Caramel curls tease the tops of her shoulders, a fitted blue dress and heels accentuating her trim figure. Her lips are painted a pretty pink with long lashes framing hazel eyes. She glances around hesitantly, following the woman she entered with over to the other end of the bar where they order. She studies a barstool, only settling onto it after carefully wiping it off.
The woman’s got standards then.
The other patrons don’t pay any attention to them as the bartender hands them each a martini, which I’m surprised they even serve here.
I watch her surreptitiously as I finish my whiskey, mulling over the idea of getting lost in a woman tonight instead of alcohol. It would save me a headache tomorrow morning at least. And who knows when I’ll get laid again? I’m not quite convinced the Ice Queen will be so accommodating.
I get a refill, standing to stroll over to her end of the bar, something about her drawing me forward, an innate sensuality she’s projecting despite the sweet image she’s trying to portray with the business appropriate dress and soft makeup. “I’m guessing this isn’t your normal hangout?” I motion to her with my glass, taking another sip as she turns her head my way. The burn of the alcohol isn’t so bad this time.
I swear there’s interest in her gaze before she quickly shuts it down, those hazel eyes even more striking up close, with flecks of golden brown interspersed among the green.
“Doesn’t look like your kind of place either,” she replies, giving me a once over. She’s right. The suit I put on earlier in an attempt to impress Dad costs what most people make in a month.
The woman beside her smirks into her martini glass, then turns away from us, checking something on her phone.
I lean an elbow on the bar, immediately regretting my decision once I remember what likely lurks there. “Maybe we could find a place that would suit us both a little better.”
She sets her drink down, turning fully toward me, amusement flirting over her lush lips. “And where might that be?”
I give her a smile, the one I’ve had women describe to me as panty-melting. “My apartment.”
She nods, clearly entertained, but for some reason, it doesn’t seem to bode well for me. “Did you really think you could convince me to sleep with you after talking to me for not even a minute? That I’d be so hot for you, I’d ditch my friend to go home with you, some random guy, to have sex at your place? Are you actually putting in that little effort and expecting a reward?”
There’s a choked laugh coming from the direction of her friend, and it takes me a second to realize my jaw is dropped. I quickly slam back the rest of my drink, just wanting this god awful day to be over already.
She takes a long draw from her martini, holding eye contact with me, then delicately sets it on the bar. “But seriously, better luck with the next girl. Whoever ends up in your bed tonight after that half-hearted pickup attempt is definitely a keeper.”
She turns to her friend, dismissing me, and all I can do is chuckle to myself at her chastisement. She’s absolutely right. That was a weak attempt by anyone’s standards. I wouldn’t be in the best headspace for anything tonight anyway.
“My apologies, ladies,” I murmur, pulling two twenties out of my wallet and sliding them across the counter to cover my tab and then some. “Next round’s on me. Have a good night.”
I button my suit jacket and exit the bar, not bothering to glance back. I know when to call it quits.
I wander around the city for an hour until my feet ache, the wingtips I’m wearing meant more for the boardroom than trailing aimlessly across Manhattan, then catch a cab to the Upper East Side, not wanting to bother my driver this late.
Tomorrow’s the first day of the rest of my life.
I walk into the conference room bright and early, fifteen minutes before the meeting is even scheduled to start, thank you very much. I’m resigned to whatever may happen today, and if I’m headed down this path, I might as well meet it head on.
A trim figure in a lavender dress is bent over at the front of the room, pert ass wiggling in the air as she retrieves something from a tote bag at her feet. I take a moment to appreciate it, averting my gaze as she straightens and turns around.
Both of us freeze, staring at each other as recognition hits.
It’s the girl from the bar.
“You,” we say in eerie unison. It would be comical in any other situation, but I don’t need the woman I hit on here in this office.
Those gorgeous hazel eyes narrow on me. “Did you not get the message last night?” she asks, placing the folders she took from her bag on the long, polished table. “Are you harassing me at work?”
I rear back. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for a meeting.” Wait, did she say she worked here?
“This room is reserved for my meeting. I’ll go talk to Vivian.”
She moves past me, but doesn’t make it far before stumbling to a halt. I hold out an arm to catch her, but she steadies herself on the back of a chair, swiveling toward me slowly. “What meeting are you here for?”
“Wedding planning. Why?”
“I’m the wedding planner.”
Chapter Two
Mackenzie
His face pales underneath his tan. “Fuck,” he murmurs, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.
The suspicion alarm in me intensifies, sounding warning bells in my head. “Who are you?”
Please don’t say the groom. Please, for the holy love of Jesus, don’t say the groom.
“The groom,” he sighs, pulling out a chair from the boardroom table and thudding down hard in it, like he suddenly has a fifty ton weight on his shoulders.
Indignation runs hot through me, and I try to bite back the next words, but they escape anyway. “Isn’t that just something? You’re out picking up girls the night before you plan your own wedding.” I’m perfectly aware it’s a bad idea as soon as the words leave my mouth. This man could say one word to his father and have me out of here instantly. But sometimes my tongue prefers not to listen to logic.
He merely rolls his eyes. “It’s not what you think.” Not what I think? What else is there to think? “My dad arranged this whole thing.”
It takes me a second to piece it together. “An arranged marriage?” No wonder I had to sign that non-disclosure agreement.
He nods. “I’m only a pawn in his scheming. And it was my time to be sacrificed.”
Pawn? Sacrifice? Well, if this is how the guy views marriage, we’re off to a bad start.
Still, I can’t believe he would attempt to cheat on his fiancee like that, even if it is arranged. “And what does the bride have to say about you going out to bars?” Damn it, why can’t I keep my mouth shut? It’s like I want to be fired, when this is my chance to actually make it big.
He gives me the phoniest smile I’ve ever seen, nearly making me laugh until I remember I’m disgusted with him. “I’ve never spoken to her. Haven’t even laid eyes on her in ten years. So you tell me how she feels about it. You probably know more than I do.”
Now I’m the one to rear back. He’s never spoken to his fiancee? “What?”
He runs a hand through hair so dark it’s nearly black, the tips curling at the nape of his neck. “It’s a business deal. The whole marriage is fake. Another way for my father to keep controlling me.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I like his money,” he grins cockily.
The door to the conference room bangs open and I whirl around, startling as if I was caught doing something wrong under an intense blue stare.
“Ms. Sweet, I presume,” a man in his mid-fifties greets me, all business as he extends his hand.
“Please call me Mackenzie.” I return his handshake, attempting to project the confidence I practiced earlier in the mirror.
“Denise highly recommends you.” He takes the seat at the head of the conference table, an aura of authority settling over him. “Don’t disappoint me.”
I gulp, plast
ering a smile on. “Of course not, sir.” I hand him a folder emblazoned with my company’s logo and filled with the brochure for Sweet Events and a list of the wedding planning packages I put together. “You’ll find everything I offer in there.”
He takes a cursory glance at it and sets it aside. Great.
I give another folder to the man from last night, whom I still haven’t caught the name of. He presumably has the last name Bishop, though. There’s no denying the resemblance between father and son. “I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Mackenzie Sweet.”
“Gabriel Bishop,” he says dryly, warm fingers brushing mine briefly as he takes the folder. I narrow my eyes, but he pretends not to notice, opening the file to peruse what’s inside.
“Are we waiting for the bride?” I ask when there’s no indication if I should start yet or not, only the soft rustle of papers as Gabriel actually reads my handouts.
Mr. Bishop frowns, glancing at an enormous watch on his wrist, a ludicrous display of wealth if I’ve ever seen one, but then the door opens again, a willowy blonde woman and an equally fair-haired older man entering behind her.
“Harry,” the man beams, striding over to shake Mr. Bishop’s hand, who seems less than thrilled at the man’s familiarity.
The woman glances around, her eyes sliding right over Gabriel, appearing to be confused. “Where’s Archer?”
The room goes silent until the older man chuckles nervously, walking back over to her by the doorway and guiding her to a seat. “Honey, this is Gabriel Bishop. He’s the one you’ll be marrying.”
She finally looks at Gabriel, her mouth tilting down at the corners. “Oh.” The amount of disappointment she’s able to convey with the single word is truly astounding.
To his credit, he doesn’t flinch, but there definitely is some teeth grinding action, even as he does his best to project disinterest. Seriously, though, how embarrassing for him.
I did a quick Google search on Harold Bishop, founder of Bishop Industries, yesterday after getting the call from his secretary about a wedding consultation for his son, discovering he actually has three sons. I just didn’t know which one the wedding would be for. If I had been more thorough and researched each of them, maybe I would have known who was hitting on me last night.
So this girl agreed to the marriage thinking she was marrying one of his brothers? Not a good sign.
The woman doesn’t sit in the chair offered to her, instead whispering, “Dad, can I talk to you over here for a moment?”
The two of them head to the corner of the room, voices low in some kind of heated discussion, and I smile awkwardly at Mr. Bishop, who’s glaring straight ahead.
“This is a lovely building,” I tell him, attempting small talk as a distraction to what’s going on just ten feet away. “I’ve always admired it but never had a reason to go inside.”
He glances once at me in acknowledgment but says nothing, and Gabriel unsuccessfully tries to hide a grin. The rat bastard.
Perspiration forms under my arms, and I valiantly resist the urge to fan my armpits. How can this whole consultation fall apart before it’s even started?
“We’re ready,” the older man announces, leading the blonde back to the conference table. “Greg Montague,” he introduces himself to first Gabriel, then me. “And my daughter, Serena.”
She gives me a half-hearted smile, her eyes red-rimmed, and brings her gaze down to a spot on the table in front of her where it remains for the rest of the appointment.
My heart goes out to her, and if I didn’t need the business so badly, I’d be tempted to walk out right now. With neither party truly invested in this marriage, what’s the point?
But with the way my finances are currently, I don’t have much of a choice.
“It’s so nice to meet you all,” I say as warmly as I can to the room as a whole. “Let’s go ahead and get started.”
I hand folders to Mr. Montague and Serena, explaining what’s inside. A bit about my company, my experience planning weddings, and a portfolio of some events I’ve worked on, along with examples of arrangements I could put together for them. I made sure to stuff it with as many high-end features as I could, knowing this client has the money to spare for it. I could kiss Denise, an event coordinator I previously worked with, for passing my name along to him. I had no idea she knew Harold Bishop so well.
The only one who seems even mildly impressed with my spiel is Mr. Montague, but I don’t let that deter me from giving it everything I have, knowing this is my chance to put Sweet Events on the map. I need this gig.
“The last thing I have here is a consultation list I go through with all my clients. This helps me to get to know you and get an idea of what kind of event design you’re looking for, budget, vendor preferences, things like that. Could we start on that now?”
Please say yes. I’ve found that the more time they commit to going through the list, the more likely they are to book me.
Mr. Bishop glances up from his phone and stands, my stomach bottoming out. He’s not interested.
“I have a meeting in ten. You’re hired,” he says succinctly, the butterflies in my belly rising again, buoying me up till I’m floating in delight. “Vivian will give you a contract and guest list. Make it classy and keep it under budget.” He gives me a number that has my brows raising, even as I do my best to maintain a neutral expression. The commission on this will be enough to get me back on track and then some.
“Yes, sir.”
His son grimaces at my honorific, but I couldn’t care less. I’ll kiss Harold Bishop’s ass all he wants if it means I can keep my business afloat.
He strides out of the room to whatever important meeting he has, and Mr. Montague and Serena exit soon after, the woman still looking like she might cry. Normally, the bride has the most to say during consultations, but she didn’t speak a single word after discovering it wasn’t this Archer guy she’ll be marrying.
I pick up the folder she left behind, passing by Gabriel slumped in his chair as he blows out a long breath. I try to ignore his gaze on me, a tangible presence that makes me conscious of my body, the way I move. It’s not like I’ve never been around an attractive guy before. Manhattan is filled with them. Some days you can’t turn the corner without running into some model slash actor who’s sure to be the next big thing.
But they don’t have inky dark hair and tanned skin that makes the blue of their eyes pop so vividly, it makes you take a second glance. And then a third once you notice that chiseled jaw with sexy stubble dotting it. And then a fourth when they give you a cocky smirk because you realize you’ve been staring at them for a solid ten seconds.
I scowl, whirling back around to stow everything away in my tote bag. I wasn’t looking at him, just in his general direction as my mind wandered… about him.
I’m nearly finished when he finally says my name, his voice serious now. I set my things down on the conference table, expecting him to warn me about staying quiet about our previous meeting or hit on me again or something, but he surprises me.
“I’m sorry about the way I approached you last night. Well, that I even did it at all.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, head cast down. “I had just found out about this whole thing and wasn’t in a good headspace. I thought it was my last night of… freedom, I guess.” He shrugs, his body language screaming dejection, and I can’t help but feel bad for him. This will definitely take the cake for the weirdest wedding I’ve ever planned. Both the bride and groom don’t want to marry the other.
“Did you find someone to go home with?”
“No,” he says ruefully, a hint of a grin lurking around his lips. “I was sufficiently chastised.”
“Sorry I cockblocked you then.”
He laughs, amusement in his eyes. “I deserved it.”
Wow, he’s being surprisingly mature about all of this. If he can, then I can too. “I hope we can start on a fresh foot. As long as you promise not to go to any
more bars.”
He makes an X motion over his chest. “Cross my heart. Don’t think the missus would like that too much. As you could see, she’s dying to marry me.”
I wince and he laughs again. “So it was obvious to you too?”
I nod reluctantly and he runs a hand through his hair, face turning melancholy.
I’m unsure what to say. Giving my condolences doesn’t seem quite right. I’m banking on him going through with the wedding. Congratulations will ring insincere too. I settle on just keeping it professional. “Are you available tomorrow to start completing the consultation list? I was under the impression everything should be scheduled as soon as possible.”
He stares at me for a moment, those blue eyes going as intense as his father’s before he blinks and it disappears. “I’m free tomorrow,” he says simply, walking past me. “See you then.”
I grab my bag, half of my brain already making lists of all the things I need to prepare now that I’m officially hired, the other half lingering over the sadness radiating off of both Serena and Gabriel.
It seems money can’t buy you happiness.
But at least you can use your hundred dollar bills to dry your tears.
The bell above the door chimes as I stroll in, the sweet perfume of hundreds of varieties of flowers greeting my nose. I breathe in deep, never tiring of the smell, and spot Diana helping an older woman pick out a bouquet over in the corner of the shop.
Another woman waits patiently at the register and I walk behind the counter to ring her up, carefully handling the succulent terrarium she’s buying. “These are so cute,” I tell her. “I have two of them on my balcony at home.” That’s a lie. Priced at thirty-five dollars each, I can’t afford these. I also can’t afford a balcony right now.
The woman beams, thanking me as she leaves, and I linger behind the register until Diana’s finished with her customer.
“You don’t have to do that,” she chides me softly. “You’re not an employee.”
Resisting the Billionaire Page 2