“Oh, I forgot to mention that the news traveled across the pond to America. You’re big news there as well." Isla's startling revelation brings me back to the moment.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I can't believe it."
"How do you think it was for me when I walked in here? There was a deluge of emails waiting in our inbox. Countless private messages on our Facebook business page. And last but not least, the phone hasn't stopped ringing since I sat my arse in this chair. By the way, we’ve added about ten thousand new followers to our Facebook business page the last time I checked. That’s an extra eighty thousand since Friday.”
“Oh my God. That’s incredible.”
“No kidding. The only reason there isn't a mob of people banging at our door is because our address isn’t listed on our website."
"We've been featured before, but it's never been like this." I say that more to myself since Isla is the one who's been living through this while I was getting properly shagged.
“No, it hasn't. I think it's the sheer force of this media push. One or two publications here and there is pretty amazing, but when the top ten start buzzing about the same thing, it becomes newsworthy in a big way. I've received a string of emails from our manufacturing plant in Seoul. They're blown away by the number of orders they’ve received in the last few hours. Jun-su was a bit taken aback."
Jun-su Kwon is the guy who coordinates the production and shipping of all our products from Korea to our clients around the world. He's my eyes and ears there and he's been doing a fabulous job since I hired him.
"Poor guy. He didn't even get a warning," I sympathize.
"Neither did we." She's right. "He said that all of a sudden, their emails lit up at around four o'clock in the afternoon his time. That’s eight o'clock in the morning our time. There were so many new orders that he thought our website has been hacked. He picked up the phone and called me. Once I told him what was going on, he said he’d have to hire extra temporary help, pronto, just to meet this unexpected flow of business."
"Insane," I shake my head.
"I think it's the perfect storm," Isla says in a matter-of-fact way.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"In many ways, you're right up there with the two smoldering hot tech geniuses you were featured with. I think it made for a great story and the press just ate it up. “THREE INCREDIBLY GORGEOUS AND SUPER SMART PEOPLE LEADING THE WAY IN THEIR INDUSTRY.” She says that in a ceremonious way with hand gestures and all. “Of course, that’s my headline," she laughs. "Good Lord you looked amazing in that dress. It was cut for you. Don't even get me started on your bling. Loved it. The hair? Perfect. The makeup? Flawless. You, my dear, glowed." I did, didn't I?
“Well, thank you."
“That said, nothing compares to the tall and super sexy accessories that were flanking you. Made in America has never looked that good," she winks.
"I gather you're talking about Chief Petty Officer Barclay and Petty Officer Buckingham?" I ask casually.
She shakes her head vehemently. "The way you say their names is so formal,” she scolds. “No, I'm talking about the two very hot, buff and muscular—that was blatantly obvious to the naked eye even in those sharp looking tuxedos—men with a military background. That's who I'm talking about. Did you not see what they looked like?" Trust me I did. I even got a very close up and personal view. “They’re gorgeous," she gasps. I can't argue.
"There was so much going on that night," I offer.
"What?" She frowns.
"You know, those events are very demanding. So many people to greet. So many hands to shake. So many faces to forget." I do my best to sound as detached as possible.
"Unless Jesus Christ our Savior had resurrected and came down from heaven to make a special appearance at that ceremony, I don't think anything could’ve trumped the sight of such hot men." She's Irish. And Catholic. And very passionate. "I was practically fanning myself—and I don't mean my face—this morning while I was salivating all over those websites." Righto.
I'm not sure how I feel about my assistant going on about my men like this. Wait a minute. What am I talking about? It was just a weekend of wild sex. I shouldn't read more into it than that.
"I guess they’re kind of handsome," I shrug, noncommittally.
Who knew I could be such a good actress?
"Were you temporarily blinded by the photographer’s flash or was it that there were too many chandeliers at the Bromley?" She's almost red in the face. Isla jumps to her feet, circles her desk and comes to stand right in front of me. "Please, Amelia, don't tell me you walked away from those two without exchanging contact information." She's almost crying.
I search my mind to come up with an answer that will appease her. "I might connect with them again. They did promise me one of their earpieces." That was a stroke of genius. "Maybe I'll go to their office or they’ll come here to drop it off?"
"Maybe? As in that's not certain yet?" She's almost insulted.
"Well, I’m sure they have very busy schedules,” I explain. "As do I," I remind her.
"With all due respect—since you’re my boss—but I’d move heaven and earth to make that meeting happen."
"Duly noted," I laugh.
"No seriously, I'm happy to call their office, track down their assistant right now and coordinate things. Heck, I'll gladly jog all the way there to make it more personal."
"Isla, that's very generous of you, but I think we have a lot on our plates as is without you playing matchmaker," I bite off a smile.
"I know, I know, it's none of my business." She lifts her hands up in the air in surrender. "Maybe this is for the best," she exhales, slumping her shoulders down. She looks so defeated.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"There are two of them. And they’re equally delicious. How can a girl even decide which one she should go for?” She rolls her eyes. “Life is so unfair sometimes. So bloody unfair," she huffs dramatically. “I guess it's true what they say about the fact that you can't have it all at the same time."
"Well…” I let my words hang.
Sometimes, God is very good to you and He doesn't force you to choose. He gives you both. You get to have your cake and eat it too.
“By the way, I love the hair,” Isla says, changing the subject. "I’ve never seen you with a side braid before.” No time to wash my hair. “And your outfit is absolutely adorable. I love, love, love the skirt."
"Thank you. I was in the mood for something fresh." And almost virginal.
Holden offered to accompany me to my door but I refused. I preferred to undertake my walk of shame back to my penthouse on my own. When the lift doors opened on the tenth floor, I braced myself, already praying for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. I even gathered the fabric of my cardigan I had slipped back into around my chest as armor. I was expecting a sly comment or at the very least a furtive glance. Even with my best effort, I still looked like a hot mess. Officer Roderick didn’t go there. Instead, she smiled warmly and said that in her humble opinion, Chief Petty Officer Barclay was good for me. I was so relieved. I couldn't agree with her more. I wish I could tell her that Holden and his best friend were responsible for my rosy cheeks, but I couldn't. I may not have a lot of experience with men, but even I know that what I share with my two neighbors-turned-lovers is uncommon. I doubt it's accepted.
"Well, mission accomplished. You look great,” Isla cheers.
"I think so," I smile wide.
Once I peeled out of my vampy red dress, I opted for a black midi skirt with large printed pink flower petals that hits me right below the knee—not quite as long as the one I wore to Holden and Brandon’s place. I paired it with a white t-shirt, a light pink cardigan and Christian Louboutin black shoes that tie up the leg.
Isla's eyes drop to my feet. "Are you wearing flats? It just hit me how much shorter you are today. Usually I have to look up, but today we stand eye to eye.”
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"Yeah, I had a very active weekend. Legs are a bit shaky from all the vigorous activity." I even walk on the spot for show.
"With everything you had on the go, it’s such a shame we weren’t able to bump into those two American hotties. Now that would've made for a fun weekend," she snorts and elbows me. If she only knew.
"Did I hear you mention Terry’s name to one of the callers?" Time to veer this conversation to safer ground.
"Yes. I tried calling him, but his phone was as busy as ours. I don't think they’re out of the woods yet when it comes to naughty boy Jason Belvedere. Seems like Charlie and Terry are right up to their eyeballs in shit still. When it became apparent that I wasn't going to be able to get through to him, I decided to text him. Thank God, he responded immediately to let me know that he was on it. He also says hi and that if Charlie manages to catch her breath, she’ll be in touch."
"What a colossal mess," I shake my head.
"Tell me about it. The lad couldn't keep his willy in his trousers."
"Charlie must’ve blown a fuse over this."
"I don't blame her," Isla retorts.
"Thank you so much for being on top of this deluge of good fortune. I should get a start on my day, since it seems I have a lot to catch up on."
"I've already piled up the calls you have to return in order of priority on your desk. I'm sure when you open your email, you'll be taken aback. I've been busy."
"Thanks for the heads-up."
"Whatever you don't want to—or can't—handle, just shoot back my way. We’re in this together," Isla winks. "My baby sister is on school leave from university and I have her on standby just in case things become unbearable."
"You’re a lifesaver," I smile.
I gather my things and ready myself to head to my office, but my assistant isn't quite done yet.
“Oh, one last thing. The Prime Minister's wife called. She read the Daily Mail and she's beside herself."
You guessed it, Isla isn’t a big fan of Abigail's. Mum had passed away many years prior to my assistant starting to work for me. That said, Isla still knew Mum well because her mum has been part of my father’s housekeeping staff since well before I was born. Hence, Isla's allegiance is to Lady Aubrey Blythe Townshend Cavendish. She can't bring herself to call Abigail, Mrs. Cavendish. Neither can I. The fact that Abigail has been repeatedly rude to Isla and she talks to her like she’s a complete retard doesn't help my step-monster's cause.
"Why am I not surprised," I roll my eyes. "How many times did she call?"
"Six flipping times," Isla spits out. "I mean how many times do I have to say, ‘Amelia isn't here yet’?”
"God, the woman can’t take a hint."
"Not even when you slap her up against the head with it," Isla shakes her head. "I've never seen that in my life. In any case, I'm sure she's already tried your official mobile at least a dozen times. Of course, she was fishing for your personal mobile number, again. As usual, I played dumb and since the phones were so busy, I ended up putting her on hold… indefinitely," Isla laughs.
"God, that's so devious."
"I know."
"High five," I exclaim. She lifts her hand up and meets mine.
We explode in laughter.
After a few hilarious seconds, we compose ourselves. "At least you can’t say I didn't warn you."
"Duly noted. I'll get back to her… eventually."
We lose it again.
* * *
Isla wasn't kidding when she said it had been a madhouse since she walked through the door. I think it's safe to say that since I sat behind my desk, I’ve returned more phone calls in an afternoon then I did the last three months combined. As exhausted and drained as I am, I'm over the moon by how many new orders came through today. If things continue at this rate, we'll have sold more accessories this week than we did during the entire Christmas season.
Yapping my head off left my throat feeling dry and scratchy. I push up to get another bottle of water when my official mobile rings. I look down and let out an exasperated sigh.
"Not again," I mutter.
No matter how many times I've tried to ignore Abigail’s insistent calls, it's becoming more and more challenging since she's now ringing me every hour on the hour. To add insult to injury, Officer Roderick texted me to let me know that Abigail was up to her old antics—she’s pestering her in the hopes to get my officer to call me on her behalf. Bollocks. Since it's already four o'clock and I haven't had lunch yet, I decide to deal with Abigail and then go out for a short walk to grab something to eat at a nearby sandwich shop as a reward. God knows I’ll need it. I pick up the call just before it goes to voicemail.
"Hello, Abigail."
"Oh my God, finally," she says dramatically.
Not even a greeting.
"I said hello," I press.
"Oh, hello. Where are my manners?” I was asking myself the same thing. “I'm just so excited to speak to you. I never thought I was going to be able to reach you. Since I'm still in Germany, it's not as if I can pop by for a face-to-face." Not that it matters much because my officers would find a clever way to give her the runaround. Still. I'm happy she isn’t wasting their time. "Have they finally fixed that bloody lift to your penthouse?" she asks. "The thing is always broken," she says in an exasperated tone.
Officer Malone and Officer Keenan came up with that brilliant idea to deter Abigail. It’s worked like a charm for the past eight months, hence, she’s only been up to my place once with Daddy since they've been together. Thank God she hasn't been that valiant in her pursuit.
"It's been a busy day for us," I remind her. "And I'm not quite sure what the situation is with the lift," I lie. Don't judge me. You’d do the same thing if she were married to your father.
"Well, the last time I tried to see you, the concierge suggested I take the stairs all the way up to the tenth floor. I looked at him as if he were crazy. I really don't know how you do it. Up and down all those stairs." I snicker.
Abigail doesn’t know about the service lifts. Her driver usually rings my officers the second they set off for my place—he can’t stand her either. That usually gives us plenty of time to get ready for her arrival. That ‘out of service’ sign comes in so handy. Since the American superstar who owns the penthouse on the 11th floor is rarely in London, our ruse works. Abigail can’t pop by my office either because she has no idea where I work. I’ve kept that a secret. So has Daddy.
“Yeah, it’s rough.”
"Of course. In any case, I suspected it might be slightly busy for you. After all, you’re the darling of the press today," she snarls. "You’re everywhere. I’m sure it's good for your little side business." Did you hear how that was laced with sarcasm?
"It's been a blessing,” I match her contempt. “Thanks to the press my little business is growing in leaps and bounds. If it continues—which everything indicates that it will—you won't be able to use a diminutive word anymore to describe what I do," I spit out.
"I didn't mean it in a bad way," she refutes. Right. And I'm a complete idiot.
"How can I help you, Abigail?" I cut to the chase.
"The two men you were photographed with are quite handsome."
Moving right along. "So I've been told."
"It's unfortunate they’re not British.” Huh? “They’re interesting, but you know how those Americans are. They're so unpolished and unrefined. Not like us.” Pardon me while I puke. “Not to mention they seem to be classless commoners even with their wealth. You're better off with a blue blood like you." Says the woman whose mum worked at a fish and chip shop all her life and her dad was a plumber.
Abigail Clementine Kent has been the thorn in my side since the day Daddy declared he was dating again. She married Baron Allen Ludington at twenty-three. Two years later she was divorced. It didn’t take long for her to snatch husband number two, Earl Stephen Jacobs. That marriage lasted an impressive four years before the Earl called it quits. She then spent
several years single until she married Viscount Atticus Edmund Wearstler. He was eighty-two and she was thirty-four. Yup, she married for love. That’s why it lasted three years. She ended up with sizable divorce settlements each and every time. From what my brothers were able to dig up on her, she’s burnt through all that money. In recent years—and to my great dismay—she’s latched on to my father. Bloody black widow. She may have married rich, but that doesn’t erase her background. Of course, she doesn't know that my eldest brother Sebastian hired a private investigator to learn everything about her.
"Is that why you called me twenty times today?" I snap.
"My God, you can be so impatient with me, Amelia," she laments.
"Abigail, I can’t stay long on this call. Start talking or I'll hang up," I warn.
"Very well." I can just imagine those injected lips puckering up. “All of this publicity you're getting is quite good for my charity." How can this be about her?
"How so?"
"So many of our guests called our offices today to RSVP. My staff is thrilled. It's going to be quite the night. As if that wasn't good enough news, every single one of the men on your list of suitors has also RSVP’d. All eight of them are dying to meet you."
"Abigail, we've already talked about—”
"What do you expect, Amelia? Men are all of a sudden very fascinated with you." Something about her tone.
"What do you mean?"
"Your choice of fashion has created quite the buzz. Perhaps if you had selected something a bit more conservative you wouldn't have elicited the unwanted attention from that man."
I'm completely dumbfounded. How dare she?
"Is that what you think?" I spit.
"I have eyes. That dress reveals a lot, Amelia."
"It doesn't," I state firmly.
“That's debatable," she retorts.
Bitch. “I still don't know how you found out—”
"People talk." She offers the same rubbish explanation. Clearly, she had eyes and ears at the gala. Who the hell is it? "That dress was ill-suited for such a formal event," she scorns. She has some gall. "I'm surprised your father didn't demand that you change."
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