At eleven thirty-seven—only seven minutes past the time she was supposed to arrive, she noted in satisfaction—Charlotte pulled to a stop at the end of the long, brick-paved driveway edged with boxwood and looked up at the Frost house—mansion, really.
When Kate asked her to take this last-minute meeting, Charlotte had assumed her sister was throwing her a bone by passing off something small, but looking up at the stone monstrosity set far back from the main road that hugged the shoreline, she hesitated. This was the real deal. And she wasn’t so sure she was fit for the role.
She reached for her handbag to see if she’d at least remembered to bring a notebook or scrap of paper, and frowned at the blinking light on her cell phone that was resting in the cup holder. She scrolled through the missed calls list, feeling her stomach tighten with dread. Three messages so far today. All from her landlord.
Charlotte quickly deleted the messages without listening to them, and then tossed the phone back into her bag. She checked her watch—shoot, another minute had gone by—climbed out of the car, and hurried over the stone walkway to the double front door. She pressed the bell and waited, shivering in her coat and knowing deep down that Kate would never have been eight minutes late for a meeting with a client like this, or with any client, for that matter. But what Kate didn’t understand was that being anywhere within fifteen minutes of when she was supposed to be was a victory in itself these days.
But she had managed it, she reminded herself, forcing her shoulders back. Thankfully she had remembered to get gas for her car yesterday, even if that did max out her second credit card. And she would have actually been early, if she hadn’t gotten stuck in that long line at the post office and then remembered she had better pick up some more baby food as she was passing the grocery store, just in case she didn’t have time to do so before relieving the sitter tonight. She was all but on time, really, considering different clocks ran on different settings. Gregory Frost wanted to plan a party? Well, she was the girl for the job!
Yes, she thought, grinning to herself. She could do this. She had to do this. Kate was finally giving her a chance, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. In fact, it couldn’t have waited even two more days…
She raised her hand to press the bell again, wondering if it could be heard through this ridiculously large house, but the door flung open before her finger could reach it. She stepped back, startled. “Hello.”
Deep brown eyes bore through her, strong brows pinched to a point, and the frown on the man’s otherwise handsome face told her she was already in trouble. “You’re late.”
“Oh.” She inhaled sharply, quickly flitting through a mental Rolodex of truly plausible excuses she could give for her tardiness, like the fact that when her sister had called and told her to prepare for a meeting rather than come into the office, she had tried on five pairs of prebaby pants before she finally found a pair that fit without cutting off circulation or breaking the zipper, and that by then she had cried off her mascara and had just begun to reapply it, only to realize her seven-month-old had taken control of the lipstick that in her rush Charlotte had left on the edge of the nightstand, and drawn all over herself with it. Then Audrey had to be given a bath before going to the sitter’s because, really, was leaving her like that an option? Yes, she had many reasons to be truly celebrated for arriving only eight minutes late—if you could even call that late—but she would swallow her own feelings and instead try to channel what her sister would do. Kate, the ever unflappable, cool, and professional Kate. “I apologize. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
He studied her for a long moment, his features slowly relaxing into a broad grin.
Uh-oh. This was how it always began, every time. A look, then a smile, then a little flutter…
“Charlotte Daniels,” she said crisply, forcing out her arm and giving the man’s perfectly smooth, perfectly strong and warm hand a good hard shake.
“Gregory Frost. Greg, if you’d like.” He stepped back to let her pass into the house.
“Gregory,” she said, determined to keep things professional, “you mentioned that you wanted to have the party here, in the house?” She was standing in an entrance hall that could easily house her entire apartment, complete with a grandfather clock and center table bearing an oversized floral arrangement. A sweeping staircase was set far back, and every which way her eyes darted, there seemed to be wide hallways opening to even bigger rooms.
Well. Crap.
She turned to look him square in the eye, but instead of giving her a response, he just stared at her, a shadow passing over his features. Finally, he shook his head, his grin turning bashful. “Sorry, you’ll have to repeat that. I’m afraid my mind’s all over the place right now.”
Her smile came easier. Something in common, then. “The party? You want it here in the house?”
He nodded and Charlotte reached into her bag for her notebook and pen and began jotting notes. “How many guests are you expected to have?”
Greg—make that Gregory, or better yet, Mr. Frost—frowned. “Oh, I think the final list was about two hundred.”
“Two hundred!” Charlotte exclaimed, and then, catching the panic in her voice, said a little quieter, “Two hundred. Excellent round number.” Oh no. He was looking at her a little oddly now. “And the party is—”
“On Saturday, the thirteenth,” Greg finished for her.
Less than two weeks. She wrote down the date, noting the shakiness of her letters. She angled the book a little closer to her chest, lest she be judged on the quality of her penmanship. One task she’d never be put in charge of was calligraphing place cards or invitations. Speaking of…“Have invitations been sent?”
“Yes, but we’ve decided to change the venue,” Greg explained. “Frost Greeting Cards is in the business of holidays, you could say, so the annual Christmas party is a big deal. People don’t tend to miss it, especially when this is the VIP list only. It was originally set for a hotel in Boston, but we, uh, had a change of plans.” His frown returned.
Frost Greeting Cards? Her lips parted in realization. Frost. Of course. Misty Point was home to many big-name families who fled to the rocky shores and sandy beaches for their summers.
Charlotte feigned a blasé smile even though her heart had started to pound. She suddenly felt hot and flushed, and she unwrapped her wool scarf from her neck, wishing she could shed her coat. A corporate Christmas party for Frost Greeting Cards. In twelve days.
She stared at the notebook, pretending to write something important when all she was really writing was “two hundred guests, Frost Greeting Cards,” over and over. Her handwriting had grown illegible, even to her.
“So tell me, Gregory,” she said in her most assertive tone. She’d heard Kate use it many times when she tagged along for meetings with brides or business owners; it was the first time she was adopting it as her own, though, and it didn’t come naturally. “What do you envision?”
He smiled. “Please call me Greg. Gregory is what my mother calls me. It makes me feel like I’m in trouble or something.”
“Oh? Do you find yourself in trouble often, Greg?” She stiffened, catching the flirtatious insinuation of her question, wondering if he’d caught it, too.
To her relief, he just gave a good-natured shrug. “I’ve been known for my share, I suppose.” He paused, his eyes falling flat. “Lately, though, I think trouble has found me.”
Interesting. She pushed back the flicker of curiosity and tapped her pen against her notebook. “Well, Greg, normally a party of this size requires a bit more planning, if I’m being honest.”
He looked her up and down. “You look like you could handle it.”
“I do?” Charlotte exclaimed joyfully, and then stopped herself, feeling a horrifying heat wash over her cheeks at the startled surprise in Greg’s expression. “I mean, I do. I can, I mean. I can certainly handle this.”
She glanced down at her outfit, from the wide-leg trousers, which she supposed were fashionable when she’d purchased them two years ago, to the patent leather ballet flats that were completely inappropriate for this weather. She’d tossed on a black sweater, which fit a little snugger than it used to, but it was chicly covered in a charcoal wool trench coat that grazed her knees. Yes, she supposed she did look the part, even if she didn’t feel it.
She bit down on her lip, trying to temper the joyful grin that was widening with newfound confidence, and suddenly caught herself. It was a typical tactic, one she’d seen so many times before, and fool that she was, she managed to fall right into the trap yet again. Greg was just another one of them—a rich bachelor, too handsome for his own good, who had mastered the art of flirtation. A typical cad who knew how to get what he wanted with a slow grin and a few meaningless compliments.
She narrowed her gaze. In many ways, he was really no different than Audrey’s father. And look how that had turned out.
“If you’ll follow me into my study, we can go over the details,” Greg said.
More determined than ever to keep this strictly professional, she followed him down a long hallway, past dim rooms with drawn curtains and furniture covered in tarps. She kept her eye on her surroundings, trying her best to ignore how perfectly his shoulders filled that navy cashmere sweater, the way his dark hair curled ever so slightly at the neck. He walked with confidence, a man assured in his position in life. A man who didn’t have to worry about anything more than securing a table at the newest five-star restaurant on opening night, she presumed. She knew the type. She knew it all too well. They were all the same, these rich city guys who grew up with a silver spoon, vacationing in summer homes in Misty Point. Nothing was permanent to them—they flitted from city house to beach house, from woman to woman. You couldn’t tie them down. Even if you tried.
And oh, she had tried.
“Please, sit,” Greg said once they entered a small study with cherrywood wainscoting and built-in bookshelves containing coffee table books and vases of various shapes and sizes. A faded picture of an older man and a young boy hung on the wall between the two sconces that lit the room. Greg indicated a leather chair across from a large antique-looking desk, and she sat down, unbuttoning her coat and shrugging it from her shoulders.
Greg watched her impassively and then, catching her eye, looked away and adjusted himself in his seat. On his desk was a framed photo—the only other personal touch in the room from what she could tell. From the difficult angle, Charlotte could barely make out the face of a smiling woman holding on to Greg’s arm. She tugged her coat free of her arm and leaned forward, deflation sinking in when she realized he was probably taken—not that it mattered, of course—until Greg casually reached over and turned the frame facedown on the desk.
He cleared his throat. “I just drove in from Boston late last night, so you’ll have to forgive the state of the house. It’s been locked up since I was here in September.”
Charlotte waved a hand through the air, dismissing his concerns with a friendly smile. If he thought this place was a mess, she couldn’t imagine what he would think of her apartment. Or Bree’s house.
She smiled and calmly folded her hands in her lap. This was another trick Kate had taught her. Always put your clients’ worries at ease. Show them their concerns are valid, but manageable. Show them you can handle things they feel they cannot. Show them nothing overwhelms you, not even the most daunting of tasks. Like a party for two hundred guests. In twelve days.
Charlotte pressed her lips together. Perhaps she should try the same tactic on herself. God knew she could use someone to ease her ever-growing anxiety—someone who would smile benignly as she fretted and who would tell her hey, it was no problem, they’d organize her disaster of a life and tie it up with a pretty little ribbon to boot.
“Are you planning on staying in town for a while?” she inquired.
“I’m not sure yet,” Greg said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m in a bit of flux at the moment. I can’t really plan much beyond this party, honestly.”
Charlotte nodded and glanced down to skim the email Greg had set on the desk. Two hundred guests, cases of the finest Champagne, heavy passed hors d’oeurves, a dessert buffet, a pianist…“Do you have a piano?” she asked, and then realized that of course he would. It was probably a Steinway.
“Yes, but I’m afraid I don’t play.” He paused. “Do you?”
“Only if you count ‘Chopsticks.’” They shared a smile as the room went silent. She cleared her throat. Right. Back to business. “What about the decorations?” She glanced down at the paper, pretending to find it more interesting than terrifying. “Did you, um, have any preference?”
Greg tossed his hands in the air. “I suppose the usual Christmas garb.”
She dipped her chin as her eyes held his. “Christmas garb?”
“Do whatever it takes. Trees, wreaths. Lights, I suppose.” He scowled.
She wrote this down quickly in her notebook. “Not feeling the Christmas spirit this year?” She arched a brow, and he gave her a wry grin.
“That noticeable?”
She smiled. “Just a bit.”
“Let’s just say it’s been a rough couple of months, and it looks like it’s not going to get easier any time soon.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It is what it is.” He smiled tightly, but his eyes seemed sad. “Besides, Christmas is just a commercial holiday anyway.”
Charlotte looked down at her notes, hoping her expression gave nothing away. That was another piece of advice that Kate had given her. The client was always right. Even when they were dead wrong. “Well, this information is a great starting point, but were there any questions you had for me?”
She waited, knowing he wouldn’t ask about fees—for a party of this level of extravagance, thrown together on such a short time frame, budget would not be a factor. Besides, Greg seemed to have far more on his mind than the planning of this party. It was a nuisance to him, she could tell. A task he wanted to outsource, something he didn’t want to be bothered with. Something he would hand over to someone he could trust to handle it. Kate would have called him a dream client, a client with big pockets who didn’t hover or micromanage. The realization made Charlotte’s heart begin to race. She couldn’t let this slip through her fingers.
She held her breath, feeling uneasy as she realized he was still staring at her. Oh, God. Was he really considering not hiring her? Had she messed up, been too late? Had she been wrong to inform him a party of this size usually required months of planning, not weeks? Did she look as inexperienced as she sort of was?
She thought of Kate, of how miserable it would feel to let her down again, to see the disappointment in her eyes. Her sister had taken her under her wing, despite their tainted history, and now she was finally in a position to make things up to her, to prove to her that she had turned her life around. But that wasn’t all that was on her mind. Selfishly, she couldn’t stop thinking of the fee for this type of party, the commission she could collect, the bills she could finally pay…
She stared back at Greg, arranging her features in a calm expression with a gentle tilt of her head, hoping she didn’t look as desperate as she felt, waiting for him to give a response.
“Just one question, actually,” he said, leaning back in his chair and tenting his fingers thoughtfully.
“Yes?” she managed.
“Tell me,” he said. “Are you by any chance, single?”
* * *
As soon as the question slipped from his lips, Greg knew he had made a mistake. He’d sent her the wrong message, indicated that he was interested in her, when he most certainly was not. He wasn’t in the market for a girlfriend right now. He supposed, he thought humorlessly, rubbing a hand over his jaw and a day’s worth of stubble, he was in the market for a fiancée. Or someone to at least play the part.
Charlotte’s sharp green eyes widened, and with a flicker of amusement, Greg noticed she was wearing mascara on only one eye. “Are you asking me on a date?” It was more of an accusation than a question.
“Not exactly,” he began, and then stopped when he saw the flush of pink rise up her cheeks. He opened his mouth to explain, but Charlotte pressed her lips together, giving him a hard look. “I’m sorry. You’re probably involved with someone.”
“I’m here to plan your party, not discuss my personal life.”
He watched her carefully, suddenly finding her personal life forefront on his mind. There was something about her that intrigued him. Nervous, he realized, watching her eyes dart from him to the window and back again. For some reason, she was nervous, and something told him it wasn’t because he’d inquired into her relationship status.
He leaned his jaw into his hand, listening to the sound of her heel tapping against the wood floor. She toyed with the ballpoint pen in her hand, drawing his attention to the chipped purple paint on her nails.
He felt himself smile. None of the women he’d dated in Boston would have even walked their dogs without a fresh manicure or perfectly applied face.
“I wasn’t clear,” he said. “I’m not looking for anything romantic.”
Her eyes flashed, telling him he’d misspoken again. “And just what are you looking for then? A one-night stand? A good-time girl to keep you company during your stay in Misty Point?”
“I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood,” he said, frowning.
“Oh, I don’t believe I have.” She shook her head as she reached for her handbag.
“Please,” he said, holding up his hand as she started to stand. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I can explain.”
After a significant hesitation, she sat back down, her eyes hooded and entirely unimpressed. “Go on.”
He cleared his throat, suddenly realizing how ridiculous this was. He wondered if there was another way around this, if he might ring up one of his female friends back in the city, but knowing them their social calendars would be booked through the New Year, and too many of them had started calling to check if he was interested in “lunch” or “drinks” once he and Rebecca called things off anyway. He wasn’t interested now any more than he’d been interested then.
Right. Better to keep this strictly professional. No personal connection at all. No false pretenses. No one would get hurt.
“It would seem I’m in need of a date for the party.” There. He’d said it.
Her expression gave nothing away. Finally, she spoke. “And you thought I could be your date?”
Well, when you put it like that…“Something like that.”
“I’m sure a guy like you has no problems finding a date.”
“You sound like you’ve already got me figured out,” he said mildly, but he struggled not to frown.
“I know your type,” she said with a shrug.
He raised his eyebrows. “My type?”
She gave him a withering smile and hooked her bag over her shoulder. “Sorry, but I work for an event planning company, not an escort service.”
“I don’t need an escort. Just a date.”
“As you said,” she remarked. “So why me?”
“Well, you’d already be at the party. And you seem nice…”
“Nice?” She snorted. “That the best you can do?”
“And…normal.”
Here she grinned a little. “You really know how to charm the ladies. Now I see why you’re in need of a date.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“No. Sorry.” She pinched her lips, as if that was that.
“Well, if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.” She stood once more, shutting down the conversation.
He stood, feeling like an ass. “I shouldn’t have asked—”
He expected her to nod, to say something rude, to turn on her heel and walk out the door without another glance his way. Instead, a shadow of something close to fear flickered over her face. She glanced down to the notes for the party he’d printed, bringing her hand close to the papers on the desk.
He pulled out a business card and pressed it into her palm. “In case you change your mind.” He led her back into the hall and opened the front door, allowing a gust of winter wind to fill the room. “Well, thank you for coming by.”
She hesitated again, and then, with a simple goodbye, walked through the door and out into the cold December afternoon, leaving Greg standing in the hall, no better off than where he’d started the day.