Chapter 1 Bas’ Blend
BAS’ BLEND
Gemma
I had three rules when it came to working weddings.
Don’t get emotionally involved. Don’t drink on the job. And never, under any circumstances, let a charming man with a devastating smile convince you that you’re any different from any other woman he’s met in his lifetime.
Sebastian Whitmore tested all three within five minutes of meeting me.
It was late in the reception—that golden hour when the formal events were finished and guests had loosened their ties and kicked off their heels.
The Avila wedding had been beautiful, albeit chaotic.
A candle fire, a missing caterer, a flower girl rebellion, and one very determined grandmother, who’d insisted on making a toast despite not being on the schedule.
I’d handled all of it with the calm efficiency that had built my reputation.
Now, I stood near the bar, checking items off my list and pretending I didn’t notice him approaching.
I’d been aware of Sebastian Whitmore all day.
It was hard not to be. He was one of those men who commanded attention without trying—tall, dark-haired, with the kind of easy confidence that came from growing up wealthy and wanted.
I’d watched him during dinner, making the rounds and charming every person he spoke to.
I’d watched him watching me, too, though I’d pretended not to notice.
Now, he was done watching from a distance.
“You look like you could use this.”
I turned to find him holding two glasses of wine, one extended toward me.
Up close, he was even more dangerous than I’d anticipated.
He had deep brown eyes with laugh lines at the corners, a mouth that tilted up on one side like he was always on the verge of a private joke, and the kind of face that had probably been getting him out of trouble since childhood.
“I don’t drink on the job,” I said, turning back to my tablet.
“Not even a sip?” He didn’t seem deterred. If anything, my dismissal seemed to interest him more. “This is from our reserve collection. Most people would kill for a taste.”
“Most people aren’t responsible for making sure the sparkler send-off doesn’t cause another fire.”
He laughed—a warm, rich sound that I somehow managed to ignore. Or at least make him think I did.
“Fair enough.” He set the rejected glass on the bar and took a sip from his own. “I’m Bas, by the way. Sebastian Whitmore.”
“I know who you are.”
“Ah.” That half smile again. “My reputation precedes me.”
“Your name was on the guest list.” I finally looked up, letting him see exactly how unimpressed I was. “I make it a point to know who’s who.”
“And what did your research tell you about me?”
“Research? No. Just awareness.” It was a lie.
I had looked into the eldest Whitmore when Isabel mentioned they’d been childhood friends.
He was the heir to Whitmore Estate, whose father had recently retired.
But there was more, which I decided him hearing might take him down a peg.
“You date models and actresses, none of whom seem to last more than a few months.” I smiled, the polite version I reserved for difficult vendors and handsy groomsmen. “Shall I continue?”
Something shifted in his expression. The easy charm flickered, replaced by something sharper. More real.
“You’ve done your homework.”
“I told you. I make it a point to know who I’m working with.” I bit my tongue, wishing I could take my words back the moment I said them—who’s who, was what I told him a few seconds ago.
“Is that what we’re doing?” He leaned against the bar, close enough that I caught his scent. It was intoxicating. “Working together?”
“The wedding’s almost over, Mr. Whitmore. So, no. After tonight, I doubt we’ll see each other again.”
“Bas,” he corrected. “And I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
Before I could respond, my headset crackled with a question from the catering manager. I turned away to handle it, and when I glanced over my shoulder, he was gone.
I told myself the twinge of disappointment I felt was just fatigue.
Six weeks later, he walked into my office.
No appointment. No warning. Just Sebastian Whitmore filling my doorway like he owned the place, wearing a jacket that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
“We need to talk,” he said.
I set my pen down with deliberate calm. “Most people call ahead.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No.” I leaned back in my chair and studied him. “You’re a man who’s used to barging into other people’s offices, making demands, and leaving after getting what you want. I don’t work that way.”
“Not the slightest bit interested in why I’m here?”
I was. But I’d never actually tell him that. I folded my arms and looked at my watch. “You have five minutes.”
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The office suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. I watched him take in the space—the neat stacks of contracts on my desk, the vision boards covering one wall, the awards displayed on a shelf I’d built myself.
“You’re good at what you do,” he said.
“I am.”
“The Avila wedding was flawless. I’ve been to a lot of events, Gemma. That one was different. It was personal. Like you actually cared.”
“I care about all my events.”
“No, you don’t.” He turned to face me, and the directness in his gaze caught me off guard. “You’re professional. Meticulous. But most of the time, you keep your distance. I watched you that night. You were different with Isabel. With the family. Like you’d let them in.”
My throat tightened. He wasn’t wrong. Isabel and her husband—along with his family—had gotten under my skin in ways I hadn’t expected. His mother’s warmth. His sister’s fierce loyalty. The way they’d absorbed Isabel into their chaos like she’d always belonged there.
It had reminded me of things I’d lost. Things I’d convinced myself I didn’t need anymore.
“What do you want, Bas?”
“I want to hire you.”
I blinked. “For what?”
“I’m launching something new at Whitmore. A membership program—the 1934 Society. Exclusive events, private tastings, behind-the-scenes access. I need someone to design and execute the signature events.” He paused. “I want that someone to be you.”
“I’m sure you have a team who can handle all of that.”
“I want you.”
“Why?”
He took a step closer. Then another. Until he was standing on my side of the desk, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“Because you’re the best. Because you don’t take shortcuts and you don’t settle for mediocre.
Because when you commit to something, you give it everything you have.
” His voice dropped. “And because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the night of the wedding, when you walked away from me. ”
My heart was beating too fast, and I hated the flush I knew was creeping up my neck.
“I don’t date clients.”
“I’m not asking you to date me. I’m asking you to work with me.” That half smile appeared again, but there was an edge to it now. A challenge. “Unless you don’t think you can handle it.”
“I can handle anything.”
“Prove it.”
I should have said no. Every instinct I’d honed over the past three years—every lesson I’d learned from the wreckage of my last relationship—screamed at me to refuse.
Sebastian Whitmore was exactly the kind of man I’d sworn off.
Wealthy. Charming. Used to getting what he wanted.
The kind of man who consumed women whole and left nothing behind but ashes.
But there was something in his eyes that gave me pause. Something beneath the confidence and the charm that looked almost vulnerable. Like he was holding his breath, waiting for my answer. Like it actually mattered.
“I’ll need creative control,” I heard myself say. “No interference, no second-guessing. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it my way.”
“Done.”
“And clear professional boundaries. Whatever you think is happening here”—I gestured between us—“isn’t.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
He smiled then, a real smile that transformed his face and made something flutter in my chest.
“Then, I guess we have a deal.” He extended his hand.
I looked at it. At him. Knowing I was making a mistake but doing it anyway. “Deal.”
His palm was warm against mine, his grip firm. He held on a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a touch so light I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it.
“I’ll have my attorney send over a contract,” he said. “We can meet at the estate next week to discuss our vision.”
“Our?”
“Mine and Isabel’s. Well, Kick’s too.” He released my hand and stepped back, and I could breathe again.
I hated that he’d gotten me to agree without his having to play that particular trump card.
“One more thing.” He paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. “When I said I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since you walked away from me?”
“What about it?”
“You assumed I’m not used to women doing that.” His eyes held mine. “I am. In fact, they do it all the time. They’re just not the one I want to stay.”
He was gone before I could respond.
I sat there, staring at the empty doorway, my hand still tingling where he’d touched it.
I was in trouble.
Deep, dangerous, inevitable trouble.