Run, Run, Roommates (Winter Wanderlust #4)

Chapter 1

Marco

There’s cinnamon sprinkled on top of the eggnog.

Fuck.

Amid the flurry of decorators and florists and caterers in the penthouse apartment, I dig my phone out of my pocket. I stop next to one of the windows looking out over the Manhattan skyline and text the one person who gets exactly what the cinnamon powder means.

Marco

There’s cinnamon on the eggnog.

Brin

MOTHER FUCKERS

HOW DARE THEY

Then she sends a text that is nothing but emojis: the frowning devil, the smiling devil, a knife, an evil clown, the skull . . .

I’m lucky she texted back so quickly; she must be on a break at the restaurant. I can picture her in her black server uniform, her wild red hair tamed in a bun but her blue eyes lit up with merriment. She might even be biting her lip to keep back her laughter . . .

Someone nearby giggles, and it echoes the sound of Brin’s laughter in my head so much it startles me and I look up.

Two people from the catering team—servers based on their attire, one white with long blonde hair and the other Asian with chin-length black hair—glance at each other like they’ve got some great secret. And then their gaze returns to me over the massive granite kitchen island.

I raise an eyebrow.

Reading my face, the blonde shrugs. “You have an adorably smitten look on your face. Texting your crush? Partner?”

The other one giggles again.

Smitten? Just because Brin’s an extremely attractive woman, one of my closest friends, and one of the kindest, sweetest people I’ve ever known . . .

I am not smitten.

I turn my screen off and pocket my phone, any trace of smittenness .

. . smittenity? Smite? No, that’s not right.

Whatever . . . erased from my face. I pick up the tablet on the counter next to me and tap over to the catering contract, scrolling down until I find paragraph four, item three of the special requests made by my boss.

Because I’m his personal assistant, one of my jobs is to make sure everything is executed per his wishes.

On my best days, I’m often told I’m too curt, too practical, too blunt.

Since I arrived at William’s place this morning to discover he’d left the balcony doors open last night and there were pigeons (and pigeon shit) everywhere, I’ve also had to deal with two vendors running late, an event planner that won’t answer my calls (not entirely sure I blame her, but still), and now, a very minor problem that’s probably not the only one.

It’s not one of my best days.

I point at the tray of coupe glasses, the creamy eggnog filled to the brim and topped with stenciled cinnamon creating a variety of patterns across the foam. “Throw those away.”

Someone gasps.

“Uhhh . . .” the blonde server says.

The chef, the catering manager, and the event planner are all called over. I point out the special request. Apologies are made and I watch as they remake the next batch, this time sprinkling the tops with cocoa powder.

Now the staff is side-eyeing me. A picky client.

Except it’s not actually me who’s picky. I’m the messenger. But they’ll never know that.

Once the eggnog is decorated correctly, I stalk off to check the rest of the special requests, because apparently you can’t trust professionals to do their jobs anymore.

Usually, it’s not a problem.

Usually, our regular caterer is available for events, because usually, my boss doesn’t throw a last-minute holiday party a week before Christmas.

I’m kidding myself, because there is no “usually” with my boss. When he wants the impossible to happen, I’m the one who makes it work, and throwing a last-minute holiday party in his penthouse before he jets off to St. Bart’s for Christmas should be a cake walk.

I pore through the contract with the event planner, checking the list twice, correcting as much of it as I can before my boss gets here.

The evergreen boughs that drape carefully over the fireplace, banister, and railing of the balcony are not the cedar ones we ordered, but fraser, so I send someone out to either get the ones we ordered or more fraser to fill it in better.

Two of the servers have no idea which food is free from ginger—William’s sister has an allergy, not to mention the assortment of guests on the list who have dairy, gluten, or allium allergies or intolerances, so we have to have a staff meeting to review everything.

The caterers have re-plated two trays of appetizers, the bartenders have no rosemary so I have to send someone out again, and I’m arguing with the DJ about the lighting arrangement.

I’m ready to put my foot so far up his ass, Santa drops coal down his throat to fill my stocking.

That’s when, of course, William walks in.

My boss is twenty-seven but tells everyone he’s twenty-three.

He’s got dark hair that falls in waves down to his shoulders, unnaturally high cheekbones, and he’s wearing a Givenchy trench coat that is more expensive than my first car over a Stefano Pilati custom-made outfit that when I told Brin how much it cost him, she literally hyperventilated.

I haven’t told her about his Labubu collection yet.

William is ridiculously good-looking. When I first learned who he was, my bisexual heart had a moment of pitter-pattering .

. . until I met him. I’d never heard of William Robert LeClerc the Third until I was prepping for my interview—and why would I have?

William is wildly popular in his own little—albeit, powerful—world of trust fund babies and social climbers.

Not only is he straight, but he’s unbearable. Fortunately, I’m getting paid six figures to tolerate him.

Like usual, he walks in gushing over the way we’ve transformed his penthouse condo. “Divine!” he shouts, walking through the living space. “It smells amazing in here,” he crows when he passes through the kitchen. Everyone is full of smiles and good holiday cheer by the time William gets to me.

He subtly pinches my elbow. Hard.

“They used the wrong evergreen,” he hisses in my ear. Behind his glasses—bold, black frames laced with gold that brings out the matching flecks in his eyes—his gaze is sharp and critical.

“I know. I’ve been through the—”

“It looks shabby.”

“We’re getting more,” I assure him.

“And the ginger?”

I’m tense and wound up from having to make demands of the staff, but William’s concern for his sister softens me.

By about half a percent.

“I went over every recipe with the chef.” The catering manager now hates me for putting them behind schedule, stealing their staff for a thorough review of the allergens in each dish, and throwing away several items that were incorrectly prepared, no matter how small the infringement.

“Fine.” William somehow manages to shrug me off, even though he’s the one that grabbed me.

Blessedly, William retreats to his room after more smiling and over-the-top simpers at the staff for how lovely everything is. I get back to work.

Hours later, the party is finally winding down. I’ve been running around at William’s bidding, bringing him food, reminding him who guests are, and quietly—but firmly—kicking people out who shouldn’t be here.

Most of William’s guest list don’t like me. Possibly because I kicked them out at some other party when they were on the outs with my boss, or possibly because they actually hate my boss and I’m an easier target.

I don’t care. I don’t get paid to suck up to them.

There are a few lingering guests, but the staff is packing up after William swanned through giving generous tips and superfluous compliments. The staff will remember those tips and those compliments. William comes out on top.

They don’t know what I saved them from, because William throwing a hissy fit is a nightmare. Like, call Daddy’s PR team and confiscate people’s phones nightmare.

“Why are you still here?” He peers over his glasses at me, a move that I’m pleased to say makes him look at least thirty-two, but I won’t ever tell him that. He flutters a hand at me. “Go home and don’t embarrass me tomorrow.”

I have no idea what William is talking about. My mind scrolls through our schedule—William’s private flight is at noon. His bags are packed and downstairs with the staff already. The chauffeur will take care of things and then William will be whisked off and I’ll get two weeks of vacation.

“Of course,” I say, and as soon as William has returned to his guests, I whip out my phone and pore through William’s emails, looking for some kind of clue as to what he’s referencing.

It takes a few minutes until I find it in his draft folder—along with twenty other messages, mostly empty, which I’ll have to deal with at some point—but there it is. An email with the “to” line empty. It’s a forwarded chain of emails and I read each one with deepening dread.

Marco,

My dad wants me to take a more active role in our philanthropic efforts so I’ve signed you up. I don’t care how much you do, just do enough to make Dad happy.

WRLIII

Yes, his email signature includes his suffix to be sure you don’t get him confused with his father or his ninety-two-year-old grandfather.

There’s an attachment, and a thread of emails from a charity organization confirming “my” registration.

I click on a link, which opens to a lush green website with gilded filigree, golden snowflakes, and shiny ribbons.

The only text is a hotel name—one of the chains in Manhattan—and in big block text, a countdown.

Six hours to the start of the SHiNY Season!

What the fuck is SHiNY?

I do a quick internet search. SHiNY stands for Scavenger Hunt in New York, and based on their flagship event, which takes place in the summer, it’s a multiday scavenger hunt to raise money for charity.

The summer event is an over-the-top celebration of the city, with multiple articles written about the good it does for the various organizations it raises money for.

William having me fill in for him at a charity event like this is fine, it’s part of my job—although having to do this over the time I thought was going to be my vacation time is an absolute pain in my ass.

But what I realize with a sinking sense of dread is that SHiNY Season is set up to celebrate the holidays in the same over-the-top way.

And I fucking hate this time of year.