Книга - Swept Into The Tycoon’s World

Swept Into The Tycoon's World
Cara Colter


He may be Prince Charming. But does she still believe in fairytales?The last six years of Bree Evans’ personal life have been such a disaster that she’s decided to refocus on her successful cookie business. Until her gorgeous former crush, Brand Wallace – now a dashing internet tycoon –sweeps her into his world…







He may still be Prince Charming...

But does she still believe in fairy tales?

The last six years of Bree Evans’s personal life have been such a disaster that she’s determined to stick to what she’s good at—her blossoming cookie business. But when her gorgeous teenage crush, Brand Wallace—now a sleek internet tycoon—crosses her path again and sweeps her into his world, Bree’s forced to ask herself...what really is a life without love?


CARA COLTER shares her life in beautiful British Columbia, Canada, with her husband, nine horses and one small Pomeranian with a large attitude. She loves to hear from readers, and you can learn more about her and contact her through Facebook.


Also by Melissa Senate (#u34effac5-3676-551f-8ab6-dba33b344547)

How to Melt a Frozen Heart

Snowflakes and Silver Linings

Rescued by the Millionaire

The Millionaire’s Homecoming

Interview with a Tycoon

Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

The Pregnancy Secret

Soldier, Hero…Husband?

Housekeeper Under the Mistletoe

The Wedding Planner’s Big Day

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Swept into the Tycoon’s World

Cara Colter






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07796-5

SWEPT INTO THE TYCOON’S WORLD

© 2018 Cara Colter

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Kymber,

the man my daughter has given her heart to.


Contents

Cover (#ub805d185-c189-521a-b4af-002425effe88)

Back Cover Text (#uefe8cbeb-5a10-54d8-b123-6f24e8b16802)

About the Author (#ufbc0f278-77be-585c-8675-3ab5df9d284f)

Booklist (#u4750de78-7d79-5606-8152-4e46b64955d0)

Title Page (#ua0f22ee8-fb77-5a3b-be71-67d229f03d4c)

Copyright (#ub1eaf368-7a1c-5e17-b4cb-429c8181312b)

Dedication (#ua0daee49-bf14-562b-afc9-e4e7fa9191f4)

CHAPTER ONE (#u85c7a9ac-f777-5828-b962-893040efc977)

CHAPTER TWO (#u4e28b94f-f994-5fa0-8831-b8fa2e85ee04)

CHAPTER THREE (#u2c529c73-6ad1-54ea-8044-593db0a5af9c)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u34effac5-3676-551f-8ab6-dba33b344547)

“WHO IS THAT?” Chelsea’s whisper was breathless.

Bree Evans shot her young assistant an exasperated look. “You’ve got to stop it. We were asked at the briefing not to gawk at the celebrities. It’s part of our agreement to provide sample products and a display for this event. To be strictly professional. No staring. No autographs. No—”

Chelsea, unaware, or uncaring, that she was jeopardizing Bree’s big break, was not paying the least bit of attention to her boss. Instead she was standing completely frozen, a neatly gift-wrapped box of Kookies for All Occasions’ Love Bites in her hand. Bree followed her gaze, looking toward the outside door that led into the foyer area of the concert hall, where they were setting up.

Oh, no.

“Who is that?” Chelsea whispered again.

Oh, no. Had she said it out loud?

He was everything Bree remembered, only more. She had not seen him, in person, anyway, for six years. Though it hardly seemed possible, in that time his presence had multiplied. He had lost any hint of boyish slenderness, and the gorgeous lines of his face had settled into maturity. His dark brown hair, which she remembered as untamed, touching his collar and sweeping across his forehead, was now cut short and neatly groomed, as befit his position.

“It’s Brand Wallace,” Bree said carefully. She positioned herself with her back to the doorway he was coming through. Her heart was beating way too fast. Good grief. Her palms were sweating.

“Like in Braveheart?” Chelsea gasped.

“That was Mel Gibson,” Bree explained with what was left of her patience. “Gibson played the part of William Wallace—he wasn’t William Wallace.”

Still, even though she didn’t want to, Bree understood why Brand would make her young assistant think of brave hearts. There was something about him, and always had been—a way of moving with supreme grace and confidence that suggested a warrior, a man who was certain in his own strength and courage and capabilities.

Chelsea was still totally distracted. “I have never seen a more stunning example of the male of the species. Never.”

Despite ordering herself not to, Bree slid another careful look at the doorway. She had to give Chelsea that. Brand Wallace was a stunning example of the male species!

He’d stopped just inside the double glass doors, his head tilted toward Shelley Grove, organizer of the Stars Come Out at Night, a charity gala to help fund the construction of a new wing for Children’s Hospital.

Shelley had her hand cozily on his arm and was beaming up at him. He was steel, and women were magnets drawn to him.

Though the room was beginning to fill with well-known celebrities, many of whom were in Vancouver—“Hollywood North,” as it was sometimes called—filming television series and movies, he stood out from all of them.

Even surrounded by some of the world’s most dazzling people, there was something about him that was electric. It sizzled in the air around him, sensual and compelling.

He was in a sports jacket that, by the cut, hang and fit, was obviously designer. It showed the breadth of his shoulders, the power in him. White shirt—no doubt silk—and no tie. The shirt was tucked into dark jeans that clung to the hard lines of his thighs.

He was as fit and muscular, as outdoorsy-looking, as he had been when he’d worked as a summer student for her dad’s landscaping company.

Brand made the extremely famous actor, who was standing a short distance away from him, look small and very, very ordinary.

“I’m sure I know who he is,” Chelsea said, her tone mulling. “I’ve seen him in something. Warriors of the New Age? No, I know all of them. Maybe that new series. You know the one? Where the lady time-travels and the gorgeous guy—”

“He’s not an actor,” Bree said. “Chelsea, please put the cookies out. We only have twenty minutes until the official start time and I—”

She had to what? Leave, obviously. Before he saw her.

“But I know who he is,” Chelsea said. “I’m sure of it.” She unwillingly turned back to emptying the cookie-filled boxes, her body angled sideways so she could keep casting glances his way.

“You probably saw him on the cover of City magazine,” Bree said. “That’s why you feel as if you know who he is. Could you put a row of Devilishly Decadent at the end of the display?”

“Brand Wallace,” Chelsea announced, way too loudly. “The billionaire! You’re right! City had him on the cover. I couldn’t turn around without seeing that glorious face on every newsstand! I don’t usually buy it, but I did. He founded an internet start-up company that went insane with success—”

Bree shot a look to the doorway. Apparently he had heard Chelsea yelling his name like a teenager who had spotted her rock-star idol. He was casting a curious look in their direction.

Bree did not want him to see her. She particularly did not want him to see her in her Kookies outfit. She and Chelsea were both wearing the uniforms she had designed, and Chelsea had sewn. Until precisely three minutes ago, she had been proud of how she had branded her company.

Kookies sold deliciously old-fashioned cookies with a twist: unexpected flavors inside them, and each different type claimed to hold its own spells.

And so the outfits she and Chelsea wore were part sexy witch, part trustworthy grandmother. They both had on granny glasses, berets shaped like giant cookies, and their aprons—over short black skirts and plain white blouses—had photos of her cookies printed on them, quilted to make them look three-dimensional. It was all so darn cute.

Somehow she did not want the man her father had convinced to escort her to her senior prom to see her as cute. Or kooky. She certainly did not want him to see her with a giant cookie on her head!

In fact, she did not want Brand Wallace to see her at all. He belonged to another time and another place. A time when she had still believed in magic. A place that had felt as if her world would always be safe.

She shot another glance at the doorway. He was still looking in their direction—she could see he was trying to extricate himself from the conversation with Shelley.

“He’s coming this way,” Chelsea sighed. “How’s my hair?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Bree saw Chelsea flicking her hair. She also saw there was an emergency exit just a little behind and to the left of their table. For some reason, it felt imperative to get out of there. And out of the apron. And the beret. Especially the beret.

It was trying to remove both at once that proved dangerous. She was twisting the apron over her head and taking off the beret with it, when, too late, she saw the corner of a box of Little Surprise cookies that was jutting out from under her display table. At the last second she tried to get her foot over it and failed.

The toe of her shoe caught on the box, and it caught the leg of the table, which folded. Apron and beret twisted around her neck, she had to make a split-second decision whether to save the cookies or herself. The cookies, which represented so much hard work, and her future—being invited to participate in this event was a huge coup for her company—won.

She dove under a cascade of Spells Gone Wrong boxes, which fell on her, one by one, until she was very nearly buried in them.

Really, it was a slow-motion and silent disaster, except for the fact she had managed to break the fall of the delicate cookies.

The incident probably would have gone completely unnoticed if Chelsea had not started shrieking dramatically.

And then he was there, moving the avalanche of boxes gently out of the way to reveal Bree underneath them. He held out a hand to her.

“Miss, are you—”

He stopped. He stared at her.

She blinked where she was lying on the floor, covered in boxes, and remembered. She remembered his eyes, the glorious deep brown of them, warm as dark-roasted coffee. She remembered that very same tilt of his mouth, something faintly sardonic and unconsciously sexy in it.

She remembered the feeling of his gaze on her, and a forbidden warmth unfolded in her that made her feel boneless.

“Bree?” he said, astounded.

She heard Chelsea’s cluck of astonishment.

“Breanna Evans,” he said slowly, softly, his voice a growl of pure sensuality that scraped the nape of her neck. And then his hand, strong and heated, closed around hers and he pulled her to her feet, the cookie boxes, which she had sacrificed her escape to save, scattering. His grasp was unintentionally powerful, and it carried her right into the hard length of him. She had been right. The shirt was silk. For a stunned moment she rested there, feeling his heat and the pure heady male energy of him heating the silk to a warm, liquid glow. Feeling what she had felt all those years ago.

As if the world was full of magical possibilities.

She put both hands on the broadness of his chest, and shoved away from him before he could feel her heart, beating against him, too quickly, like a fallen sparrow held in a hand.

“Brand,” she said, she hoped pleasantly. “How are you?”

He studied her without answering.

She straightened the twisted apron. Where was the beret? It was kind of stuck in the neckline of the apron and she yanked it out, and then shoved it in the oversize front pocket, where it created an unattractive bulge.

“You’re all grown up,” he said, in a way that made her blush crimson.

“Yes,” she said, stiffly, “People do tend to do that. Grow up.”

She ordered herself not to look at his lips. She looked. They were a line of pure sexy. The night of her prom she had hoped for a good-night kiss.

But he hadn’t thought she was grown up then.

Did it mean anything that he saw her as grown up now?

Of course it did not! Chances of her tasting those lips were just as remote now as they had been then. He was a billionaire, looking supersuave and sophisticated, and she was a cookie vendor in a bulging apron. She nearly snorted at the absurdity of it.

And the absurdity that she would still even think of what those lips would taste like.

But she excused her momentary lapse in discipline. There wasn’t a woman in the entire room who wasn’t thinking of that! Chelsea’s interest, from the first moment she had laid eyes on him, had made it clear Brand Wallace’s sex appeal was as potent as ever.

“You know each other?” Chelsea asked, her voice a miffed squeak, as if Bree had kept state secrets from her.

“I was Bree’s first date,” he said softly.

Oh! He could have said anything. He could have said he was a summer student who had worked for her father. But oh, no, he had to bring that up.

“I don’t recall you being my first date,” she said. “I’d had others before you.” Freddy Michelson had bought her a box lunch at a fifth-grade auction. That counted. Why did he think he’d been her first date?

No doubt her well-meaning father had told Brand that his bookish, introverted daughter had not been asked to her senior prom. Or anywhere else for that matter.

She could have felt annoyed at her father spilling her secrets, but no, she felt, as she always did, that stab of loss and longing for the father who had always acted as if she was his princess, and had always tried to order a world for her befitting of that sentiment.

“Your first date?” Chelsea squealed, as if Bree had not just denied that claim.

Bree shot Brand a look. He grinned at her, unrepentant, the university student who had worked for her father during school breaks. The young man on whom she had developed such a bad crush.

She turned quickly to the fallen table, and tried to snap the fallen leg back up. It was obstinate in its refusal to click into place.

“Let me,” Brand said.

“Must I?”

“You must,” Chelsea said, but Bree struggled with the table leg a bit longer, just long enough to pinch her hand in the hinge mechanism. She was careful not to wince, shoving her hand quickly in her apron pocket.

“Here,” he said, an order this time, not an offer. Bree gave in, and stepped back to watch him snap the leg into place with aggravating ease.

“Thanks,” Bree said, hoping her voice was not laced with a bit of resentment. Of course, everything he touched just fell into place. Everything she touched? Not so much.

“Is your hand okay?”

Did he have to notice every little thing?

“Fine.”

“Can I look?”

“No,” Bree said.

“Yes,” Chelsea breathed.

Bree gave Chelsea her very best if-looks-could-kill glare, but Chelsea remained too enamored with this unexpected turn of events to heed Bree’s warning.

“Show him your hand,” she insisted in an undertone.

To refuse now would just prolong the discomfort of the incident, so Bree held out her hand. “See? It’s nothing.”

He took it carefully, and she felt the jolt of his touch for the second time in as many minutes. He examined the pinch mark between her thumb and pointer, and for a stunning moment it felt as if he might lift her tiny wound to his lips.

She held her breath. Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard Chelsea’s sigh of pure delight.

Of course, one of the most powerful men in Vancouver did not lift her hand to his lips. He let it go.

“Quite a welt,” he said. “But I think you’re going to live.”

Feeling a sense of abject emptiness after he’d withdrawn his hand, Bree turned her attention to the boxes of cookies scattered all over the floor, and began to pick them up. He crouched beside her, picking them up, too.

“Please don’t,” she said.

“Thank you for your help,” Chelsea said firmly, clearly coaching her boss how to behave around an extraordinary man.

“I can get them,” Bree said.

But Brand stayed on the floor beside her, reading the labels out loud with deep amusement. His shoulder was nearly brushing hers. An intoxicating scent, like the forest after rain, tingled her nostrils.

“‘Little Surprises,’” he said, reading the boxes. “‘Love Bites. Devilishly Decadent. Spells Gone Wrong.’ These are priceless,” he said.

His appreciation seemed genuine, but she now felt the same about her cookie names as she had just felt about the apron and the beret. She felt cute rather than clever. She wished she had come up with an organic makeup line, like the woman at the booth set up across the foyer from her.

“Bree, are these your creations?”

“Yes, Kookies is my company.”

“I like it all. The packaging. The names. I’m glad you ended up doing something unusual. I always wondered if it would come true.”

The fact that he had wondered about her, at all, knocked down her defenses a bit.

She stared at him. “If what would come true?”

“That night, at your prom. Don’t you remember?”

She remembered all kinds of things about that night. She remembered how his hand felt on her elbow, and how his same forest-fresh scent had enveloped her, and how every time he threw back his head and laughed her heart skipped a beat. She remembered dancing a slow dance with him. And she remembered that she, school bookworm and official geek, had been the envy of every other girl in the room. She remembered, when the evening had ended, leaning toward him, her lips puckered, her eyes closed, and him putting her away.

“Do I remember what?” she asked, her voice far more choked than she would have liked it to be!

“They gave out all those titles in a little mock ceremony partway through the dance. Most likely to succeed. Mostly likely to become prime minister. You don’t remember that?”

“No.”

“Most likely to become a rodeo clown, most likely to win the Golden Armpit for bad acting.”

“Those weren’t categories!”

“Just checking to make sure you were paying attention.”

As if anyone would not pay attention to him. His grin widened, making him seem less billionaire and more charming boy from her past.

She remembered this about him, too—an ability to put people at ease. That night of the prom, gauche and starstruck, she had wondered if it was possible to die from pure nerves. He had teased her lightly, engaged her, made himself an easy person to be with.

Which was probably why she had screwed up the nerve to humiliate herself by offering him her lips at the end of the evening.

“Now that I’ve jarred your memory, do you remember what your title was?”

“I hardly remember anything about that night.” This was not a lie. She remembered everything about him, but the other details of the night? Her dress and the snacks and the band and anyone else she had danced with had never really registered.

“Most likely to live happily ever after. That was the title they bestowed on you.”

The worst possible thing happened. Not only was she here on the floor, picking up her mess with the most devastatingly attractive man she had ever met, in a silly apron, with her hair scraped back in a dumb bun and granny glasses perched on her nose, but now she was also going to disgrace herself by bursting into tears.


CHAPTER TWO (#u34effac5-3676-551f-8ab6-dba33b344547)

NO!

Bree Evans was not going to cry in front of Brand Wallace. She had a broken dream or two, but so what? Who didn’t?

She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. She made herself smile.

“Of course they did,” she said. “Happily-Ever-After. Look. Here’s the proof.” She bought a moment away from the intense gaze of his eyes on her face. She picked through the boxes of cookies.

There they were, the favorite kooky cookie for when she supplied weddings. She opened a box and pulled a cookie from its wrapping.

Shortbread infused with strawberries and champagne.

She passed it to him, and he took a quizzical bite.

“There you go,” Bree said, and hoped he could not hear the tight, close-to-tears note in her voice. “Happily-Ever-After.”

She watched as his eyes closed with pleasure. He was distracted, as she had hoped.

When he opened his eyes again, he smiled at her. “That is one of the oddest—and tastiest—combinations of flavors I’ve ever experienced. Ambrosia.”

“Thank you. I’ll tuck that away for a new cookie name.”

But then she saw she might not have distracted him quite as completely as she hoped, because he was watching her way too closely. She felt as if his eyes locked on the faint quiver of her lip.

“My company has an event coming up, a charity ball in support of this same goal, to raise funds for the new wing of Children’s. Do you think I could get you to supply some of these?”

Bree’s mouth fell open.

“Of course,” Chelsea said smoothly.

“I’m sure they will be planning some kind of midnight snack or party favor,” Brand said. “Have you a card? I’ll give it to my event planner, and she’ll be in touch.”

Being around him was a roller-coaster ride, Bree thought, as she turned, flustered, to get him her business card. For a stunning moment she had thought he was showing interest in her. He’d quickly doused that by saying his event planner would be in touch.

This kind of opportunity was exactly why she was at this event, Bree reminded herself firmly, turning with a bright, hopefully professional, smile to give him the card.

He slipped the card into his inside jacket pocket, and popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth. It drew her attention, unfortunately, to the rather sensuous curve of his lips as he chewed.

“Do you want to go for a quick coffee?” he asked her.

A roller-coaster ride!

The invitation seemed to take him by surprise as much as it did her.

“R-right now?” she stammered. “Things are just about to begin. See? People are going through to the auditorium. The program said Crystal Silvers is going to sing first.”

“I don’t care about that.”

One of the most sought-after performers in the Western world, and he didn’t care about that? He cared more about having coffee with her?

This was dangerous territory indeed.

Bree gestured helplessly at her display. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”

“You’re going for coffee,” insisted Chelsea, who had never had a stubborn moment in her life—she was certainly changing things up tonight. Her tone was firm, brooking no argument.

“No.” Bree aimed her best who-is-the-boss-here? look at her assistant.

Chelsea ignored it. “Go, I can handle this.”

“No, I—”

“Go!” Chelsea said, and then, under her breath, she added, “Live dangerously, for Pete’s sake.”

“Unless your husband would object,” Brand said smoothly.

Chelsea snorted in a most unflattering way.

Brand’s gaze slid to Bree’s ring finger. She wanted to hide it behind her back as if its nakedness heralded some kind of failure.

“Boyfriend, then.”

Chelsea rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

She was as oblivious to the daggered look Bree gave her as she had been to the who-is-the-boss-here? look.

“The last guy she met on e-Us was a loser.”

Since Chelsea was so adept at ignoring Bree’s looks, dancing happily with insubordination, Bree managed to step hard on her foot before she could elaborate on the e-Us thing. Chelsea gave her a sulky look, but clamped her mouth shut.

Even so, damage had been done. Bree could see him registering what e-Us was.

One thing that was obvious about someone like Brand Wallace? He’d never been on a site like e-Us in his life.

“We’ll just go around the corner,” he said persuasively. “Two old friends catching up.”

“Old friends,” Chelsea breathed. “Do you have, uh, a significant other, Mr. Wallace?”

“Does my dog count?”

Chelsea gave Bree a not-so-subtle nudge on her shoulder.

“I don’t think—” Bree began.

“I’m interested in your business. You’ll be back in half an hour,” he assured Bree. “The first set will have hardly started. These things never go off quite on time.”

Meaning he was very familiar with these things. Big surprise.

“I’ll have you back before intermission.”

“I bet he won’t stick you with the bill, either,” Chelsea said helpfully, sidling out of the way before Bree could get her foot again.

The firm line of his mouth registered disapproval as he registered that morsel of information about the sad state of Bree’s dating life.

“Your young assistant looks more than capable of finishing the setup here.” His voice was suave.

Chelsea preened. “More than capable,” she said, and flipped her hair.

It would seem churlish to refuse. It would seem like she was afraid of him, and life and surprises and the very thing she tried to bake into all her cookies.

Magic.

It was that magical thinking that always got her in trouble, Bree reminded herself. He had mentioned business. She was not in a position to turn down this kind of connection to the business world.

“All right,” she said, resigned. “A quick coffee.”

Bree came face-to-face with her truth. She was terrified of believing in good things.

And terrified especially to believe in the happily-ever-after that men like him had made women like her yearn for since the beginning of time.

“For goodness sake,” Chelsea said in an undertone, “lose the apron. And do something with your hair.”

She ran a hand through it, and followed Brand, tilting her chin at him when he held the door open for her.

It was a beautiful spring evening in Vancouver, and Bree was aware her senses felt oddly heightened. The air smelled good from a recent rain, and plump crystal droplets fell from the blossom-laden branches of the ornamental cherry trees that lined the sidewalk.

There were two coffee places around the corner from the concert hall, and Bree liked it that Brand chose the independent shop, Perks, rather than the one that was part of a big chain.

It was cozy inside, with mismatched sofas and scarred old tables with brightly painted chairs clustered around them. It smelled heavenly, of coffee and exotic spices.

“Have you been here before?” he asked her.

“Just to introduce them to Kookies. They passed.”

“Fools.”

Brand said it with such genuine indignation. It was going to be hard to keep her defenses about her. But she had known that when she was trying to refuse his invitation.

“Thank you for saying so. But it wasn’t personal. They already had a contract with someone.”

“Humph.”

She had managed to get rid of her apron, but remembered Chelsea’s instruction to do something with her hair. “If you’ll excuse me for just a sec, I’ll go freshen up.”

“What can I get you?”

She was going to say hot chocolate; coffee was out at this time of evening. But in the spirit of living dangerously and allowing life to astonish her, she didn’t. “Surprise me,” she said.

“Oh. That sounds fun.”

Somehow, she was not at all sure he was talking about beverage selection! She excused herself hastily before he could see the blush moving up her neck.

She found the washroom, slipped inside and looked at herself in the mirror. What she saw was so ordinary as to be discouraging. Her light brown hair, average at the best of times, was pulled into a tight bun—even worse. She had gone very light on the makeup, so faint freckles stood out on her nose. She had on no lipstick, and she had worn glasses tonight instead of her contacts. A wholesome, old-fashioned look was exactly what she wanted when she was behind the table giving out cookie samples.

To have coffee with an old crush—who could coax a blush out of her with a turn of phrase—not so much!

She pulled her hair out of the bun. It fell, stick-straight, to her shoulders. She rummaged in her purse for a brush and added a touch of lip gloss.

It was an improvement, but she was aware she still felt very ordinary, the kind of workaday girl who was virtually invisible.

“Not in his league,” she told herself. But then she saw the plus side of that: she could just relax. It was just old friends catching up, after all. Nothing would ever come of it, except maybe a beneficial business connection.

She went back out into the main room. He had chosen two love seats facing each other with a round coffee table in between. She walked over and sat opposite him.

“You’ve let your hair down,” Brand said.

Physically, not figuratively, despite her intention to relax. She hoped he didn’t think she had done it to impress him.

“More comfortable,” she said.

“I always liked the color of your hair. It reminds me of sand on a sun-warmed beach.”

He had remembered the color of her hair? She gawked at him. Sand on a sun-warmed beach?

Do not gawk at the celebrities, she ordered herself. And do not take it personally, she also ordered herself. It was obvious he knew his way around women. He had found her one redeeming feature and flattered her about it. And it had worked some terrible magic on her. She could feel her nerves humming so hard it felt as though her skin was vibrating.

“I always considered it mousy brown,” she said.

“That is ridiculous.”

If she wasn’t careful, she was going to gawk again. Probably with her mouth hanging open.

Thankfully, the beverages were delivered. Two steaming cups were set in front of them. She took hers, blew on it gently so as not to blow a blob of foam right onto his forehead and took a sip.

“What is this?” she asked, delighted.

“So I did manage to surprise! You’ve never had it before?”

“No.”

“It’s a chai latte. Spiced sweet tea with steamed milk. You like?”

“Wonderful. I can taste the tea, which is so ordinary, but then the spices and the mound of sugar-crusted foam raise it to a new level.”

Suddenly she wondered why he had picked it for her. And she found herself looking at ordinary in a different light.

“And what are you having?” she asked him.

“Coffee, black.”

“Given the variety on the menu, that seems unadventurous.”

“I save my adventuring for other arenas.”

She was going to blush again! No, she was not. She would not give him the satisfaction.

“You have had some great adventures in business,” she said, pleased that she did not miss a beat. “I’ve been reading about you, Brand,” she said. “You’ve done so well.”

“Ah, the City article. I had no idea that magazine was so widely read.”

Bree doubted it had been before they featured him on the cover!

“I must say I didn’t treasure anonymity nearly enough when I had it. Everyone suddenly knows who I am. It’s a little disconcerting. But thank you. The success part seems to be luck and timing. I jumped on an opportunity.”

“My dad loved the quote—‘opportunity meets preparation.’ He always thought very highly of you. He admired your work ethic. He was fond of saying, ‘That young man is going places.’”

“He used to say the same thing to me. When not another person in the world was. I feel as if he was the first person who truly believed in me. That goes a long way in a young man’s life, especially one with no father figure. I don’t think I ever had a chance to tell him that. What his faith in me meant. I regret it, but I’m glad I’ve been given this opportunity to tell you.”

It became evident to her this was why he’d invited her for coffee. It was an opportunity to tell her what her father had meant to him.

It was lovely.

So, why did she feel faintly resentful—as if she was a chai latte that had just been demoted to a very ordinary cup of Earl Gray?

He watched her now over the rim of his coffee cup. “I called several times after your dad died. I spoke to your mother. Did she tell you?”

“Yes, she said you had called and asked after me.”

“One day I called and the number was out of service. I dropped by the house and it was empty. For sale, if I recall.”

Bree took a sip of her drink, and let the spicy aroma fill her nostrils and warm the back of her throat before she replied. “I left for college. My mother felt lonely in the house, so she sold it quite quickly. Then she remarried and moved to San Francisco.”

“Is she happy?”

“Yes, very.” She did not say it seemed her mother had moved on to happiness with unseemly swiftness. Bree had felt so abandoned. Of course, there was nothing like feeling abandoned to leave a young woman looking for love in all the wrong places.

“What did you take? In college?”

Heartbreak 101.

“I took a culinary program. I’m afraid I didn’t finish.”

He cocked his head at her. “That doesn’t seem like you, somehow.”

She cocked her head back at him. “Doesn’t it?” she asked, deliberately unforthcoming, and letting him know that really, he knew very little about her, past or present.

“In some ways, you are very changed,” he told her.

For a moment, she felt panicked, as if the sad ending of the pregnancy that had forced her to leave school was written all over her. She hoped her face was schooled into calmness, and she made herself release her stranglehold on her mug.

He still made her nervous.

“Your confidence in high heels for one thing.”

Relief swept through her at his amused reference to her clumsiness on the night of the prom.

“Oh, geez, you must have had bruises on your arm the next day. I should have practiced. I clung onto you most of the night.”

“And I thought you were just trying to feel my manly biceps.”

Despite herself, she giggled.

“It was a really nice thing for you to do,” she said. “To take the boss’ dateless daughter to her senior prom. I don’t think I thanked you. Of course, it didn’t occur to me until later that it probably wasn’t your idea.”

“It wasn’t,” he confessed. “I didn’t date girls like you.”

“Girls like me?”

“Smart,” he said. “Sweet.”

Not quite as smart as anyone had thought.

“I bet you still don’t,” she said wryly.

“I’m more the superficial type.”

He made her laugh. It was as simple as that.

“So,” he said, leaning forward and looking at her intently, “tell me how you have passed the last years. For some reason, I would have pictured you the type who would be happily married by now. Two children. A golden-retriever puppy and an apple tree in the front yard.”

Happily-ever-after.

She could feel that same emotion claw at her throat. It was exactly the life she had wanted, the dream that had made her so vulnerable.

He had her pegged. Well, you didn’t rise as fast in the business world as he did without an ability to read people with some accuracy.

There was no sense denying it even if it was not in vogue.

“That is my type. Exactly,” she said. She heard the catch in her voice, the pure wistfulness of it.

“It’s what you come from, too. I can see that you would gravitate back to that. Your family was so...”

He hesitated, lost for words.

“Perfect,” she said, finishing his thought.

“That’s certainly how it seemed to me. Coming from one that was less than perfect, I looked at the decency of your dad and the way he treated you and your mom, and it did seem like an ideal world.”

One she had tried to replicate way too soon after the passing of her father, with a kind of desperation to be loved like that again, to create that family unit.

It was only now, years after her miscarriage, that she was beginning to tiptoe back into the world of dating, looking again to the dream of happily-ever-after. So far, it had been a disaster.

“Are you, Bree? Happy?”

She hesitated a moment too long, and his brow furrowed at her.

“Tell me,” he commanded.

Ridiculous that she would tell him about her happiness, or lack there of. He had worked for her father a long time ago, and somehow been persuaded to take the hopeless daughter to her prom. They were hardly friends. Barely acquaintances.

“Deliriously,” she lied brightly. “My little company builds a bit each day. It’s fun and it’s rewarding.”

“Hmmm,” he said, a trifle skeptically. “Tell me, Bree, what do you do for fun?”

The question caught her off guard. She could feel herself fumbling for an answer. What could she say? Especially to someone like him, who moved in the sophisticated circles of wealth and power?

She couldn’t very well say that she had all the Harry Potter books and reread them regularly, with her ancient cat, Oliver, leaving drool pools on her lap. That after Chelsea, seamstress extraordinaire, had showed her how, she had individually quilted each of the cookies on her aprons. That she was addicted to home-renovation shows, especially ones hosted by couples, who had everything, it seemed, that she had ever dreamed of. That she trolled Pinterest features about homes: welcome signs, and window boxes, and baby rooms.

It would sound pathetic.

Was it pathetic?

“My business takes an inordinate amount of time,” she said when her silence had become way too long.

“So you don’t have fun?”

“Maybe I consider developing new cookie recipes fun!”

“Look, my business takes a lot of time, too. But I still make time for fun things.”

Just then a man came over and squatted on the floor beside her. He stuck out his hand. “Miss Evans? I’m the manager here. Mr. Wallace leads me to understand you have a line of cookies. We’d love to try them. Have you got a minute?”

She looked over the manager’s shoulder at Brand. He was smiling. He nodded encouragingly at her.

“Yes, I have a minute,” she said. The manager got up and sat beside her. She started to tell him about Kookies.

When she looked over at Brand, he was gone. The love seat across from her was empty.

No goodbye.

But at least he hadn’t stuck her with the bill.

Fifteen minutes later, she left Perks. They were going to give Kookies a trial term of six months.

She walked back to the concert hall. Outside the door, before going in, Bree debated only for a full five seconds before she pulled out Brand’s business card with his phone number and called him.

“Hello?”

She had been expecting it to go to voice mail, since she thought he was probably now in the front row for the Crystal Silvers performance. But there was no background noise.

“I was expecting to leave a message,” she said.

“Bree. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“I was rehearsing my message!”

“Okay, just pretend this is my voice mail.”

“All right. Hello, Brand. Thank you for a pleasant evening and for buying me coffee. I wanted you to know Perks is going to try my cookies for a trial period.”

“Excellent!”

“Voice mail does not respond,” she reminded him primly.

“Oh, yeah. Forgive me. Continue.”

She took a deep breath. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to use your influence for me.”

“Of course I didn’t have to. But what exactly would be the point of having influence if you didn’t use it to help others?”

And then he was gone, no goodbye again. She contemplated the kind of man that would make a statement like that.

This was what her father had always seen: the decency of Brand Wallace, a guy who could be trusted to do the right thing, even with a starry-eyed eighteen-year-old girl, desperate to be kissed.

His innate decency made her feel shivery with longing. He appeared to be the polar opposite of Paul Weston, the college professor who had taken what was left of her heart after the death of her father and run it through the meat grinder.

But it would be a form of pure craziness to think that a woman like her could ever have a man like Brand Wallace.

On the other hand, who had ever looked at her hair before and seen sun-kissed sand?

She went in the doors, and could hear the music blasting out of the auditorium. Chelsea, looking a little worse for wear, was behind a completely rummaged-over sample table, dancing enthusiastically by herself to the loud music spilling out into the foyer. She danced salsa competitively and managed to look ultrasexy even in the cookie apron and beret.

She stopped when she saw Bree coming toward her. Sadly, it did not appear her sudden cessation of movement was because it had occurred to her it might be inappropriate that the table in front of her was badly in need of straightening.

“Did you have wine?” Chelsea demanded.

“No, I had a chai latte.” Bree decided, then and there, she probably would never have one again. Those smoky, spicy exotic flavors would remind her of a surprisingly pleasant evening—and forbidden longings—for as long as she lived.

“Oh, you’re all glowy.”

Bree was pretty sure glowy was not a word, not that she wanted to argue the point.

“What has happened to the table?” Bree asked, not wanting to encourage an interrogation from Chelsea. “It’s a mess.”

“Oh! About ten minutes before Crystal Silvers started to sing, the people just started to pour through the front door. They were on me like the barbarian hordes. Just grabbing things, ripping open boxes, uninvited. I have tidied, you know. There were wrappers all over the place. Anyway, somehow samples made it back to the lady herself. She sent out an assistant to tell me she loved our cookies, to expect a big order for her birthday blowout.”

It was more than Bree had hoped for! So why did she feel curiously flat about it?

If that came through, along with the extra business from Perks, there would be no time for thinking about happily-ever-after, or lack thereof, as the case might be.

Thank goodness.

“Oh, there goes the glowy look,” Chelsea said. “The frown line is back. Miss Worry rides again.”

Bree deliberately relaxed her forehead. She hadn’t even realized until tonight she was endangering her chances of aging gracefully because of her perpetual frown. Despite the fact she knew better than to encourage Chelsea, she could not stop herself from asking.

“What color would you say my hair was?”

Chelsea regarded Bree’s hair, flummoxed, clearly thinking this was a trick question that she was not going to answer correctly.

“Brown?” she finally ventured.

Bree nodded sadly. “Just as I thought.”


CHAPTER THREE (#u34effac5-3676-551f-8ab6-dba33b344547)

YOU DIDN’T HAVE to use your influence for me.

After Brand had disconnected the phone and put it back in his pocket, he made his way through the rain-glittered streets. He had decided to walk home. Going back to the gala after being with Bree Evans would have felt like getting dumped onto an eight-lane freeway after being on a quiet path through the country.

Despite her new proficiency with high heels, and the way she filled out her trim white blouse, she was still sweet and smart. Definitely adorable. Totally earnest.

And completely refreshing.

Those words—you didn’t have to use your influence for me—just reinforced all those impressions of her.

Everybody wanted him to use his influence for them. Even the manager at Perks had approached him, not the other way around. He’d recognized him from that blasted City article.

Brand came to his house, and stood back for a second, gazing at it through the walkway opening in the neatly trimmed hedge. His architect had called it colonial, a saltbox, and, thankfully, it was less ostentatious than most of the mansions on his street.

Inside, Beau, who seemed to be largely telepathic, had figured out he was home, and gave a deep woof of welcome.

When people asked why he’d gone with a single-family house instead of a superglamorous condo, he said he’d purchased the Shaughnessy heritage home because it was close to his office tower in downtown Vancouver, his golf course and the VanDusen Botanical Garden.

That seemed much easier than admitting he had purchased the house because he thought his dog would prefer having a tree-shaded backyard to a condo balcony.

He opened the front door he never locked. Anyone with the nerve to try and get by his one-hundred-and-thirty-pound bullmastiff deserved a chance to grab what they could before dying.

The dog nearly knocked him over with his enthusiastic greeting, and Brand went down on his knees and put his arms around him. They wrestled playfully for a few minutes, until Brand pushed away Beau, stood up and brushed off his clothes.

“You stink.”

The dog sighed with pleasure.

“I met a woman tonight, Beau,” he told the dog. “More terrifying than you.”

Beau cocked his head at him, interested.

“And that was before she laughed.”

Since the events of this evening were about the furthest thing from what he had expected when he’d headed out the door, it occurred to him that life was indeed full of little surprises. He had the renegade—and entirely uncomfortable—thought that maybe her cookies held predictions in them after all.

And he had eaten that one.

Happily-Ever-After.

But one lesson he had carried from his hardscrabble childhood, left far behind, was an important one.

Fairy tales belonged to other people. People like her.

Except, from the stricken look on her face when he’d asked her about her happily-ever-after, somehow her great ending had evaded her. Or she thought it had. She was way too young to have given up on a dream.

And it was none of his business why it had, or why she had given up hope on it, but he felt curiously invested—as if that night he had taken her to the prom, he had made a promise to her father, a man who had been so good to him, that he would look out for her.

Brand also felt, irrationally perhaps, that he had given Bree a dream he couldn’t have and she had let him down.

She was, in many ways other than just the high heels, very different. All grown up, as he had noted earlier. Her hair had been very long, but now, once she had let it down, he’d noticed it was shoulder-length and very stylishly cut. She used makeup well, and it made her cheekbones stand out, high and fine. She hadn’t had on lipstick when he’d first seen her, but when she had sat down across from him at the coffee shop, her lips had the faintest pink-tinged gloss on them, shining just enough to make a man’s eyes linger there for a moment.

And yet her eyes, huge and brown with no makeup at all, were almost exactly, hauntingly, as he remembered them—owlish and earnest, behind spectacles.

Almost, because now there was a new layer there. Sorrow. For her father, of course, but maybe something deeper, too.

She had pegged it. He’d never dated a girl like her before her prom, and to be honest, never had again.

“And I’m not about to start now,” he told the dog. He took off his jacket and threw it in a heap on the floor, then undid his shirt and took off his shoes and socks. He padded barefoot through his house.

The architect had kept the outer footprint of the house, as the historical society demanded, but the inside had been stripped to the bones and rebuilt in a way that honored the home’s roots, yet still had a clean, modern aesthetic.

The kitchen was no exception. Except for the Elvis cookie jar in the center of a huge granite island, his kitchen was a modern mecca of stainless steel and white cabinets, photo-shoot ready.

The designer had convinced him to go with a commercial kitchen, both for resale value and for ease of catering large events at his home. So far, there had been no large events at his home. As good as it sounded on paper, he didn’t like the idea of boisterous gatherings in his space. Home, for him, was a landing strip between business trips, one that was intensely private. It was what it had never been when he was growing up—a place of quiet and predictability.

The cookie jar was stuffed with Girl Guide cookies. Brand shared a fondness for them with his dog, but he wondered if his enjoyment was now compromised for all time after sampling Bree’s wares. Not feeling ready to admit to that, Brand passed on the cookies, grabbed a beer from a fridge that could have stocked a cruise ship for a month and went to the media room.

The media room was bachelor heaven: deep reclining leather seats, set up theater style, and a wall-to-wall television set with surround sound. There were Elvis posters on every wall. He flopped into one of the chairs, while Beau took up guard in his dog bed at his feet. He turned on the TV set, and let the comforting rumble of sound fill the room. He flipped through to the hockey game that had been recorded in his absence.

“This is the life,” he told Beau, a little too forcefully.

Beau moaned, and he was aware of an echo, as if this room, filled with everything any man could ever want, was empty.

Bree had done that, made him aware of emptiness, in one single encounter.

If there was one thing Brand was really good at, in the business world and wherever else it mattered, it was heeding the subtle first tingles of a warning.

She was the kind of woman that would require more of a man.

No doubt most men would find her quite terrifying. That included him.

So, he knew what he had to do. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Disengage. He’d already done way too much. In a moment of madness he’d actually given her his phone number. She had already shown she wasn’t afraid to use it.

Or maybe she had been afraid, and used it anyway, which was much, much worse.

See? That’s the kind of woman she was. Simple things could become complicated way too fast.

He thought of the new layer of sadness in her eyes. Was that from the death of her dad, or had something else happened to her? He thought of her trying to get that business off the ground by herself. He thought of her not having an answer about having fun. He thought of her assistant letting it slip that Bree was on a dating site, and was meeting losers who stiffed her with the bill. He thought about how good her father had been to him.

He took her business card out of his pocket. It was a well-done card. Glossy. Colorful. Professional. Memorable. Kookies for all occasions. Her number was already in his phone, because she had called him.

He took a deep breath, scrolled through to her information and added it to his contact information. He hesitated and pressed the green phone symbol.

She wouldn’t answer. She was in the middle of—

“Hello?” Her voice was breathless.

He had the renegade thought he would like to make her breathless in quite a different way. It nearly made him end the call, because what the hell did a thought like that have to do with honoring her father by helping her out a bit? But there was no placing an anonymous call these days, so he sucked it up.

“Can’t get the taste of your cookies out of my head,” he said.

Funny that thinking about taste made a vision of her lips pop into his mind.

“I try to warn people,” she said. “Spells and enchantment.”

He thought of her lips again! That must be it. He was spellbound. Now would be a great time to tell her he had pocket-dialed.

“Aside from my charity function, I thought we should talk about the possibility of you supplying my office staff room. And meetings.”

She was silent.

“Bree?”

“It’s very kind, but—”

There was suddenly a great deal of noise.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s intermission. I’m going to have to—”

“Meet with me next week.”

“Um—”

Geez! He was offering her a huge opportunity here. What was the problem? While the rest of the world was yapping at his heels wanting things from him, she was resistant—the lone exception.

“I’ll be in the office all day Wednesday,” he said smoothly, “if you want to drop by and we’ll figure out the details.”

Again there was hesitation, and then she asked, “Around ten a.m.?”

“Perfect. My office is—”

“I know. It’s in the article.”

“The damn article,” he said.

She rewarded him with that laugh, soft, like a brook gurgling over rocks. “Okay. Wednesday at ten. Dear Lord.”

“What?”

“Crystal Silvers is walking toward me. Good grief. She hardly has any clothes on.”

And then she was gone. Brand stared at his phone. “Beau?”

The dog lifted his head and gave him a watery-eyed look.

“You’re an expert on all things stinky. I stink at relationships, right?”

The dog laid his head back down with a groan as if there was no point in having bothered him with such a self-evident question.

“That’s what I thought. I’m putting on my big-brother shirt.”

He remembered the refreshing innocence about her. Crystal Silvers had been walking toward her, the chance of a lifetime, possibly, and she focused on the no-clothes-on part.

Innocent in a world that was fast. Old-fashioned in a world that could be slick. Real in a world that distracted with shock.

So, she needed a bit of coaching. His offer to get her under contract to supply his office was perfect. Of course, he could have left the details up to his office manager, but this way he would be able to check up on her a little bit, and make sure some great business opportunities came her way. And maybe, subtly, move her in the direction of happiness, which she so richly deserved.

“Not that I’m any expert on happily-ever-after,” he muttered.

The dog wagged his stump of a tail in approval. One thing that both Brand and Beau knew was that Brand was not cut out for relationships. Brand’s father had abandoned him and his mother. At six he had become the man of the family. He’d been there for his mom, and he still was, but he was pretty damn sure that his father’s genetics ran strong through his blood.

“Ask Wendy,” he said out loud.

The dog’s tail stopped thumping, no doubt a coincidence, but still Beau and Wendy had never seen eye-to-eye. It had been okay when Brand was just seeing her, as he had been exclusively for two years.

But then, she’d moved in. You thought you knew a person until they took down your Elvis posters and replaced them with original works of abstract art. He’d had to rescue the cookie jar from the garbage. People as svelte as Wendy did not let cookies touch their lips.

Within twenty-four hours, she was planning a Christmas extravaganza. Here. In their home. In their private space. She thought they could easily host two hundred people!

Thankfully, in short order, Beau had chewed through the sofa she had brought with her, a ridiculous antique thing that wasn’t even comfortable. Next on the menu had been three pairs of her shoes, imported from Italy. For dessert, Beau had eaten her Gucci wallet, with her credit cards in it. All that had been left was three gooey strands of leather and one slimy half of her Gold card.

She had said, “It’s the dog or me.”

He’d paid for the wallet and shoes and sofa, and chosen the dog. But in his heart he knew it wasn’t really about the dog. It was about being unsuitable for the kind of cozy domestic future she was envisioning. It had all been great when he could pick her up at her house, and take her out to dinner or a function, without her cosmetics and hair products all over his bathroom counter.

Something in him had already been itching to move on, three days after she’d moved in. He was pretty sure he would have got out of it, one way or another, way before the Christmas extravaganza, just as his father had done.

After Wendy’s departure from his home and his life, Brand put the Elvis posters back up. The Elvis memorabilia had been his mother’s pride and joy. Her suite in the seniors home had not been able to accommodate even a fraction of her collection. Always emotionally fragile, she’d gone into hysterics trying to decide what she could keep and what she could part with.

Another reason for a rather large house in Shaughnessy.

Okay, it wasn’t the most pragmatic reason to buy a house. But when he picked up his mother on Sunday afternoons and brought her to his home, she was so happy to see it. Somehow, having them around him, reminded him of exactly what he came from. And that might be the most important lesson not to forget.

As if on cue, his phone went off—it was the quacking ringtone he reserved for his mom, a private joke between them. He glanced at the clock. Late. He could feel himself tensing ever so slightly.

“Hi, Mom.”

“There was a movie tonight,” she told him. “Abracadabra. Have you seen it?”

“No, I heard it was good, though. Tell me about it.” The tension left him as her happy voice described the movie.

* * *

It was, Bree told herself firmly as she glanced at her wavering image in the polished steel elevator cage that was whisking her up to the forty-third floor, a second chance to make a first impression. Technically, her third chance, if she counted the prom.

Even though she was going to pitch a cookie contract to Brand’s office, there was no cookie beret today and no quilted apron.

Something in his voice when he had called her offering her the contract had given her pause. It was why she had hesitated. Did he consider her a charity that would benefit from his generosity? It was as if he had relegated her to a perpetual little-sister position in his life. No doubt he had done the same the night of the prom! No wonder he had refused her lips that night. Not that she was offering her lips today. Or even letting her mind wander in that direction.

No, today, Breanna Evans was erasing cute from his impression of her, erasing a cookie beret and a quilted apron. Today, she was going to be one-hundred-percent professional. Polished. Pure business.

And grown up!

Even the night of the gala, when he had pronounced her all grown up, it seemed to her now, in retrospect, it was something said to a thirteen-year-old that you had last seen when she was ten.

Toward this goal, Bree had dug deep into her resources and purchased a stunning deep red, bordering on burgundy, Chloë Angus hooded cloak to wear over her one and only business suit, a nondescript pantsuit in a color that might be best described as oatmeal. The cloak made her hair, piled up on top of her head in an ultrasophisticated look, seem like sun-kissed sand.

Then, to compound the insanity, she had bought a matching pair of heels. The shoes made her look quite a bit taller than she really was, and hopefully, more powerful, somehow, like a busy CEO. She wasn’t quite as graceful in them as she wanted to be, but she wasn’t planning on running a marathon wearing them, either—she just wanted to make a crucial impression.

The one to erase all other impressions.

“CEO,” she muttered to herself in the elevator, and then more firmly said, “Chief executive officer. Who got a contract to provide Crystal Silvers with five thousand cookies for her birthday blow-out? You! That’s who!”

She hoped the elevator didn’t have security cameras that recorded sound. A security guard somewhere would be having a good laugh at her expense.

She was carrying two large, rectangular white bakery boxes of cookie samples, which she always took, as a gift, when she was pitching an office contract. Unfortunately, the samples would not fit into a briefcase. Or maybe that was fortunate: who knows what kind of money she would have spent on that power item?

The elevator stopped. Despite her pep talk to herself, her heart fell to the pointy toes of her new red shoes. She considered just riding back down. She felt overcome by nerves, despite all the money she had spent trying to shore up her confidence with the beautiful, subtle raven-imprinted cloak.

But when the doors whispered open on the penthouse floor of one of Vancouver’s most exclusive downtown office towers, Bree took a deep breath and forced herself to be brave. The world did not reward cowardice after all!

She stepped out into a gorgeous foyer, and her feet sank into a deep carpet. Hard surfaces would have been so much better for the heels! The lighting was low, and she noted two white leather sofas facing each other. Beyond them was a receptionist desk, currently empty of a receptionist, in some kind of exotic wood. On the far wall, to the right of the elevator, a stone wall had water trickling down its face, and was embossed with shining, wet gold letters that announced she was at the right place, BSW Solutions.





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