The Art of Stealing Hearts

by Stella London

  Camouflage was definitely necessary; I’d overheard the Douchebros—and I promise I’ll go into more later as to why I even have a group of people in my life worthy of that title—bragging about how tanked they were going to get, and my plans for the night did not include fending off drunken advances, trying to tune out comments about the size of my ass respective to my brain, and counting how many times they could fit the word ‘bro’ into a single sentence.

  (So far, the record was seven.)

  My plans for the night, however, did include the next thing the waitress brought me: six different shots of bourbon, and a glass of water.

  And no, I’m not an alcoholic. This was research.

  Fun, delicious research, but research.

  Maybe I should back up a little bit. My name? It’s Ally. Allison Bartlett. I’m five foot four, have grey eyes, tolerate the straight brown hair that slides out of every ponytail I put it into, and frequently wear an anxious smile that I’m working hard to make not broadcast my ambition, desperation, and general worrywart nature. It’s an uphill battle.

  Anyway, I’m twenty-four, and I’ve been working at Geisel & Son Advertising in Washington, D.C. for two years now. I was an intern my senior year, and I lucked into an entry-level position opening up a month after I graduated. It’s full-time, benefits, the whole package. So I should be thanking my lucky stars, right?

  I sure would, if anyone at Geisel & Son ever managed to remember that I wasn’t the intern anymore.

  Time and again over the last two years, I’d heard my ideas shot down, only to turn around and see them accepted as brilliant when suggested by whichever man did the least possible amount of rephrasing. I’d been talked over in meetings, told to fetch coffee, and confused with the receptionist. And I think I might have been able to handle all that, if it had been coming solely from the old guard within the establishment. But no, more than half of it was coming from people barely older than me, who seemed to have watched too many episodes of Mad Men and taken all the worst bits to heart.

  So this was it. My possibly last big job, where I was going to try my hardest, stand up for myself and fight for my ideas, and give this advertising job one last chance before it ground me down into dust and I packed my bags and waved the sad white flag of surrender on my career dreams.

  In case you’re wondering how all of this has anything to do with my solo bourbon sampler party, our latest client was Knox bourbon.

  I decided to start and end with said bourbon, in order to better compare it to the others. I leaned over the first glass, parting my lips as I inhaled, both smelling and tasting the aroma of burnt caramel, old wood, and cinnamon. A promising start…I took a sip of the amber liquid, letting it roll slowly across my tongue as I memorized and savored the taste. It had a bold, spicy flavor thanks to the high rye content, with a hint of charred oak and honey, and a strong bite.

  I breathed out through my nose and mouth at the same time, and the flavor intensified until I swallowed. I smacked my lips in satisfaction as I set the glass back down. I generally drank a wheated bourbon rather than a rye, and I did miss that slight hint of sweet vanilla, but this wasn’t bad at all.

  Glass number two was a rye after my own heart, vanilla like the first lick of ice cream on a hot summer day, cool and refreshing, with a bit of biting heat like a miniature sun right after it washed down my throat. I took another sip of that one, in the interest of more fully appreciating that fine flavor. Maybe I was playing favorites a little, but who was going to tell?

  And here came number three. That distinctive flavor that said Kentucky, Bourbon County, that long tradition of Scots-Irish immigration. All the old ways carefully preserved and kept going: a hint of cedar, a touch of honey. A little rough around the edges, but in a way that soothed with its familiarity. I sighed, letting my eyes fall shut, the taste of the bourbon becoming my entire universe.

  “Ah, a lady who knows how to savor the good things in life.”

  I started, blushing, my eyes popping open and my hand nearly dropping the glass in dismay. Dammit, I’d wanted to be discreet! I hadn’t wanted anyone seeing me geek out like this, and now—

  I looked up, and my annoyance at being interrupted died on my lips as I let my bourbon take a rest, and drank in the sight of the interloper instead. It was the same man who’d caught my eye just minutes earlier. Of course. And here I was sighing and drooling shamelessly over an entire smorgasbord of booze. Damn but he was even tastier up close.

  Had he said something about the good things in life? Well, he would know, since he was definitely one of them. Golden-brown eyes like the sun shining through a tumbler of bourbon, freckles sun-kissing the bridge of his nose, and a chiseled jaw you could cut diamonds on. His auburn-gold hair was swept back from his forehead and his navy polo shirt clung to all the right places of his shoulders and chest. I bit my lip and resisted asking him to do a spin so I could check and see if those khaki pants clung in all the right places, too.

  Barely resisted.

  And that accent he spoke in, oh, it made me regret all the work I’d done to lose my own. A warm honey-slow drawl that drew attention to his lips and the way they quirked up at the corner.

  “I didn’t think it was good enough to stun you into silence,” he teased.

  I blushed and shot back, “I’m just trying to figure out what criteria led you to hone in on the girl with the highest alcohol content in the room. Your self-esteem that low?”

  I regretted the sarcastic remark the second it left my mouth. In high-stress situations, I tended to blurt out exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time; it was an adrenaline-fueled, involuntary, and very unfortunate defense mechanism of mine. One that got me into trouble more often than not.

  He only grinned, and sauntered closer. “As a matter of fact, I have extremely robust…self-esteem. Show you mine if you’ll show me yours?”

  “The hell kind of pick-up line is that?” I said, flummoxed by both his nonchalant demeanor and the sweet scent of masculinity radiating off his delicious body. Stop it Ally, I mentally scolded myself. You’re indignant. Be indignant!

  “I’ve got all kinds,” he promised. “Want something more traditional? I’ll give it a go: let me buy you a drink?”

  I gestured at the drinks already in front of me.

  “I think I’m covered,” I said wryly.

  “Then do you mind if I buy myself one and drink it here with you?” he asked.

  I considered. I was doing research here. Important research. Research that could change the very trajectory of my career and make all those dreams come true. I didn’t need any distractions.

  On the other hand, those shoulders. And those lips, mm-hmm. And truth be told, for all my defensive posturing, there wasn’t a damn thing about him that didn’t scream ‘charming’ and ‘good company’ and, most importantly, ‘eye candy.’

  My old science teacher did always say that it was important to have a research partner.

  “Well, it certainly would improve the view,” I said, relieved to have finally given myself permission to cozy up to this intriguing stranger.

  He grinned wider then, sliding into the booth opposite me, our legs bumping together slightly. Butterflies danced in my stomach. Damn, what was this, sixty seconds and I already had it this bad? Guys this hot should come with a warning label. Not that I’d stop to read it.

  Hottie McHotterson—also, damn, how had I not asked his name yet, was I really that far gone into the Lust Canyon?—flagged down the waitress, and ordered a Knox whiskey.

  I made a face.

  “Not a fan?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Of the whiskey? Sure,” I said. “It tastes great and gets the job done.”

  “What is it, then?” he asked. He seemed genuinely curious, and that made me open up. “What’s missing?”

  “Well, it’s just—” I gestured at the label. “Look at this packaging. Just the name stamped on there in an old-timey font, and the same barrel lo
go they’ve been using since B.F. Skinner first strolled up to an ad agency with some rats in a box and a lot of fancy promises. It does nothing to catch the eye.”

  “The label?” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

  “That’s hardly it!” I shot back. “Their whole branding approach is the same, stuck in the past! Print ads whose copy never changes, radio jingles with slang from the second World War, TV spots with the same Bob Hope lookalike every year—it doesn’t matter how good it tastes, it looks old-fashioned. Like something my grandpa would drink.”

  My mysterious visitor’s drink arrived, and he quirked a brow in amusement and raised his glass in a salute. “To your grandfather—a man of excellent taste.”

  I snorted, but raised my own glass to match his. As they clinked together, his fingers brushed against mine, and I felt a spark leap where our skin met. He must have felt it too—he started, looking up at me, and our eyes locked. His eyes were so deep, golden-brown like molasses swirled in honey, and they warmed me up inside with a heat like the sun, spreading out from my heart down to my toes, and up to my head until I was dizzy, my heart pounding. I wanted nothing more than to sink into those eyes. I wanted nothing more than to keep touching his fingers.

  I wanted nothing more than to invite him up to my room, then and there.

  Focus, Ally! You have a presentation tomorrow! No rando is worth throwing away your entire career for a roll in the hay.

  Maybe the whiskey was just getting to me.

  I pulled away hastily and downed my drink, all of it this time. This sample had more of a honey flavor, less of a bite. If I were writing copy I’d call it ‘soothing, charming, a genteel liquor.’ Since I wasn’t, though, I didn’t pull any punches. “The truth is, though, my grandfather and his friends aren’t the customers of the future. You see this same trend in advertising for comic books—the company panders to its original base—not even all of the original base but a small, vocal fraction of it—and alienates all of its potential new customers in the process.”

  “Tell me more about what you think,” he said intently.

  Which would have been catnip for me even if I hadn’t been storing up a host of criticisms that went unheard at work, and even if he hadn’t been so damned hot. I didn’t need telling twice.

  “This is your typical Knox buyer.” I launched into an imitation of my grandfather. “‘I jus’ don’ know how much longer they can be ‘spectin’ this centralized government t’ last. Times wuz much simpler when a man jus’ brewed his own whiskey and shot at the revenooers.’”

  The man laughed, and waved a hand in acknowledgment of my point before raising a challenging eyebrow. “So what would you do if you had control of the rebrand? Throw in some hashtags and make a Facebook page? Get a celebrity endorsement?”

  “As if,” I snorted. “Millennials might be self-absorbed, but we can still see through pandering just fine, thanks.”

  “Oh?” His thumb brushing over my knuckles was an invitation, and a challenge, and both made my breath catch in my throat. “A pink label, then?”

  I watched his eyes dip to the side and a lazy grin spread across his face, and I knew that he had spotted the pink strap of my bra peeking out from the side of my short-sleeved button-up shirt.

  “Strange as it might seem, the color pink doesn’t brainwash women into buying things,” I replied, trying not to let on how breathless he had made me. Trying not to imagine his hands instead of his eyes on that pink bra strap, easing it slowly from my shoulder as he kissed my neck.

  I raised the stakes, slipping my foot out of my shoe to stroke his ankle, and then moved it slightly higher. This was really out of character for me, but something about our conversation, the flush of whiskey in my cheeks, the way he was looking at me…I felt emboldened in a way I never did at work or even when I was out with my friends.

  I was rewarded with a flush of heat in his gaze, his pupils dilating as his grip tightened slightly on mine. He leaned forward, close enough that I could have kissed him without rising from the seat. His lips were so full, they looked so soft—

  He was so close I could feel the heat of his breath as he murmured his next words: “So, tell me, what would you do?” He picked up his glass and drank, the muscles in his throat working as he swallowed it down. I didn’t look away. It was safe to assume my panties were on fire, and there was only one way to put that fire out.

  And you know what? I decided I’d been overthinking things at work. Either I had confidence in myself or I didn’t, and doing some last-minute drinking wasn’t going to change a damn thing about my presentation tomorrow.

  But some really good sex just might give me an edge.

  I lifted my own glass and downed the remaining Knox. My decision was made.

  It was go time.

  I leaned towards him until our lips were barely a millimeter apart. “Do you really want to know what I’d do with this brand?” I whispered. Before he could answer, I brushed my lips against the corner of his mouth. He tasted like smoke and cinnamon and danger, and I liked it. “Or would you rather know what I’d do with you?”

  His eyes gleamed, and I knew his answer even before he spoke.

  ***

  What happens next? Ally and Hunter’s story continues in BILLIONAIRE WITH A TWIST – Available now!

  Take a trip to Pelican Key Cove for the wedding of the year! BEACH WEDDING by Bella Cruise is available now!

  Chapter One

  I love weddings.

  I love everything about them: the flowers, the dress, the music. But most of all, I love the kiss. Somehow, it’s love brought to life in a single, perfect moment, when all the crazy chaos and pageantry melts away, and all that’s left are two people ready to share the rest of their lives together.

  That’s not to say it always runs smoothly. Believe me, I’ve seen my share of hiccups. There was the groom who wanted a hole cut in the altar platform, so his six-foot bride wouldn’t look taller than him in the photos. There’s the bride who had to have emergency root canal six hours before the wedding and mumbled her way through ‘I do’. Then there’s my favorite: the couple who were literally struck with lightning. Look it up on YouTube if you don’t believe me; halfway through their charming vineyard wedding, the skies opened with a massive thunderstorm. They struggled on through the downpour, only to be struck by a bolt from the blue during their big kiss. (In case you’re worried, they turned out just fine – and the national news coverage paid for their whole honeymoon in Mexico!)

  Yes, when it comes to that one perfect moment, I’ve seen them all. I’ve planned them all too – because, after all, that’s my job: Ginny Austen, Wedding Planner extraordinaire. It’s my duty to make sure my clients get the day of their dreams, despite high heels, Vicodin doses, and an appearance from El Nino.

  Luckily, today the weather is on my side. It’s a gorgeous summer’s day in New York City, with the kind of blue skies and puffy cotton candy clouds that every bride – and wedding planner – pray for. “Are we ready?” I ask, checking my watch. Any minute now, the guests will start to arrive.

  “Ready.” My assistant, Theo, pulls out his notepad, checking it over from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Everything is set to go. Right down to the poodle ring bearer – and, yes, the groomer is on hand, too. What, are you expecting poor Fifi to get her hair mussed up?” he teases with a grin.

  “Do you remember what happened last time we had dogs running around?” I remind him. When it comes to a couple’s wedding day, I believe everything should be perfect. Not a hair out of place – not even on a dog.

  Theo’s grin slips. “The schanuzers.”

  “That’s right. Five minutes before the ceremony started, they were chasing a stray dove through a field. They left muddy paw prints all the way up the aisle. I’m not making the same mistake again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Theo checks it off the list. “Canine stylists present and accounted for.”

  He looks amused, but he’s only
been working for me six months now. “Trust me,” I smile. “When you’ve been working this gig a little longer, you’ll get used to the crazy.”

  Dogs don’t even come close to the strangest thing people want included in their special day – and it’s my job to make sure they get their heart’s desire. No dream too big, no detail too small. I can organize a hundred doves fluttering up in the air right as the newly-minted mister and missus exit the chapel doors. I can have fireworks spell out their initials in the night sky. I can make sure that hydroponically-grown orchids match the bride’s eyes. I do whatever it takes to make it perfect, and today, it is. The Central Park Boathouse looks like something out of a fairy tale. Pink rose and yellow hydrangea garlands hang from the dock, a rose petal strewn walkway leads up the aisle, and Liszt’s romantic Liebesträume, played by four members of the New York City Philharmonic, greets guests as they arrive.

  “It looks like a million bucks,” I overhear a guest say.

  “It should be, with the way his year is going, the lucky devil!” quips her date, in a suit that costs more than my rent. “Let’s just hope that today’s loss on the field won’t hurt the honeymoon!” I watch as the couple oohhhs and aahhhs at the canopy made from ivy and lace. I smile and glance at my watch for the thousandth time in the last hour. Precision is the name of this game.

  Today’s clients are James, a successful sports manager, and Sarah, a sports therapist. A match made on the side lines – and these two are as specific as they are sporty. The bride wouldn’t budge on the scented candles (maybe she’s been traumatized by locker room funk), and the groom insisted that seventy-percent of the hors d’oeuvres be bacon-wrapped. Both of them agreed, however, that their rescue dog, Bartholomew, a fourteen-year-old toy poodle, would be charged with leading them down the aisle. I actually love incorporating pets in weddings, but from what I’ve heard of Bartholomew, he has the potential to be the biggest diva at the event. I made precautions and assigned my second assistant to be in charge of him all day, so I shouldn’t be surprised when I get a MAYDAY text from Jody: “Doggone!”