Charming You (Thirsty Hearts Book 1)

by Kris Jayne

  A few hours into the day, the phone on the conference room table buzzed, and Micky answered.

  "There's a delivery for you at the front desk, Micky," Brittany said. Micky excused herself. As soon as she turned the corner down the hallway to reception, she could see a bouquet of flowers sitting on the lobby desk. Micky smiled. Nick was at it again. This time, he sent her a gorgeous mix of long-stemmed lavender and creamy white roses.

  "Do I need to sign for them?"

  "Yeah, right here." Brittany pointed to the delivery sheet. "More flowers. Things must be going well with your hot date."

  "They are," Micky admitted. She carried the flowers to her office, and then opened the card, revealing Nick's sweeping script.

  My most embarrassing childhood moment? Professing my love to Jenny Babcock in the 7th grade by putting notes in her locker every day. I found out later she was posting them on the wall in the girl's locker room. I haven't learned my lesson.

  - Nick

  Micky smiled. Jenny Babcock was an idiot. She picked up the phone and called Nick. The call went to voicemail.

  "I got your beautiful delivery. If you keep this up, people are going to think I'm sending flowers to myself like that girl in Clueless. What guy could be this charming?" she asked. "I had a great time this weekend. I hope to see you this week. I'll try you back later. I…" Micky halted. For a brief second, the words "I love you," almost flew out of her mouth. Wherever that urge came from, she needed to get a handle on it. "I, uh, will talk to you later. Bye."

  She took a deep breath and walked back to the conference room.

  "Was it the USB drives?" Ben asked.

  "No. It was something for another project." Taryn raised her eyebrows.

  "Alright, whatever. If we're done going over all the shipments, let's go through the run of show for the opening general session. Micky, Taryn, go," he ordered.

  "Do you have the master file Taryn prepared?" Micky asked, focusing on the computer screen and task in front of her. "Let's start on page four, actually, with the pre-show events that morning. The main breakfast buffet opens in Pavilion One at 7:00 a.m. The VIP breakfast with the CEO and the partner companies' execs is on the third floor. It's invitation only, and the client's event manager will be ensuring there are no party crashers. All of the attendees with access to the VIP events will have blue badges."

  Micky finished the agenda overview and then turned it over to Taryn to go through the run of show—the general session plan complete with instructions on when the lights go up, when videos get played, who introduces which speakers, and a host of other details.

  Everything had to be timed down to the minute so they hit their breaks on time, got to lunch on time, and finished the afternoon conference sessions without running over. The attendees need time in the early evening to prepare for their dinner event—a semi-formal cruise on the Seine. They had to get everyone to the boat on time. Things had to run like clockwork.

  She and Taryn always built some slack in the schedule to plan for the long-winded presenter who ignores the signals to wrap up, transportation that shows up late, and then just the general meandering crowd. Most of the time, it was like herding cats.

  "We need to get a final head count for the cruise and the hotel. Tony, you're on the line? Can you give us an update on registrations?" Micky directed her question to the conference phone on the center of the table.

  Tony's voice then filled the room. "We're at 821 registrants, and talking with sales, they have a total of 40 or so more that they expect to register. Of those, we have 160 VIPs. Factoring in cancellations and last minute changes, I'd say 150 is close to the final count for the VIP dinner."

  The team went through the rest of the show plans and logistics, with Ben pressing on every detail. He was a stickler for getting everything right.

  When they finally finished, Taryn followed Micky back to her office. Micky was plugging her laptop back into its docking station when Taryn erupted. "Flowers again? These are even more beautiful than last week. Nick is putting on the full court press. And you haven't even plied him with nookie yet." Micky said nothing, and Taryn gasped.

  "Seriously? You didn't! I thought you were taking it slow."

  "Well, one of the times was kind of slow."

  "Good for you. I think you needed a little rumble in the sack. I thought you were worried about getting too attached too quickly?"

  "I was. I still am. I just couldn't help it. The weather was bad on Saturday night, and after he drove me home, I couldn't just send him out in the ice. So, I invited him in."

  "Apparently. Did you lay out a welcome mat for your cooch?" Taryn snorted with laughter, and Micky blushed. Taryn always had a much bawdier sense of humor than she did—which Micky would admit she enjoyed.

  "Funny," Micky said, rolling her eyes. "Look, I still get freaked out about how fast this is moving. I wonder if I'm making the same mistakes, but he's not Eric. He's not sneaking around. I've met his family. However it goes from here, I'm not his dirty little secret. I'm trying to go with it."

  "Was it fun? You look like it was really…" Taryn paused and grinned, "fun. You walked in this morning like you'd hit the lottery over the weekend. I should've known."

  "It was better than fun," Micky admitted. Then, she gave Taryn her own grin. "That's all I'm going to say. We're at work! We have stuff to do."

  "Fine. I don't need details. I want them. I'm dying for them, but you keep holding out on me. Maybe I should send you flowers."

  Micky threw a paper clip at her friend.

  "I'm a lady."

  "Whatever, Ms. Hot Pants." Taryn affected a poor imitation of Micky's voice. "'I couldn't just send him home!' Who was it who said if you have to tell people you're a lady then you aren't?" Taryn trailed off.

  Micky threw another paper clip and laughed. She felt her phone buzz and looked down. Nick was calling her back. She turned the phone toward Taryn so she could who was calling." Get the hell out of my office or I really will call HR this time."

  Taryn picked up both paper clips in front of her and tossed them back at Micky before giving her a thumbs up and leaving the office.

  "Hi, Nick," Micky answered.

  "Hello, Micky. You got my delivery?"

  "I did. Thank you. They're gorgeous."

  "I'm glad. I had a wonderful time this weekend, and I know you're swamped, but if you have time to go down to the deli and grab a sandwich this week, I'm right upstairs."

  "I think I can find time to squeeze in a sandwich. No time today, but maybe Wednesday? I'm off-site all day tomorrow packing boxes in our warehouse. I lead a glamorous life like that."

  "I'm sure it'll seem more glamorous when you're in Paris in a few weeks."

  "It should." Micky thought about inviting him to France. It was so impulsive. Would he think she was pushy? Or, worse—crazy? She'd have to think it over, and she definitely didn't want to ask him over the phone. She chewed her bottom lip in contemplation and heard the ringing of another phone through the connection.

  "Hey, that's my office line. I need to get this. Just wanted to say hello, and…" For once, Nick sounded nervous. "I missed you last night. I may not sleep right all week."

  "I missed you too. I know you've got to go. I'll call you Wednesday."

  Micky hung up, smiling. She spent the rest of the day floating through her meetings, buoyed by the thought that he'd missed her.

  Rick Calabro proved quick and thorough in his investigation. The PI provided background on each of the eight Speedy Tech employees and their immediate families. Nick didn't recognize any of the names, but he hoped Vivienne might. Then, he could put an end to Vivienne's pestering and a bow on their relationship. He arrived at her studio doorstep resolute and with the report printed in duplicate.

  An hour later, he started having doubts about whether they'd ever get to the bottom of who blackmailed his ex-fiancée.

  "None of these names look familiar at all? Not any of the families? None of the places the
y've worked?"

  "No. Trust me. I'm as frustrated as you are." She chewed her lip. "Maybe Oliver Armstrong. He worked as a caddy. Maybe he came across my dad or Jonah?"

  "At a muni? Your father and your brother don't strike me as public golf course types."

  "I know," Vivienne whined, throwing her face into her hands. "That's the only one. And he left his job about four months ago. That would be around the time of the first note."

  "True, but that's also when he finished trade school. And I'm not sure he even would have been working there yet. Let's go through the names one more time. Maybe something will hit you this time."

  "Fine, but we need to hurry. Jonah is swinging by, and we're heading up the street for dinner."

  Nick started at the beginning again with Oliver Armstrong and went through the list, one by one.

  "Next is Trevor Sit…How do you pronounce that again?" Nick asked, puzzled by "Sitges."

  "Sit-jes or chez. It's kind of in between the two."

  "How do you know that?"

  "It's a city in Spain, south of Barcelona."

  "Sit-chez," Nick pronounced again.

  A smooth voice interjected from the doorway to the office. "What about Sitges? Planning a trip? Not your honeymoon, I know."

  Vivienne jumped nearly a foot out of her chair as her brother Jonah strolled in.

  "No. It's just someone's name. You're early."

  "A client?" Jonah asked, ignoring her comment about his unexpected arrival.

  "No. We're done here. Right, Nick?" Vivienne stacked the papers of her copy of the report and swept them into her desk drawer. Nick turned his pages over.

  "Yes. Maybe I can have our friend look into the one we talked about a little more."

  "Sure. Whatever. It's up to you." Vivienne shrugged as if it didn't matter.

  "Sitges. That's a unique name," Jonah observed, staring at his sister.

  "Do you recognize it?" Nick queried, watching closely as Jonah's eyebrows shot up.

  "No. No. I don't." His quick insistence struck Nick as odd. Jonah hadn't even stopped to think. As he packed up and walked toward the door, Nick put Trevor Sitges at the top of his list for further investigation. He knew enough about the Morans to know something was amiss.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  By Thursday afternoon, Micky and Taryn had enough talk of conference rooms, fliers, and whether ordering kosher menu items would satisfy the requests for halal meals. Micky's brain was overrun with details, and as they sat in Micky's office, Taryn was starting to get distracted.

  "What time is your dress appointment?" Micky asked.

  “Three thirty. I'm just hoping they have something in my budget. I've been looking online, and every wedding dress I've seen that I want is, like, double my price range. I will not go over budget. I've sworn up and down that I won't. I think it's just going to be a matter of trying on a million dresses until one pops. I'm not sure I have the stamina for it today, but I want to get this nailed down so I can have y'all start looking for bridesmaids dresses."

  Taryn had plotted out her wedding into a detailed project schedule, complete with decision trees that paralleled action items and her budget plan. The expectant bride had chosen the colors for her bridesmaids, but she wanted them to have some leeway to pick dresses that flattered them, while still coordinating with the bride's dress.

  In Taryn's mind, it was critical to identify the style of her wedding gown as soon as possible so they could start their search. Plus, if she spent more on the dress, then she'd have to cut back somewhere else.

  "Why don't I skip out of here and come with you?"

  "You sure you're up for that?" Taryn asked.

  "I'm up for anything that doesn't involve PowerPoint or a spreadsheet."

  "Then, yes, please. We'll adjourn to an off-site meeting," Taryn said, grinning.

  "Where is this off-site meeting, again?"

  "Danya. It's a boutique off I-35 in the design district."

  "I'm there. Let's duck out of here."

  The drive to the wedding boutique from their office was a short one. Scanning the row of industrial-looking buildings, both women almost missed it—until they spotted an elaborate, ivy-covered trellis positioned underneath a gilded sign reading, "Danya," in beautiful, but almost illegible script.

  Micky stepped into the foyer encased in marble and raised her eyebrows. With each scrolled cornice and crystal-draped fixture she spotted, a mental cash register sounded off in her mind.

  "Are you sure your budget will survive this place?" Micky asked her friend.

  "I know that they do mid-tier, high-end, and very high-end dresses. They also have a hell of back room sale rack," Taryn said. "I'm just hoping that one of the cheaper gowns in this place will work, but we can't let them know we're only here for the bargains. My budget is three to four thousand, but I'm just going to see how it goes."

  Micky opened her mouth to respond, but then a tiny, thin woman strode across the marble floor. As slender as her waist was, her hair was high. A frozen fluff of platinum blond hair sat atop a strikingly taut, carefully painted face. She was Dallas personified in four-inch heels. Micky guessed she was maybe sixty years old, but looked, well, who knew.

  "Hello! I'm Danya Stewart. One of you must be my three thirty bride. Which one of you is Taryn Leiber?"

  Taryn waved at the dynamo hurdling toward her and presented her hand.

  "That would be me, and this is one of my bridesmaids, Micky Llewellyn. We work together so she volunteered to be my wingwoman today," Taryn explained.

  "Wonderful, every bride needs a sane second opinion and friends are the best! Between you and me," Danya held her hand up to her mouth as if she were going to whisper, but she didn't. "Family is mostly just stress, stress, stress. Let's go meet first in my office. I want to get to know you a little bit so I can help you create the picture perfect wedding of your absolute dreams."

  The flurry of words, click of stilettos on marble, and waving hands studded with diamond rings came at them like a tornado. Micky knew Taryn was in good hands. This is precisely the kind of woman you want in charge of your wedding dress and probably your wedding and—at points—your life.

  They settled into Danya's office. A large picture window flooded the room with light. While she had a desk, a tall, round wooden table served as the focal point of the room. She directed Taryn and Micky to plush counter-height bar chairs around it.

  Danya started by asking Taryn questions about the wedding party. Taryn explained she and her fiancé had each picked two attendants, and she began to discuss what she envisioned for the dresses in the wedding party, including her own. Danya jumped in to detail her philosophy regarding wedding dresses. She believed it needed to be a balance of everything you've ever dreamed and elements that you wouldn't imagine for yourself, but that elevate the look to the unexpected.

  With that in mind, the dress expert gave Taryn a quick test like an eye doctor. She flashed a series of dresses in front of Taryn two at a time. Taryn was to give her an immediate reaction in favor of number one or number two.

  "Great, great, so you have a very definite style. You like a traditional line with some flare. Not too much princess. No tulle. Easy on the lace."

  Taryn beamed. "That's exactly what I want, and I want to settle on a color for the bridesmaids dresses and let the girls pick the styles that flatter—while keeping them with the same general shape. I brought some examples for both, but we can start with the wedding dresses," she said, pulling a folder from her large handbag and handing Danya some printouts from websites and clippings from bridal magazines.

  "These are marvelous. We have a couple of them in stock…although this one," Danya pointed to a mermaid-style dress, "I'm afraid is best on a taller bride. I hope you understand. It's lovely. You are even lovelier—beautiful and petite. There are several styles to accentuate your figure. The silhouette on this with the flared, mermaid skirt…I just don't know."

  Taryn looked at the pic
ture and crinkled her brow.

  "I can see your point, but I'd like to try it on anyway if you have it," the bride-to-be said.

  "Absolutely! You should try on everything you think you'd like or that might work. It's the best way to get a feel for the look you want on your wedding day. Now, my daughter Dahlia will take you to the dressing suite, and in a few minutes, my best assistant Ronaldo will bring you the dresses we've pulled along with the ones you've requested—or at least some very similar options. Would you like something to drink? We have bottled water—sparkling and still—as well as Cokes and champagne."

  "Champagne," Taryn and Micky said in unison.

  "It's that time of day, isn't it?" Danya asked, laughing with them. Her similarly big-haired, precisely made-up daughter guided them down a plush hallway to a large, bright room with six couches strategically placed in front of six dressing rooms. Three were on one side and three on the other. Taryn and Micky had just settled into their couch when a lithe man glided in carrying two glasses of champagne.

  "For you and for you," he said, handing them their glasses. "I'm Ronaldo, Danya's assistant, and I'll be helping you all the way up until your wedding with your dress selection, fitting, delivery of the dress—everything. Consider me Danya's right hand."

  Ronaldo held himself tall, his chin lifted and with an easy smile. Micky looked over the sweep of his hair, which didn't move, yet somehow didn't seem gelled or hairsprayed. It adorned his handsome face with perfect shape, yet looked effortless. Everyone and everything in the shop was manicured to perfection, but somehow, it didn't seem stuffy or pretentious. These people knew how to craft an experience. The marketer in Micky was astounded and impressed.