Gold Coast Dilemma

Prologue Ofosua

HELEN ADDO: Don’t waste your time waiting to fall in love. Find a lawyer, doctor, or engineer. You can learn to love him.

TWO YEARS AGO…

I was late.

For my first publishing industry party, no less. I repeatedly stabbed the elevator button, willing it to hurry the hell up. I’d been put in charge of getting the drinks for the interns and assistants, and Nazrin, the publicity assistant, would have my head for messing up her timeline.

I took a deep breath as a prickle of anxiety tickled the hairs on my neck. I wanted—needed—to prove myself. Being late was not the way to do that.

When the deep breathing didn’t work, I rubbed my forefinger and thumb together on my free hand, trying to remind myself of small truths.

I was good at my job. I was persistent. I’d stuffed hundreds of padded envelopes for press mailings without complaint, made persuasive phone calls to bookstores, and scoured Instagram and BookTok on my own time for appropriate influencers for this launch, finding key voices even the seasoned members of the marketing team didn’t know about yet. All with a genuine smile.

I was good enough, even if I was ten minutes later to this party than I should be.

And honestly, nothing was going to make the sad Trader Joe’s veggie platter awaiting me any more appetizing. It was fine. Totally fine.

Ding. The elevator arrived and I stepped inside, wishing it were a teleportation device and not an actual antique.

Drake Publishing was my dream job. It was a boutique agency and just the right size for me to be noticed. I might be just an intern, but I had my sights set on being a senior editor one day. Preferably before I was thirty so I could soften the blow to my parents about my occupation not being lawyer, doctor, or engineer.

But would even senior editor be substantial enough?

I focused on the floor indicator’s curlicue brass arm marking the rise up, up to Mr. Drake’s sprawling co-op.

The apartment was a real estate agent’s dream, a penthouse perched atop a gleaming prewar building located on Central Park West at Eighty-First Street, built sometime in the 1920s. With panoramic views of the park’s canopy of trees, it was, in a word, stunning. Even my traditional Ghanaian mother would have to acknowledge the apartment’s elegance.

I’d poked around Mr. Drake’s apartment earlier that morning when I’d come with two of the publicity interns to set up the displays of glossy jacket blowups and stacks of the new novel plus gold-plated backlist. We’d arranged lush, literary tablescapes complete with floral arrangements in colors to complement the new jacket art in the main hall, the library, and the gallery. The idea was that guests would flow effortlessly from one room to another and onto the wraparound terraces, which were decorated with soft lighting and latticed vines to provide privacy.

When the elevator finally stopped and the doors slid apart, I quietly lugged my wine booty along the back hallway.

The interns and assistants wouldn’t be enjoying the beauty of the stone terraces, the sunlit gallery, the wood-paneled library, or the velvet and leather seating in the main living area. We were under strict instructions not to be seen nor heard, unless we were needed for something, like clearing away stray glasses or fetching a specific title for a reporter. Our little enclave consisted of a tucked-away card table in the corner by the kitchen with a dodgy vegetable tray.

Jane, a petite redhead fellow intern with slightly ruddy cheeks, met me with a grin and clutched an empty plastic wineglass as if she might will some wine into it. “Thank God you’re back.” She helped me set the bottles down then appraised me. “That mustard color is amazing on you.”

“Thanks,” I said, tucking my waist-length braids over one shoulder and spinning to show off my outfit. I’d never understood why the girls in the office preferred black, navy, gray, or other neutral colors. I ventured a glance at the group of executives and authors gathering in the living area. Not a spot of color.

Only one woman, a tall silver-blonde with the coolest bright red glasses and a warm smile, had worn something even remotely interesting: an all-cream pantsuit. She stood out like a speck of salt in a pepper shaker. I’d heard Mr. Drake call her Ruby earlier, so I assumed that was his wife, Ruby Drake. I’d yet to meet her. The word was she rarely, if ever, came to the office. Which was too bad, as she looked like someone I might want to get to know.

Jane sighed melancholically at the celery she’d dipped into hummus. “You guys want to get real food after this?”

“God, yes.” I was already regretting passing on the fried kelewele my mother had offered as I rushed out the door. I’d been worried about my breath, but now my tongue begged for the taste of sweet plantain and ginger with a pepper chaser.

None of the food trays laid out were remotely palatable. Even the carrots looked limp. No one liked limp carrots.

“I’m going to bribe one of the waitstaff to sneak us a canapé or two,” Jane said.

“You are a goddess if you can pull that off.” I glanced around and leaned over to her. “Let me go wash my hands first. I think I touched something sticky in the elevator.”

“Good call.”

A few minutes later, I stepped into the hallway after I was done in the bathroom. Party chatter greeted me from either side, but I’d gotten turned around and wasn’t sure which way would return me to intern purgatory.

I hung a left, but nothing looked familiar. Instead, I came upon one of the open terraces and paused, uncertain. Shit , I’d gone the wrong way. But I couldn’t resist the spectacular view and a moment to decompress.

“I see you had to escape too.”

I whipped around, teetering on my Gianvito Rossi slingbacks as I searched for the source of the rich baritone. “Jesus, you scared me.”

I’d never seen the guy standing in the doorway before. But he had a plate of real food in his hand and two bottles of champagne under his arm, so it was unlikely he was there to murder me.

The corners of his mouth tipped up in a lopsided smile as his eyes drank me in, his gaze direct and bold, making me feel like he could see right through to my La Perla.

I was momentarily stunned into silence by his good looks. The height struck me first. Over six feet definitely. Lean swimmer’s build. Broad shoulders, but that jacket was tailored to perfection to drape him nicely. The simple white T-shirt he wore underneath looked to be of a soft jersey material and clung ever-so-nicely to his pecs as he lounged. Of course that insane body had to come with a ridiculously square jaw and beautiful, dancing gray eyes framed by sooty lashes. He looked roughly my age, maybe a little older. And when he smiled, he sent my stomach into free fall.

He was the definition of “pretty.” So pretty.

And so not for me.

“I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to be here. I can go.” I tried to sidestep around him, but he coaxed me to stay.

“You’re not going to leave me to eat and drink by myself, are you? Even influencers need to eat and drink champagne.”

Before I could correct him, my stomach, ever the traitor, thinking only about filling itself with the delectable Brie, assortment of meats, and delicious-smelling hors d’oeuvres on his plate, growled. Loudly.

“Looks like your decision is made for you. And I get to escape the pretentious bores with a beautiful woman.”

I licked my lips, shifting nervously from foot to foot as I stuffed down the flare of anxiousness. This man really was too good-looking for my own good. I knew it like I knew the sky overhead was Tiffany blue. I had to snap out of it. “I’m sure you say that line to all the girls. I’m not impressed.”

He chuckled softly. “Only when I mean it. Just as long as you don’t dive into a twenty-minute diatribe about how novelists today owe everything to David Foster Wallace. I just escaped one of those.”

My lips twitched. He was cute. And funny. And you know better than to go chasing after a pretty boy. But I wasn’t chasing. He was the one offering food and champagne. “I can only stay for a minute.”

He offered me his plate while he opened one of the champagne bottles. I tried not to stare at him as he took a long swig before passing the bottle to me.

My first thought—taking the bottle from his mouth was almost like we’d be kissing. His lips had been where mine were about to be, and that knowledge gave me another butterfly flutter.

My next thought—where has his mouth been?

My final thought—was I really going to drink contraband champagne at my boss’s party?

Taking the bottle from him, I took a delicate sip. I’d sipped enough champagne to know that the bubbles went straight to my head.

He grinned at me widely as he took the bottle of champagne back. “So, I assume you’re an influencer? But I can’t say I’ve seen your content before.”

“That’s because I’m not an influencer. I’m an intern. Ofosua Addo. Just call me Ofos.”

His gaze slid over me. “I’m Cole. And I have to say, you certainly don’t look like the typical intern.”

My back stiffened. I was a little older than most of the interns. I’d graduated with a business and creative writing double major. I hadn’t been able to get a paying job at Drake right away, but I had managed to snag myself an internship. I didn’t love living off of my trust fund, but it was what it was. I had a plan.

All I had to do was prove myself and work my way up. “What is that supposed to mean?” My question came out harsh and icy slick, daring him to put a foot wrong.

“You’re dressed for a party. Not an ass-kissing snoozefest,” he said with a roll of his eyes and another deep swig of champagne.

I cocked my head, assessing him further. “And you certainly don’t look like the publishing type, at least not the Drake Publishing type. No wire-rimmed glasses. No seen-better-days blazer tossed over a fraying shirt. You look entirely too comfortable in that really nice suit. You’re the one out of place here, not me. So what’s your story?”

His eyes darkened, and he frowned briefly before recovering himself. “You are sharp. I was summoned. Think of me as a reluctant plus-one. So the moment I could, I swiped some champagne, and here we are.”

I was desperate to know more. Who did he work for? Who was he? Or was he an author? But I had just met the guy. Maybe I should wait at least an hour before interrogating him, so I changed course. “This is my first publishing party. I’m not sure what I expected, but I thought it would be splashier. I mean, this home is gorgeous, of course. But… seems kind of dull in there.”

He laughed. “Ah, so no one warned you about the de rigueur depressing hummus platters?”

“No! And I’m quite irritated about it really.” I popped one of the warm canapés into my mouth and tried not to moan in delight at the melted cheese and spiced crabmeat on a perfect mini toast point.

He watched me intently with a curious smile. “All right, let’s play a game. Tell me your favorite book right now. But it can’t be anything by Wallace, anything considered a literary darling, and it can’t be on a damn list.”

I took the bottle of champagne from him, took another small sip. “That’s easy. The Count of Monte Cristo , Dumas.”

His brows lifted. “An adventurous woman. I have to say I’m thrilled you didn’t say Pride and Prejudice .”

Oh no. Tell me he wasn’t one of those tedious Austen-hating men. Well, he was too pretty to be perfect. “That’s my second favorite, actually. I’m a sucker for a love story. But I might love a good twist more.”

One bottle of champagne and one empty plate later, I realized this had been easy… too easy. My guard was down. I was having a good time.

This is not a guy you can like, Ofos.

I’d known too many Coles. I’d gone to prep school with them, occasionally hung out with them, but trying to date one of them had never gone the way it was supposed to. Still, there I was on the terrace with one, and the rest of my world had completely fallen away.

“I’m telling you, you haven’t experienced any kind of reading restrictions until you’ve had to sneak a romance novel past an African mother. Particularly a romance with a clinch cover,” I said.

Cole tried to argue with me. “No way. Some of the horror novels I used to read had my mother convinced I needed a psychiatrist.”

“Hardly the same thing. My mother marched into my middle school once to drag me out into the hallway and ask me how I could disgrace her like this. She’d found one of my library books, an old-school historical romance by Johanna Lindsey. There was hell to pay, and publicly.”

With a laugh and a lift of his hands, Cole admitted defeat. “Okay, fine. That’s worse. Getting dragged out of class by a parent.” He laughed. “Granted, I usually got dragged out for other reasons. But for a book you were reading? That’s brutal.”

My phone vibrated just then, and I took it out of my pocket to see who was daring to interrupt my expert-level flirting. It was Jane.

JANE:

Where r u? Nazrin is looking for you.

Shit. I was supposed to be working. Making a good impression. “I’ve been out here way too long. I need to go.”

His smile fell, and his gaze searched mine. “Who’s going to help me finish the rest of the champagne?”

“That’s a very good question, but I still need to go. I’m an intern, remember? I can’t just vanish.”

“Let’s meet up later, then. I can feed you properly.”

My brain stutter-stepped, and I flushed from my feet to my roots. “You want to feed me?”

The smile he gave me was slow and flirtatious. “That’s usually what happens on a date, right?”

A date? He was asking me out? “Yeah. I’d like that.” There was no hiding my grin. Who was I kidding? I liked him, even if I did know better about guys like Cole. Besides, I hadn’t had a proper date in a while. When I turned to leave, he took my elbow gently.

“Me too. And thank you for making tonight interesting,” he said.

The wind blew, and I tucked one of my braids behind my ear, but neither of us moved. This party wasn’t turning out anything like I’d expected.

He was closer now, close enough to kiss. My heart thundered so hard behind my rib cage that I had to force deep, steady breaths. I was not going to blow this by saying something stupid to chase him off.

He leaned in, closing the gap between us. His hand slid up to cup my face, and he gently brushed a thumb over my cheekbone. He was waiting. I could feel it. The implicit, Is this okay?

I gave him a slight nod. I couldn’t have found words in that moment for all the books in the world.

My heart raced as he inched closer, his lips almost touching mine. Every nerve and cell in my body was on high alert, my breaths coming in shallow gasps.

The gentle brush of his lips made my breath catch. I didn’t know a kiss could feel like this. Was it the champagne?

He paused for a moment, whispering a hushed “Wow,” his gaze searching mine until I dug my hands into his lapels and pulled him forward. I had to know if what I’d just felt was real.

The electricity between us was palpable, setting every inch of my skin ablaze.

When he kissed me again, his hand slid onto the nape of my neck, pulling me even closer, making sure I stayed pressed against him.

I melted into him, feeling the heat of his body against mine as he deepened the kiss. As his tongue teased mine, my head swam in that foggy dreamlike way of fantasy kisses.

And I would have fallen deeper and deeper into the thrill of the kiss if the buzzing of my phone hadn’t interrupted us, jolting me back to reality and the danger of my situation. What if someone saw us out here? I’d be the talk of the office and not in a good way. Plus, I’d never, ever be offered a permanent position at Drake. “I’m sorry. I really, really have to go.”

“Wait. Don’t go. Please. Stay.”

God, was I tempted. “I wish. But I can’t.”

“I need to see you again. I don’t have your number.” His expectant smile made my heart leap.

“You have the proverbial glass slipper of information. You can find me.”

With a lopsided smile he whispered, “Then this is just the beginning.”