by Lila Monroe
“Morning,” a voice behind me says. I turn to find Ace watching me from the doorway, wearing only his pajama bottoms.
I almost drop my perfectly calibrated espresso. The fully-clothed sneak preview I got last night can’t hold a candle to the anatomical delights dancing before my eyes right now. He has…well, he’s clearly worked hard for that six pack. His body is lean and muscled, his arms so perfectly sculpted that they’d make Michelangelo’s David weep with jealousy. His eyes are the kind of smooth jet-black that has only two settings: electric and smolder. Yesterday, I thought the stubble made him look like a ski bum, but now it accentuates the chiseled outline of his jaw. He has that scruffy, tousled, just-woken-up look that can be downright irresistible. I mean, to someone else. Anyone else. Anyone who is not in this very room right now.
He also has tattoos, which I am not a fan of. Usually. There’s a coil of musical notes spiraling down his left forearm, a complex black design down his left bicep, and a dark red rose over his heart. That would be sweet, except I think that the rose is bleeding.
Ace puts a hand through his coal black, messy hair, and smiles at me.
“Is this a one-sided good morning?” he asks. Oh God. I haven’t said anything. I’ve just been staring. I feel my cheeks getting hot and look away. Hold it together, Paige.
“Good morning,” I echo. “Um. Coffee?” I feel like a cheerful character in a Folger’s commercial. Nothing like a nice, fresh cup of coffee to start a day full of hot abs. I mean hot ass. I mean work.
“Mmm.” Ace reaches for a cup, but I’m already preparing it. Steamed to perfection, I hand it over. He blows, takes a sip, and nods his approval. I clear my throat and give him my best Mom-trained Perfect Southern Lady smile.
“I just wanted to thank you for this opportunity,” I say. Ace leans against the counter, sipping his coffee, blinking himself awake. “You won’t be disappointed.”
“I know I won’t be, party-planner-Paige. I never am.” He yawns, stretching. There are back muscles as well. So sculpted. So…flawless. So…Paige! Focus! I drop my eyes and study my very interesting cappuccino.
“Well. Is there anything specific you want me to take care of, or take into consideration as I go? Personal touches can really make an event.”
“It’s up to you.” He gives a casual wave and pads across the kitchen. “You’re the one with the vision. Or so I’ve been told. This actually wasn’t my idea at all, it was my aunt’s. Her best friend’s cousin is in some hokey down South quilting club and she was raving about an event you put together for Knox Liquors recently. Of course, the company went under shortly after, so I’m not sure that’s much of a ringing endorsement, is it?” Ace laughs. My blood boils. “Either way, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He shrugs, completely unconcerned. I clench my jaw, battling to keep my mouth shut. I lose.
“So you’re saying you don’t care about this party at all?” I say, my voice icy.
An irritating grin breaks out across his face. “Let’s just say I’m not worried. A party’s a party, right? Anyway I’ve got work to do, so I’ll be out of your way. Go do your magic.” He tosses out an infuriating wink.
It should be nice that he’s putting all this trust in me, but the fact that he’s so casual about it is a little exasperating, as is his comment about my Knox event. Which was lovely. Which had nothing to do with the company folding, might I add. It was all politics. But there’s nothing to be gained here by arguing the point. Meanwhile, adding to my annoyance, Carmichael is acting like putting together an event is something that just happens spontaneously, while you’re giggling on the phone and doing your nails. Maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much, except that I still keep thinking about how he knocked into me yesterday and didn’t seem to care. How is this man pushing all my buttons? I didn’t even know I had buttons.
“Good to meet you,” he says as he starts to saunter off.
“You know, we’ve actually met before.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself. He pauses and turns back, looking surprised.
“Oh. Right, last night. Well, consider this my official good to meet you. Last night was a warm up.”
“No. It was at the airport. Baggage claim number five?” I lean back against the kitchen island. “You bumped into me. Literally. I got a nice close-up view of the floor.”
Why am I doing this? His eyebrows shoot up, and his dark eyes seem to gleam.
“Wait.” He cracks a grin and sort of finger-guns me. “‘Douchebro’ girl, right?”
Please, let that not be my new nickname. I flush. “Right. Well. I didn’t know it was you at the time.”
“Does my douchebro status change along with my name? I’m a little sad. I kind of like the douchebro moniker. It’s clever. Maybe not entirely apt, but then again…” He comes back and stands in front of me. He’s not challenging, just sort of…attentive.
“I should probably get to work,” I say, going to the sink and rinsing out my cup.
“That’s it? There will be no war of the douchebros? The gauntlet was down.” He leans against the counter, still watching me. Feeling bold, I turn to face him.
“The best way to cancel out a douchebro label is with sincere apologetics. In this case, one apology will suffice.” I fold my arms. Carmichael grins widely.
“All right. I’m sorry I bumped into you,” he says, setting his cup down and brushing against me, his voice dropping lower and deeper, “without introducing myself.”
“It’s fine,” I stammer. “I just—”
He turns toward me, still only inches away, and looks down into my eyes. “I’m Ace Carmichael. It’s nice to meet you.” He takes my hand in his, gripping it firmly, and the warmth radiating from his palm combined with his intense, searching gaze sends a shot of heat straight to my panties. My throat goes dry. I try to come up with a verbal response, but I can’t get a word out. Say something. Anything. Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Wait, am I Shakespeare-ing? Gah! Think, Paige!
“I’d better get to work,” I manage, realizing I’m repeating myself like a robot.
Ace lets my hand go and smiles. “Don’t let me keep you then,” he says. He strolls out the door, and I’m left with two empty coffee mugs and a lot of confusion.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. I have to get this place full of holiday cheer, and stat. I didn’t think to order trees—I guess I assumed he’d have them already—but I can bring in other seasonal trappings. There are strings of tiny white lights to work with, which look fresh and festive after a lot of untangling. Evergreen garlands deck the halls, their scent sharp and sweet. I get calls from the caterers and the florists as the snow falls outside the window. Yes, we want the poinsettia; no, we don’t need the winter ivy. Yes, we will need the extra chafing dishes; no, we can do without the melted chocolate fountain. Every time I check in about something with Ace, he gives me a simple thumbs-up. I have to assume my work is solid, and that he won’t be unhappy when he sees it.
The deliverymen are friendly and extremely hard working. They even help me rearrange all the furniture downstairs to accommodate the traffic flow a crowd of people will create. I stock the guestrooms with small sachets of cedar and lavender, ribbon-tied jars of peppermint sticks, and anything else that’s holiday cheerful. Even when they go to bed, there will still be something to make them smile. From experience I’ve learned that the best parties always hinge on the little details that most planners tend to ignore.
Throughout the day, I pass Ace in the hallway. He’s always on the phone, completely absorbed with whomever he’s talking to. He’ll flatten himself against a wall while the guys carry past an ottoman or a chaise lounge, then keep walking without breaking his concentration. Once, I have to knock on the door of his studio to ask a question.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice tight as I enter. “What is it?” He looks up, his eyes blazing. There’s a pile of paper on his desk, contracts from the look of it. His fingers tap on the desk. He’s
eager to dive back in, but clears his throat. “Sorry, Paige. You got me at a bad moment. Tell me what you need.” His gaze is so intense; I can’t help blushing.
“I need a centerpiece for the dining room table,” I say, holding out a cardboard box. “I wanted something to decorate a wreath, and I found these in the attic. Since they’re yours, I wanted to check before using them.”
Ace looks like he’s about to roll his eyes, but he pauses and digs something out of the box. It’s a toy soldier, hand-painted by the look of it. For one instant, the crackling light in his eyes dims, softens. “Mom made this the year I was six. God, I forgot I had it.” He even smiles a little, but then puts the soldier back in the box. The smile vanishes. He’s back to work. “Sure.”
“Also, it may be too late to get Christmas trees in,” I say. Ace grunts. “Well, isn’t it a holiday party? There should be at least a couple.”
“No,” he says, sounding decisive. “That’s one thing I don’t need.” His tone is forceful. “Pine needles everywhere,” he says, but I get the feeling that’s a lie.
“Well, what about a menorah? Something Kwanzaa related? There has to be something seasonal!”
“No,” he says, all but slamming his hand on the desk. Wow. This is really bothering him. “No trees, no menorahs. Everything else is fine.” That’s the dismissal as he turns back to his papers. As I walk out, he sighs and says, “Besides the overt signs of holiday warmth, you can use anything in the house. So go tinsel-and-holly your little heart out. I trust you.” He glances up, and I can feel his gaze evaluating me again. My face flushes. For the jillionth time.
“Well, that’s one really good decision you’ve made today,” I say, and leave. His startled laughter follows me out into the hall.
Finally, everything is perfect and settled. As the sun starts going down, I thank the caterers and florists and movers and usher them all out of the lodge. Closing the door, I press my back to it and almost slide down with a contented sigh. Ahead of me, the huge living room is a tasteful holiday wonderland.
And the smells from the kitchen are mouth-wateringly perfect. I head inside to take a plate of appetizers for dinner. It’s necessary. Kings and queens used to have food tasters to make certain they weren’t poisoned. All that stands between Mark Ronson and certain death are me, my intrepid stomach, and one chipotle-lime crab crisp, one mozzarella fireball (two mozzarella fireballs, if I’m honest), a few of those Kobe beef kabobs, and a mini quinoa faux-burger garnished with caramelized onion relish and a slice of non-dairy daiya cheese. What can I say, there are bound to be a few vegans. I hesitate over the crudité and then force myself to grab a handful of carrot sticks. Veggies managed.
I take my plate into the den, where a Panasonic the size of my parents’ house waits to wrap me in television’s sweet embrace. I flip over to my nerd girl-crush, Agent Carter. I’m happily watching Peggy Carter break up super spy rings—and look fabulous while doing it—when Ace strolls into the den. I sit up a little and hit the mute button.
“Oh! Sorry, I thought you were still working. I didn’t mean to take over your space,” I say, starting to rise. He waves me back onto the couch.
“I have a lot of space. Take over as much as you want.” He stretches for a moment, exposing a flash of rock-hard abdominal deliciousness that I don’t even notice at all, and then collapses onto the opposite end of the couch. Most guys who flop on the sofa look like they’re about to call for a beer and fumble for the remote. He does it with a liquid grace and I see him looking around, nodding. “My house looks like a realtor’s brochure for Christmas in Aspen. You’re good at what you do, party planner Paige.”
Something about the way he says ‘good at what you do’ makes my face heat up. Please tell me I’m not blushing. Or if I am, please say it’s because of the mozzarella fireball.
“Well, I’m very experienced.” The words are out before I can stop them. Ace smiles.
“Experienced? I like that in a woman.” His eyes meet mine. They’re sparkling, hypnotic even. I mean, hypnotic to someone else. Ace isn’t my type, at all. I like gentlemen with good manners, a passing acquaintance with a razor, and no dirty denim. No denim, period. That’s what Mom would say. Mom wouldn’t like any of this—how close our bodies are on the couch, the way he’s looking at me right now, the fact that I am not blushing, totally not at all, not even the tiniest bit. Danger, Will Robinson!
But the way he’s focused on me feels so intense. It reminds me of the way he looked while on his phone, or in his studio: passionate about getting his way and solving the problem.
Well, I’m not a problem to be solved. And I’m about to pick up my appetizers and excuse myself, regardless of his half-hearted attempt at hospitality, when he says the magic words: “You like Agent Carter?” He sounds excited and surprised. “She’s the Marvel universe’s best character.” He grabs for the remote and turns the volume back on.
My jaw drops. I can’t leave now. “Seriously? I thought I was the only one who thought so!”
Ace leans forward. “She’s a confident, bad ass woman who fights her way through a man’s world and doesn’t take shit from anybody. What’s not to love?” He grins as he relaxes against the cushions again, giving me yet another not-so-unwelcome glimpse of his sculpted torso. He looks like an ad for men’s cologne, and I want a whiff.
Instead, I try to snap out of it. “I always felt sorry for her that Captain America went into the ice,” I say, sighing for my OTP. Ace shrugs. When he gets up to leave, I assume he’s decided to let me watch my show in peace—but he returns a few moments later with his own plate. It’s laden with the appetizers from the kitchen, and I’m proud to note he took some of each one. Once he settles back in beside me, we enjoy the show and our bite-sized meal in companionable silence.
As the end credits roll, he turns to me. I realize we’ve subconsciously scooted closer together during the show, and I ease myself back toward the armrest.
“You know, I guess I’m really more of an Iron Man guy myself. Or actually no,” he says, a serious gleam in his eyes. “I am Iron Man.”
“Really?” I can’t help but laugh. “Where’s all the fancy technology then?”
“Paige, I have a helipad on the roof and my dishwasher can be programmed to speak Mandarin. I am Iron Man.” He shifts closer to me. “Too bad he and Peggy were born decades apart. He could’ve shown her how to loosen up a little.” He grins, very devil-may-care, and looks at me like he’s…waiting for me to do something. But what?
“Maybe she didn’t want to loosen up,” I shoot back. “Maybe her job would’ve been compromised if she’d let her guard down that much. It’d be easy for men to underestimate her. Maybe she couldn’t have been so tough and capable if she was just running around partying all the time.” It gets quiet as we both realize that I’m probably talking about myself. Oh, God.
His brow furrows. “Paige, I didn’t mean—”
Before I can feel even more awkward, I rush to fill the conversation gap. “Anyway, um, we should talk about tomorrow.” I keep my voice level. “Do we have cars waiting at the airport? Are any of the guests arriving together? If so, is anyone bringing their own car? Do we need to worry about accommodating vehicles in the garage for several days? If so, how many?”
He laughs in that irritating, nonchalant way of his and just shrugs it off. “These things tend to work themselves out, party planner. You shouldn’t worry so much.”
“I’m paid to worry.” There he goes, getting my hackles up by waving a hand at my job again. I’ve had enough people in my life wave off my concerns. “In my experience, parties come together because someone got behind the scenes beforehand and figured out all the little details. What happens if one car arrives late? What happens if there’s not enough room in the garage and it snows? What happens if the bedrooms aren’t ready, or the food isn’t right? These kinds of things can genuinely ruin an experience.”
“It’s one party! It’s not life or death,” he says.
But I can’t be stopped now. Event planning is my kingdom, and I have to ride out to the gates and defend it, all my knights perfectly arranged by color and size and spaced evenly behind me.
“If your business hinged on this party, it very well might be! Someone has to care enough to make sure it’s a success.” My mini rant done, I fold my paper napkin into a neat square and place it on my empty plate. “In my experience,” I add.
“Experience again.” His eyes search mine. “Tell me more about your experience.”
Heat travels from my face all the way down my chest, and it keeps going south. I clear my throat and cross my legs, silently repeating my mom’s mantra for projecting confidence: spine straight, shoulders back, chin up. My gaze locks onto Ace’s.
“Oh, Mr. Carmichael, I’ve handled many high-end, impressive clients. The LaCroix corporation, for instance. I worked a soiree for them. Also, the Jamison Group was organizing a Tibetan fundraiser, so I coordinated that. And as you so kindly mentioned, I arranged the 1920’s-themed rebranding party for Knox Liquors. Which was a success.”
“Really?” He seems genuinely impressed. I straighten my shoulders. Belinda LaCroix and Mindy Jamison don’t have to know about my little white lies—and even if my ‘coordinating’ consisted of circling those parties with trays of hors d’oeuvres, that should count for something. But the Knox event was my real victory, and anyway I would prefer to get off this topic. I don’t know how much more I can stretch the truth before it snaps like a rubber band, and Ace’s attention is so…disconcerting. I find myself imagining tracing my fingers along the stubble on his jaw, sliding my hand down across his chest, exploring even further…
Wait. I don’t even like stubble. This is ridiculous.
“This place is amazing,” I blurt, gesturing around. “It’s like God designed a ski lodge just to show off. Do you spend a lot of time here?”
He shrugs, that easy and almost silky movement that comes so naturally to him. “I only manage to get back a few weeks every year, but it’s spectacular in the winter. So I figured it was the perfect place for my life-changing, career-making party.”