Chapter 40
BLAIR
Ipace across my bedroom floor for what feels like the hundredth time in the past hour. Through the closed door, I hear voices—people asking questions, Liv giving directions. Hearing her voice again causes a shiver to run down my spine.
"Champagne glasses at one o'clock from the dinner plate," she's saying. "Water glasses to the right. Have you not looked at the table design? It's pretty straightforward and it's only for two. Come on, people, this should be easy."
My heart hammers against my ribs. It worked. She’s here.
Sam, my loyal assistant's plan was brilliant in its simplicity.
She contacted Liv's company, claiming to represent a wealthy couple who needed an emergency elopement arranged.
"Very small, very private, very exclusive," Sam explained to me.
"An easy, last-minute job that would be too lucrative for her to turn down.
" The story was that the couple had decided to elope some time this week instead of having their huge planned wedding next month—family drama, cold feet about the big production, the usual reasons wealthy people suddenly opt for intimate ceremonies.
She mentioned they were flexible with dates, which gave Liv's team the option to choose a time that worked with their existing schedule and squeeze them in.
Sam fed Liv's team an address—my address—claiming it was the bride's penthouse. She provided a substantial deposit and emphasized the need for absolute discretion.
Essentially I'm paying to talk to Liv, for her to hear me out. But she's been ignoring me, so I have no choice. If, after tonight, she still wants nothing to do with me, I'll leave her alone forever.
"Where's the officiant?" Liv asks someone. "The bride and groom will be here soon and the ceremony is supposed to start in twenty minutes."
"Must be the traffic," comes a male voice. "It's bad tonight."
I squeeze my eyes shut. There is no officiant. There's no couple eloping. There's just me, hiding in my bedroom, waiting to have a moment with the woman I adore.
I've never been unable to get a woman out of my head, never found myself orchestrating schemes just for five minutes of someone's time.
"The roses look beautiful." Liv's voice again, and I can hear the soft scrape of furniture being adjusted on the terrace. "And so do the candles. Good job."
The elevator chimes, and Sam's voice cuts through the ambient sounds of preparation.
"Hi, are you Olivia Barnes? We spoke on the phone. I'm Sam, the bride's personal assistant."
There's a brief pause, and then I hear Sam let out a low whistle. "Wow. I just came to check everything looked good, but this is absolutely incredible. She'll be very pleased."
"Well, it has to be perfect," comes Liv's response. "When someone trusts me with their most important day, they get nothing short of extraordinary. Are the bride and groom en route?"
"Yes, they should be here within the next few minutes," Sam replies smoothly. "Actually, would it be possible to clear out everyone except the pianist, the waiter, and the chef? They're both very private people. Oh, and you’ll stay too, right?"
"Of course," Liv says. "I'll brief the officiant when he arrives."
I hear her addressing her team—thanking them for their work.
Then comes the knock on my bedroom door—Sam's signal that it's time.
This is either the most romantic gesture I've ever attempted or the worst mistake of my life. Danny's words echo in my head: You keep trying until she believes you're sorry.
I take a deep breath and step into my living area.
The entire space has been transformed and I barely recognize my own home.
Flower arrangements with lilies and pastel pink roses are everywhere. They spill from elegant vases positioned throughout the living room and create romantic clusters on every available surface. The scent makes the air itself feel luxurious.
In my open kitchen, a chef in crisp whites works quietly.
The sliding glass doors are thrown wide open, and my usually minimalist terrace has been transformed into an intimate dining paradise.
A small round table sits in the center, draped in ivory linens and set for two.
More flowers surround the table, and a pianist sits at the baby grand I bought on impulse but rarely play, his fingers dancing across the keys in something soft and classical.
Hurricane lights line the full length of the terrace, their glass protecting the flickering candles from the evening breeze.
The city skyline twinkles beyond the railing. Central Park is a dark canvas dotted with lights. It couldn't have looked more romantic if I'd hired a team of Hollywood set designers. And there, in the middle of it all, is Liv.
She's wearing a stone-colored pantsuit, those heels that make her legs look endless, and her dark hair is pulled back in a chignon that shows off the elegant line of her neck. She's adjusting one of the flower arrangements.
When she senses a presence, she looks up with an instinctive smile. But the moment she registers that it's me, her expression shifts from professional warmth to complete shock.
"Blair? What are you doing here? You can't just waltz in and—"
She stops mid-sentence, her eyes darting around the space. Then her gaze travels down and she notices I'm barefoot under my jeans and white shirt. I watch as understanding dawns, her lips parting while she pieces it together.
"Wait..." She turns back to me, her brow furrowed in confusion and growing realization. "Is this your place?"
"Yes," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets as I lean against the open terrace door. "I'm sorry about all this but it was the only way I could get you here for five minutes to explain myself." I shrug. "I was hoping you might consider having dinner with me too, but I won’t push my luck."
I pause, then add with what I hope is a disarming grin, "And don't worry; there's no officiant involved."
She doesn't laugh. She just stares at me, her expression cycling through disbelief, anger, and something else.
I can see her considering her options—the set of her shoulders suggests she's about to storm out.
But then our eyes meet across the candlelit terrace, and something in her posture softens.
Her shoulders drop slightly, and she lets out a sigh.
"Okay," she says finally. "You have five minutes to explain yourself." She pauses, her gaze flicking over the romantic tableau. "But I'm not sitting down. Five minutes. We'll take it from there."