by Sadie Black
The shining chrome elevator saw her down to the ground floor, and Ciara headed out into the fresh November air. She folded the order sheet a few times over and slipped it into the pocket of her red pea coat. Of course, no one in the office had instructed her where to go, or which coffee place they favored. Unsure of the surrounding area, she was on her own to figure it out.
"Fantastic," Ciara mumbled. It wasn't cold enough to see her breath on the air, but the frigid temperature nipped her cheeks and chased her hands into the pockets of her gray slacks. Time to explore. Leaving her destination to fate, Ciara strolled briskly down the busy street. There was no shortage of restaurants, but not a coffee shop to be seen. It wasn't until four blocks later that Ciara discovered a small cafe and darted inside.
Mindy's careful handwriting saw her through the intricacies of the order, and Ciara rounded out the seven drinks with one of her own. Black coffee — simple and no fuss. One of the baristas helped her position the coffees strategically between two paper cup holders, then stacked them tall. It was going to be a struggle to get all the drinks back to the office — now Ciara understood why every one of them arrived as early as they did.
"Take care," the barista chirped with an uneasy smile. Ciara held the tower of java uneasily under her chin for stability. With some finesse and the help of a kind stranger who held the door for her, she backed out onto the sidewalk and turned to power walk back to the office. Daylight was burning, and she still had no idea who she was going to write her first article about.
Each quick step saw the pillar of coffee jiggle and quake. Ciara alternated between glancing ahead of her and flicking her gaze to her feet to make sure there was nothing to trip over. One block conquered and about to reach the corner of the second, Ciara let her gaze fall as the cups wobbled. There was no time to stop — getting back to the office and beginning research was imperative. If Theo hadn't stopped her from getting this far, then an armful of coffee wouldn't get the best of her either—
But running face first into a solid body might.
A black wool jacket. Smart gray slacks paired with leather shoes. A respectable haircut that spoke of business, power, and responsibility. Ciara collided head first into his side, and the coffee tumbled. The paper tray on top flipped upward to launch four cups of hot coffee at the unfortunate man she'd run into. Lids burst free from their paper cups to splatter coffee, cream, and one orange pekoe tea down his side. A caffeine lake puddled in a muddy mess at their feet. Some of it landed on the curve of her exposed foot and burned, and in unison, Ciara and the stranger let out mixed cries of shock and pain.
"I'm so sorry!" she gasped, squatting down in an attempt to recover any of the drinks.
Every one of them save the two held closest to her body on the bottom tray was ruined — she'd run into him hard. The upper cardboard tray soaked in the puddle on the street, quickly saturating. The wool of his coat had done a fine job of repelling most of the fluid, but beads of milky espresso clung to the fibers. The man before her raised his arm and shook it, and Ciara took initiative to brush the rest of the coffee from his side.
"Either you're New York's worst morning person, or you're an office saint. Whichever one it is, I can't fault you." A final shake of his arm took the last of the coffee off, and Ciara rose from her crouched position to find herself facing a handsome young gentleman.
Familiarity prickled inside of her, as though they'd met before, but she couldn't place him. Tan white skin contrasted against thick dark hair and gorgeous brown eyes that missed nothing. The long, angular slope of his nose led her to believe he was Italian. Italian... Her memory began to stir.
"You're Luka Belmonte." It wasn't a question.
"In the flesh and blood," he replied with a polite bow of his head, gaze lifted to study her from beneath his brow. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that made Ciara's heart race with girlish delight. It was news to no one that Luka was a party boy and a shameless flirt, but she hadn't anticipated just how charming he was in person. Beyond the timbre of the words he spoke, there was a way he held himself that oozed confidence and appeal. Her first real encounter with a politician, and here she was rubbing elbows with the city's newest rock star. Ciara felt her cheeks warm. New York really was a magical place.
"You have no idea how mortified I am over what just happened. Of all the men to run into in this city and drench in coffee, I run into you."
"Well," Luka said smoothly, "think of it this way — of all the women in New York City that could have run into me, I had the pleasure of it being you. I think that makes me a lucky man."
It was as though she were back in high school, fawning over a senior from a distance. Luka stirred something in her that made her near giddy, and all of the day's stress melted away. No one ever made her feel this way. Ciara had dated plenty of attractive men, but infatuation had never entered the equation.
In Luka there was something new that thrilled and distressed her at the same time, but that something wasn't enough to delay her any longer. She still had to go back to the cafe to spend money she didn't have on coffee she'd never drink. And more important than that, there was a story pitch to come up with.
"If you're as talented in politics as you are in charming strangers, Mr. Belmonte, I think the election is yours."
A radiant smile lit his face, both genuine and playful. There was youth in it that betrayed his political inexperience, but that spoke to a wholesome quality many in his field lacked. Would it be enough to win him an election? Ciara was unsure.
"And if your bad luck always spells out such great fortune for me, then I'm eager to keep you close. Come. Let me buy you a replacement round for the coffee my coat so rudely stole from you. This time I'll help you carry it until you're back to work so it doesn't happen again. What'dya say?"
Until then, Luka had done his part to keep the Italian from his voice, but Ciara heard it clearly as he slipped into familiarity. It was endearing. She couldn't help but return his smile, and with a brief nod of her head, she agreed.
"Usually I'd say no, but it's not every day a Belmonte offers to buy you coffee. I've done a lot of reading about your family, you know. Your father was an amazing man. What a story I'm going to have for the office."
What a story indeed. The idea hit all at once, and when it did, it stuck. Ciara's smile grew. The time she'd spent out that morning fetching coffee hadn't been wasted — it had given her a brilliant idea. Luka Belmonte was a new force in the city, and little had been written about him so far. She'd pitch a story about him.
"If you think my father was amazing," they had started to walk back to the cafe, "you haven't seen anything yet. I'm going to wow this whole place, just you wait and see."
Overhead, clouds blotted out the sun and cast their early morning in dreary gray, but with Luka, there wasn't a drab moment to be had. Side by side they walked back to the cafe, and all the while they chatted. By the time they arrived at the doors of the coffee shop, Ciara was convinced that Luka could make even something as torturous as math sound exciting. The man was blessed with charisma beyond his years. As much as Ciara wanted to remain professional, Luka disarmed her and left her pulse racing.
At the cash he made good on his word by paying for the replacement beverages. One tray of four drinks and the bagel she had forgotten the first time around in a brown paper bag in her hand. Luka walked her back to the shared office building TCD occupied before delicately layering his tray on hers.
"Now you be careful," he told her. "Don't go spilling any coffee on some other guy — I don't want to lose my good luck to just any Joe off the streets."
"And you," Ciara said with a broad grin, "should watch yourself if you're ever on that street corner around this time. You might just find a girl from middle-of-nowhere Iowa with her eyes on the ground instead of ahead of her."
"I'll be sure to wear a new coat tomorrow, then," Luka replied with a quick wink. "Take care now. I'll be seeing you around sometime soon."
For a brief moment, she only had a vague recollection of why she was even standing in ground floor of this skyscraper. Then her focus shifted as her ambition shot through her like lightening, it was time to get to work.
The shining chrome doors of the elevator at the back of the building parted for her, and she rode it up to the tenth floor. The doors opened into a brief communal hall, the entire right side of which was made up of TCD offices.
Alone with thoughts of Luka, his silver tongue, and the terrific story she'd write about him, Ciara shouldered her way into the office to find that pitching had started without her. Killian, TCD's head editor, stood in the center of the room as the team volleyed off their ideas.
"— new nose."
"No. Not unless you can get some leads on a pain pill addiction following the surgery. Next?"
"Gillian Lavender, pregnant? She's been wearing some circus tents for outfits the last few days and she just broke up with Jake Talbert. Could be juicy."
"Then squeeze it for all it's got," Killian said. "Next?"
"What about a piece on Luka Belmonte?" Ciara asked from the doorway. Silence fell, and all eyes turned in her direction. Coffee still stacked precariously in her arms, she knew how ridiculous she looked. As Killian turned to face her, expression stony, Ciara wished that she'd put the drinks down first.
"Who cares about the elections?" he asked. "This is a gossip and celebrity drama magazine. Our readers want to spend their time either connecting with or tearing down the beautiful people — not worry about the men who run the city."
Ciara's heart sank. The idea felt flawless when she'd mulled it over at Luka's side, but it was Killian's opinion on what was best for the blog that mattered. Her mind began to whirl in a cyclone of self-doubt. Clenching her fists and gritting her teeth, Ciara knew there were seconds to spare before everything she'd worked so hard for was ruined.
No one who read TCD did so to shape their political opinions — if she wanted to save her image in the eyes of her head editor, she was going to have to approach the Belmonte story from a different angle. Come hell or high water, Ciara would get her start reporting on politics — selling her first pitch was a simple matter of packaging.
"Luka Belmonte is a notorious party boy and womanizer," she replied quickly. The ability to think on her feet made her excel in college, and it served her well now. "He's young, let's face it, he's gorgeous, and he's prone to party too hard to be suitable for mayor. Let me do an exposé on his hot lifestyle and we'll have a story that will be the talk of the town. I'll go undercover as a volunteer on his campaign and expose him from the inside. I promise you, this will be huge."
Killian set his lips and studied her. He was a tall, elegant bald man with mocha skin and a flare for sharp, masculine fashion. Ciara would have been interested had she not been certain he had no desire for women. As it was, she was terrified of the power he possessed. Such a man had the ability to make or break a journalist through a few simple phone calls. She needed to get on his good side if she wanted to make a name for herself.
Whatever chemistry she felt with Luka wasn't as important as getting in good with the head editor of TCD. No relationship had ever been worth more than her career, and the thought that she'd sacrifice her profession to spare a pretty boy's reputation was laughable. If it meant that she'd be recognized, she would set the fire beneath Luka Belmonte's feet herself without a second thought.
"Are you new here?" Killian asked, the emotions on his face and in his words still masked. There was a tightness to his lips that Ciara thought was irritation, but it was difficult to tell.
"Yes. I started today."
"Mindy?" Killian asked, refusing to avert his eyes from Ciara. The stare proved intimidating; Ciara wished she'd put the coffee down.
"Yes, Killian?" Mindy asked. There was a nasally whine to her voice when she spoke to the boss that was not there when she spoke to her peers. Spoke down to her peers was more like it. Ciara supposed it was an attempt to sound sweet, but it came out saccharine.
"Take a note will ya? This girl won't be doing coffee runs anymore — we need her right here, where hopefully her ideas will rub off on the rest of you. Belmonte exposé is approved. If this turns out to be as big as I think it's going to be, I think you'll have a long and profitable career as a journalist in New York, Ms. Simmons."
It wasn't the steam from the coffee tucked beneath her chin that heated Ciara's cheeks.
"Thank you, Killian."
Mindy's cheeks puffed as she bit back a scalding remark, her whole body growing rigid at the praise Ciara received.
"And Mindy," Killian continued. "Go unload the coffee from Ms. Simmon's arms. Unless you can think of something more ground breaking than Sergio Terella's new nose, you can do the coffee runs for your section."
Tightened fists accented Mindy's puffed cheeks, and without a word she stormed across the room and snatched the upper stack of coffee from Ciara.
"If even one of these is wrong, you're going back to fix your mistake," she hissed.
"There's no need to worry," Ciara replied. Killian's encouragement strengthened her, and Mindy no longer posed a threat. "I stand by my work in all things."
"Glad to hear it," Killian said. "I knew you were the right choice for our team. Now everyone with a story, get to it. Everyone without, you'd better come up with something by the end of the day."
If only she could bottle the look on Mindy's face to save for a rough day. The woman near slammed the drinks down on a nearby desk and began to distribute them one by one.
New York was cutthroat, and Ciara refused to let competition stand in the way of her dreams. No matter what, she was determined to come out on top.
After all, from where she stood within the agency, there was nowhere to go but up.
* * *
Luka
"T minus five minutes. Please make sure you're ready to go out, Mr. Belmonte."
The chick who spoke to him was a skinny, willowy creature with no real curves to speak of. Her mousy brown hair was swept into a tight ponytail, he imagined with a trip to a good beautician she might look half decent. Breasts could be bought, after all.
Bad fake tits weren't nearly as fun as the real ones, but these days plastic surgeons did top notch work. Better than nature, in some cases. One of the girls Luka had seen on and off three years back was made of silicone. He hadn't realized until he'd caught sight of a thin scar tucked beneath her bosom. If he hadn't been paying such close attention to her body with the lighting just right, he never would've noticed.
Luka left his thoughts unspoken, simply nodding his head politely as he stood nervously by the old leather couch. An unfinished bottle of beer sat on the end table nearest Luka. It wasn't enough to even take the edge off, not after the lifestyle he'd indulged in. A first appearance on public television was enough to make any man nervous.
"I'm ready when Breece is," Luka announced. He slid his hands into the shallow pockets of his slacks and clenched and unclenched his fingers to try to work some of the jitters out. During his career, his father had always been at home on stage. As a child Luka watched from the audience as his father chatted up talk show hosts as though they were old friends, and wondered how he'd done it. Chicks on a Friday night were easy to charm, but television personalities were another beast.
"Remember not to look directly at the cameras unless you're instructed to, and that the show is live — so keep it clean. Apart from that, have fun. Mr. Breece said tonight will be a riot."
"A regular barrel of monkeys," Luka mumbled. The tall assistant led him from the green room toward the wing. Other crew members scurried like cockroaches exposed to light, stringing wires, and climbing scaffolding. Live television made politics look easy. All Luka had to do was dress sharp, smile, and direct the conversation to his talking points
.
From his vantage point, he could see Ryan Breece on stage. The polished wooden desk he sat behind didn't seem as big in person as it did on the screen. A commercial break cued, and staff ran out onto stage to escort Breece's previous guest off and straighten up the area.
"When the break ends," the skinny chick told him in a hushed tone, "Ryan's gonna welcome back the viewers and introduce you. When you hear applause, that's your cue to walk on stage and settle on the guest couch. Got it?"
"Easy enough," Luka said.
"We'll escort you off stage when Breece cuts to the performance. Then you'll be free to do whatever else you've got planned for tonight."
The process was simple enough; the struggle would be with the content. From a distance Luka kept his eye on Breece. The man was sharp witted, and his team of writers knew how to elicit laughs, often at the expense of others. Tonight would be lighthearted and good for his image — all he had to do was play off of Breece and keep the ball rolling.
"Welcome back to Late Nights With Ryan Breece. I hope that all you older viewers haven't gone to bed, because tonight we're going to be talking with a blast from the past. But don't worry young viewers, especially you ladies — I've been told our next guest is smokin' hot and single. So, if that's not enough to keep you interested, well," a charming laugh, "who am I kidding? Of course it is."
Seriously? Breece was going to play up his looks? That was his angle? Tonight was supposed to be about the politics, about the vision, hell, even about reminding the viewers what good his father had done for New York City. Instead, he was going on about the superficial.