Chapter 6 #2
“You.” Morgan pushes her blue light filtering glasses up her cute turned up nose. Her strawberry blond hair is in a ponytail with three braids running from the front of her head to the elastic, and I’m reminded there’s almost nothing cute like that I can do with my curly hair.
“And why are people gossiping about me?” I ask in that voice I’ve perfected, the I couldn’t care less, but you might as well tell me anyway one that hides how desperately I always want to know what people are saying about me.
Not because I like being the subject of gossip, but because knowledge is power and without it, you can’t control the narrative.
And if there’s anything I want, it’s to be in control of my own life—make my own damn decisions, influence the way people think and talk about me, define success on my own terms. I need complete autonomy over my triumphs and failures.
“Because you were supposed to be on a plane back here yesterday and instead, you called a virtual meeting to tell us about a new event we’re planning for arguably the hottest and most successful hockey player in the NHL. How’d you pull that one off?”
“You think Alex is hot?” I ask, trying not to stumble over the Americanized name.
“Duh,” Morgan says, rolling her eyes, and I’m reminded how our six-year age gap feels like more sometimes.
She’s my friend Lauren’s cousin who needed a job out of college, right as I was looking for an assistant.
She was organized and flexible and willing to relocate, so I hired her.
And she’s been a great assistant. But she’s so much younger at twenty-four than I was then, and sometimes it makes me wish I’d been that carefree.
You were never carefree, I remind myself, not even before the accident, before everything else that happened to you.
“But . . .” I say, and realize I have nothing, no argument to invoke.
Sasha’s not hot in the traditional sense.
He’s too big, too raw. His flat, smooth forehead is just the right size between his black hair and thick, nearly straight eyebrows.
The bridge of his nose is wide and flat, except for the small bump where he broke it when he was fifteen.
He has a perfectly square jaw with a cleft in his chin that you can’t see through the short beard he sports now, and a neck wrapped in thick, corded muscle that leads to the rest of his powerful body.
“I guess I just don’t see him that way,” I tell Morgan.
Lies. “I’ve known him since we were kids. Grew up with him, actually.”
“Are you serious?” she squeals. “That’s so cool.”
“Not really. Anyway, I was already here, so extending the trip a few days to try to nail down a location for the party just makes sense.” I glance up at the coffee shop I’ve made into my office today.
I stopped here for breakfast, stayed for a midmorning coffee, and just finished lunch before my call with Morgan.
“Were you able to make those calls I asked about yesterday?”
“Yes,” she says, and shares her screen with me so she can walk me through her detailed notes on the various location possibilities for each type of space I’m looking into: rooftop patios where we can bring in real furniture, empty lofts that can be totally redecorated, or outdoor garden spaces.
Anyone can throw a party at a hotel, restaurant, or bar, but I’m looking to do something unique—something worthy of my name being attached to it.
People don’t pay me obscene amounts of money to throw lame events that any event planner could arrange.
We decide on four locations that make sense for me to try to see while I’m here. “I’ve got until 6 p.m. tonight, any time tomorrow, or I could even do Saturday morning before I leave.”
My phone vibrates as a text comes in, and I glance down on the table to see Aleksandr’s name. I snatch it up so quickly I almost drop it.
“What is that look?” Morgan asks, her voice taking on a singsong quality like she’s caught me in the act of something I shouldn’t be doing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, casually glancing back at my computer screen.
“Sure you do. Your face just got all dreamy, and you never look like that at work.”
Dreamy—pfft. It’s Aleksandr, not some guy I’m going to sleep with.
“Give me a sec, I need to respond to this.”
“Sure,” she says, and sits back in my office chair while I read Aleksandr’s message.
Aleksandr
I just finished practice and was thinking about dinner tonight. How the hell are we going to explain who you are to Colette’s sister?
Petra
We could just say that I’m a childhood friend who’s in town for the week.
Aleksandr
You make it sound so simple. How do we explain why you’re at a family dinner?
Petra
Tell the truth. Stella invited me and I couldn’t say no to Her Royal Cuteness.
Aleksandr
You don’t think they’ll suspect that there’s more to that story?
Petra
Not unless you or Stella tell them there is.
Aleksandr
Okay. I’ll talk to Stella about that. Thanks. I’ll see you at 6:30.
Petra
See you then.
“So you’re definitely coming home Saturday?” Morgan asks when I set my phone down and glance back up at the video call on my laptop.
“Sunday is closing day. No way I’m missing the last day of skiing this year.
” In fact, this trip really put a damper on my end of season spring skiing.
Normally I hit the mountain every weekday, when it’s least crowded, for a few runs.
Not to mention that now I’ll only get one day with Jackson before she and Nate leave Park City to head home.
“You booked your own flight?” Morgan sounds hurt, like I’ve taken away some of her job responsibilities for no reason.
“When I canceled my last one, yes.”
“Okay, I’m going to start making these calls,” she tells me. “I’ll put any appointments on your calendar, and I’ll get you transportation for each one. All details will be in the calendar invites.”
“Thanks, Morgan. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.”
“I’m the only assistant you’ve ever had.”
“Same difference. Talk soon.” I disconnect the video call and take my earbuds out.
“So, you’re a skier?” I hear from the table next to me. I glance over at the blond guy sitting there with his laptop in front of him. He’s in a lightweight, tailored blue wool suit, his hair styled and his face clean shaven. That face exudes charm, and his Patek Philippe watch exudes wealth.
“So, you’re an eavesdropper?” I rest my elbows on the table as I turn my head fully toward him.
“Touché. But you have the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard. I couldn’t exactly tune you out.”
“Fair.” Honestly, I’d much rather him comment on my voice—which is low and raspy for no reason other than that’s how it developed—than on my face or body, which is what everyone seems to notice about me first. “Yes, I’m a skier. You?”
“I have a place in Vermont, I try to get away as often as I can during the winter. Where do you ski?”
“Park City.”
“Is that where you grew up?”
“No,” I give him a smile, but don’t offer any more details.
“Are you going to make me guess?” he asks, leaning toward me and resting his elbow on his table, mimicking my position.
“You’ll never guess, and I don’t have all day to wait while you try.” I reach up and shut my laptop without taking my eyes off him.
“Because you have plans?”
I give him the smile I reserve for guys I’m flirting with. “Because I have a life.”
“Does that life include having a drink with me tonight?” His voice is smooth and deep, like a caress. This is exactly my type of guy—persistent without being pushy. I can tell he’s looking for one thing, the same thing I’m looking for when I hit on a guy: intense, short-term attraction.
“I have dinner plans tonight.”
“So do I,” he says. “Drinks after dinner would be the perfect way to end the day, don’t you think?”
Oh, I do. But I don’t know how long tonight’s dinner will last or if Sasha will need me once his sister-in-law is gone. “That does sound lovely, but I’m not sure how long my dinner will last.”
“Why don’t I give you my number and if you’re free after dinner, send me a text.”
“Okay,” I agree.
“Where are you staying?” he asks as he types his name and number into my phone.
“Upper East Side.”
“Perfect, that’s where I live. I have a great bar in mind.” He hands me back my phone. “Are you going to at least tell me your name, so I know who you are when you call?”
“You won’t recognize me by my voice?” I tease.
“I will,” he says, “but I’d still like to know your name.”
“Petra,” I say, holding my hand out to him.
“Sam,” he says in return as he shakes my hand.
“Maybe I’ll be seeing you tonight, Sam.” I take my laptop and slide it into my bag.
“I certainly hope so,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips as he watches me add the rest of my things to my bag
I strut out of that coffee shop high on the notion that even if tonight’s dinner is a shit show, I can retreat right into Sam’s willing arms when it’s over.