It had taken all of five minutes at this stupid party for someone to ask me how my father was doing. I had smiled politely and said fine, then changed the subject, which is exactly what Rich had told me to do. It feels wrong, though. It feels wrong to lie to people, but worse than that, somehow, it feels like I’m dishonoring Dad’s memory by not telling people he had passed away a month ago.

It had been Rich’s idea to keep his death under wraps for now. Bailey Living was already struggling, and the fact that Dad had turned everything over to me in his will was … I guess a surprise to some people. Namely Rich Howe, who had thought he’d be in line to take over, after working under my father for the last twenty years.

But Dad had left the company to me, and Rich was convinced that the world wasn’t ready to hear about a 27-year-old fashion designer taking over an established furniture company. I had agreed, mostly because I was so overwhelmed with everything else that was going on at the time. We’d had an intimate close-family-only service and kept his death announcement out of the paper, but I knew it was only a matter of time before news started to leak. After all, I’d effectively been running Bailey Living for the last month — people were eventually going to start to notice that Dad wasn’t around.

I take a gulp of champagne as another elderly gentlemen approaches me.

“You must be Bree Bailey,” he says with a kind smile. “An absolute spitting image of your mother. I knew both of your parents well. How is your father these days?” he asks, not giving me time to respond to his first comments.

“Good, thank you.” I take a long swallow of my champagne, trying to burn away the bitter taste of the lie. “Just taking a little downtime right now.”

“Ah, well-deserved, I’m sure,” the man says. “Well, when you see him, let him know he owes me a round of golf.”

“I will.” I plaster on another fake smile. This is excruciating. So much worse than I thought it would be. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Oh, goodness. It’s Randall, my dear. Randall Cattalano. Though you probably know me as The Carpet King. You can call me Randy, of course. I tell all beautiful women to call me Randy. Unless of course, you want to call me Your Highness.”

He winks lecherously and I swallow a little wave of bile.

Right. The Carpet King. His company was one of our biggest suppliers. I smile as Randy offers his hand. I take it to shake, only instead he lifts my hand to his lips and plants a wet kiss against the back of it. I try not to shudder and tell myself he’s just being polite, but as I slip my hand out of his, I notice his eyes graze across my cleavage. I’m suddenly wishing I’d worn a less revealing dress.

“Would you care to dance?” Randall — Randy — asks. He gestures to the dance floor, where only a couple of people are swaying to the music. I’m about to decline when he reaches for my arm. His fingers grip the fleshy part of my arm and he squeezes. Hard. His eyes are on me and I suddenly notice how glassy they are — Jesus, he’s hammered.

“Please, Bree, give an old man a bit of pleasure, won’t you?” His words are polite enough but the lecherous way he’s staring at me — or more specifically, at my tits — is making me nervous. I try to pull my arm away, but his grip is surprisingly firm.

“There you are,” comes a deep voice from behind me. A heavy arm drapes across my shoulders. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

I glance back, startled, and come face to face with the most attractive man I think I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s got a strong jaw, soft lips, and a thick layer of stubble covering his chin. His eyes are a deep soulful brown, and they seem to burn into me somehow, sending a shiver right down to my toes. Even in my heels, he’s a good six inches taller than me, and the way he fills out his suit tells me that the body underneath is just as impressive as the expensive and well-cut fabric covering it.

“Luke,” Randy says, sounding surprised.

“Randall.” The man’s voice is distinctly chilled.

“You two know each other?” I ask, trying to swallow.

“Very well,” my would-be savior answers, as he stares down the Carpet King.

Randall makes a non-committal noise, scratches his neck, then slowly wanders away.

I giggle as I turn to face my rescuer.

“Thank you,” I say, quietly in case Randall is still in earshot.

“No worries. I’ve known that guy a long time and I have no doubt that every bad thing people say about him is true.”

I look over in the direction Randall has wandered, and see him talking to another young woman in a long black dress.

“I don’t doubt it either,” I say. “Well, thank you again — Luke, is it?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“Bree.” I reach out my hand and he takes it to shake. Unlike Randall, he gives me a proper handshake — firm, professional, as if he actually believes I could be an equal.

But — also unlike with Randall — the feeling of Luke’s palm pressed against mine sends a burst of warmth coursing through me. I’m not usually a sweaty-palms kinda girl, but right now, every part of me seems to be damp.

Every part.

I slowly slip my hand from Luke’s, and though he releases me, his fingers linger just a little against mine before he lets go completely. I can already tell the feeling will linger even longer — my hand feels hot and tingly, like I slept on it the wrong way. I switch my drink to that hand, hoping the champagne will help cool it down a little.

“So Bree, are you having fun?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Honestly? Not really. I kind of hate these events. I’m only here because my father … couldn’t make it.”

He nods, grinning ruefully. “Same here. Only replace father with brother, and hate with loathe.”

I laugh. “Loathe is a very strong word.”

“Well, in this case it’s an accurate one.”

“I suppose it could be worse.”

“How?”

“Hmmm.” I actually have to think about that. “There could have been a dinner. With assigned seating.”

Luke shudders. “You’re right. That would be worse.”

“There could have been lots and lots of speeches.”

“A bad DJ.”

“A KISS cover band.”

“Mimes.”

I snort into my champagne. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a party with mimes before.”

Luke shudders again. “Trust me, you don’t want to. What’s the deal with mimes? Is that box really so hard to get out of? Come on.”

I giggle. “I see mimes are another thing you have strong feelings about.”

“I have a lot of strong feelings.”

His words are light but the way he’s looking at me makes my toes curl in my four-inch heels. I take a sip of champagne and try to get my heart to stop its silly pitter-patter.

“So, Luke, what do you do?” I say, trying to change the subject.

He waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t want to talk about work.”

“Another thing you loathe?”

“Oh, no, I love my job. It’s small talk I hate.”

“Loathe, even,” I tease.

He grins. “You catch on fast.”

“So what should we talk about?” I ask, taking another sip of my champagne.

“You.”

I almost choke on my drink.

“Me?”

“Yes. Like, how come I haven’t seen you before?”

“How do you know you haven’t?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Trust me, I would remember.”

“Fine. I’ve been living abroad for the last five years or so.”

“Abroad?”

“Paris.”

“Very nice. What for?”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about work?”

He raises his glass. “Touché. Tell me something else about you then.”

“Like what?”

“Like anything. Tell me your secrets, Bree.” His words are again light but the intensity is back. His brown eyes are locked onto mine and I’m not sure I could look away if I wanted to. But if this stranger thinks I’m about to drop any secrets, he’s dead wrong. Instead, I reach for the hem of my skirt and spread it out so that it flares around me.

“I made my own dress,” I tell him.

Luke’s eyes go wide. “Really? You made this?” He actually looks slightly taken aback.

“Yup. With my own two hands. Well, and a sewing machine. Now tell me something about you.”

“I did not make this suit.”

“I could have guessed that. Tell me something I couldn’t have guessed. Tell me your secrets, Luke,” I tease.

He grins. “Fine. I just became an uncle.”

“Aw,” I say. This time I can’t keep the smile off my face. “That’s cute. Niece or nephew?”

“Niece. Libby. Well, Elizabeth, but Libby for short.”

“Very sweet. I bet you dote on her.”

“I do. She has the cutest little pink cheeks. Now back to you — what brings you back to Chicago?”

I look at him pointedly over the rim of my champagne glass. His brow furrows for a second, but then he grins.

“Ah, I get it. Work, right?”

I nod. “And family,” I allow. “I … lost someone very close to me. Someone I loved very much.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.”

Somehow being able to tell someone about Dad — even without using his name — makes me feel emotional all over again. I try to discreetly wipe away a tear without smudging my mascara all to hell, but Luke sees me. His face looks stricken.

“God,” he says. “I’m doing horrible at this.”

“Horrible at what?”

“This. I came over to flirt with you and now I’m making you cry.”

That makes me laugh. I look up at the man in front of me, the one who’s smiling at me with a grin that’s so sexy it makes my knees weak.

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I think you’re doing pretty good.”

“Yeah?” he says hopefully, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah.”

Luke leans in close, close enough that I can smell the subtle cologne on his neck. Spice, bergamot, and something almost woodsy.

“Then what would you say to getting out of here?”

I suck in a breath. Is this for real?

I look up at Luke, at the way his dark eyes are boring into me, the way his pupils dilate as he studies my face. Yes, it’s definitely for real.

“I would say yes, please.” My stomach does a little nervous flip-flop, but there’s no time to change my mind. Luke’s grin widens and then his hand is on my lower back as he begins walking me towards the exit.