now. Unable to do anything but watch her. My cock is already starting to stir, and the thrum of blood rushing through my veins is enough to propel me out of my seat.

I have to talk to her.

More than talk, if all goes well. But we’ll start there.