Chapter Two
Winter
There’s a coffee stain the size of Texas on my brand-new silk shirt. I’d been excited when I saw the rose-colored top on clearance for half off because it completed the I-mean-business ensemble for my first client meeting.
I check the time on my phone again and cuss under my breath as I scrub harder at the spot.
“This had to happen today,” I grumble to myself, realizing that the five minutes I have left until walking into the conference room are not going to make a difference.
The outfit I spent days obsessing over is ruined because I decided to splurge on a cup of coffee, which I only allow myself twice a month because of how stupidly expensive the sugary caffeine I love is.
But how can I pass up on something that tastes like heaven to my taste buds?
If my father were around, he’d scoff at the drink I’m slightly addicted to and comment on my inevitable diabetes diagnosis.
Unlike me, he preferred his coffee black and bitter.
But I deserve it. At least, that’s what I told myself when I handed the barista my last ten-dollar bill and cringed at how little change I got back.
Today is the first day I get to shadow and assist Janel Starr, my boss, as she takes on a “delicate” PR case.
I have no idea what I’m walking into, or who will be on the other side of the table.
All I know is that Janel thinks this client can be difficult, and cleaning up his reputation may not be as easy as the other cases we’ve taken on here at Starrs Strategy.
Defeat weighs on my shoulders as they slump at the pitiful sight of me staring back in the reflection.
I got up early just to braid back my pin-straight blond hair and hide the hot-pink tips my sister helped me dye.
Pink is a happy color—a positive one. It matches the color on my fingers and toes, but hardly fits my personality.
Not anymore, at least. I’m more of a black kind of girl these days.
Optimistic to a point, cynical to a fault.
It’s hard not to be when you’ve gone through the amount of loss as I have.
So, I choose to surround myself with happy colors.
Today it’s pink.
I spent extra time making sure my makeup is neutral, highlighting my mossy-green eyes and full lips with liner I don’t normally wear.
My outfit is—was—cute and classy. The gray slacks aren’t tailored, but they fit my short legs better than most of my jeans, and the rose-gold top tucked into the waistband emphasizes my hourglass waist in a professional manner.
Before the coffee incident, I felt…good. For once.
When I looked at myself on the way out of my apartment this morning, I didn’t feel like a twenty-five-year-old orphan on her way to her first real job. Well, my first real meeting. I felt confident. Older. Excited.
“You had to get a stupid coffee,” I scold myself, throwing the damp paper towel into the trash bin by the sink. I usually drink water at work because water is free. If I spill it, the most I have to worry about is a wet shirt. Not this.
I give myself one last glance in the mirror before groaning loudly and walking back out to my cubicle. Sometimes I keep a sweater at work because of the draft above my desk. I could slip that on to hide the mess splattered over my boobs and save the day.
“What on earth happened to you?” Janel asks me halfway to my desk.
I wince as she eyes my shirt. “I went across the street for a coffee on my break and then promptly spilled it on myself trying to avoid being run over by a guy on an electric scooter.”
She stares at me unblinking before shaking her head. “Do you have something to change into?”
Janel has always been a laid-back boss who rarely cares about what we wear.
Case in point, her short hair is currently bright purple and matches her dress.
I don’t need to hide the pink in my hair or wear business-casual outfits, but I want to be taken seriously by the clients we represent.
I’ve only done the backend work at Starrs Strategy—making calls, fetching coffee, writing meeting minutes.
But I’ve heard about the people who come in here needing our help.
I don’t want to come off as anything other than professional to the multi-millionaires who have money to throw at their reputations.
“I thought I had a sweater, but I think I took it home with me,” I answer, frowning as I go through my desk drawers.
My spine straightens as I turn to her. “Please don’t make me sit this meeting out.
I’ll sit on the other side of the room and take notes.
The client won’t even be able to see the stain. ”
One of Janel’s dark eyebrows pops up. I wonder why she didn’t dye them too, but I don’t bother asking that because I’ve got better things to concern myself with. “Winnie, the people in the building across the street from us can see that stain. There’s no missing it.”
All of the hope and excitement I’d woken up with deflates. “I understand,” I murmur, sitting down and glaring at my shirt.
Janel remains by my cubicle. “Why are you sitting? Our client showed up two minutes ago. We’ve got to go.”
I blink at her. “But…” I’m speechless for a second. “You still want me to be there?”
She rolls her eyes. “Winter, I went to a meeting last week with spinach in my teeth and mascara smudged under my eye. I looked like somebody had punched me. We’re only human, and our client could use the reminder that he is too. Let’s go.”
I’m quick to follow her as she turns and heads down the hall.
The room she booked for today is private, unlike some of our other conference rooms with glass walls that modernize the building.
It means that whoever is sitting inside is a high-profile client, not some random CEO under scrutiny of a tweet gone wrong or an office affair at a Coldplay concert.
We stop outside the closed door, and Janel turns to me. “Teeth check,” she says, baring her teeth and running her tongue over the pearly whites.
“All good,” I say after careful inspection, getting an appreciative smile from her.
“Before we go in,” she begins, gesturing toward the room, “I want you to remember not to react. Whatever happens in this room is confidential. We’re not here to judge, we’re here to listen and help.”
My smile slips a fraction. What exactly am I walking into? Did this person commit a murder? Something worse? What’s worse than murder? It could be a self-defense thing. Or maybe they were protecting their family or pet John Wick style. I can totally get behind that.
“I can see the wheels turning,” she observes with arched brows. “I need them to stop. You can’t go in there with any preconceived notions. There’s a reason why I picked you for this case and not one of the others.”
If she willingly chose me over Cody or Farrah, that probably means it’s a celebrity. Most likely an athlete or actor. She knows I’m a safe bet because I know very little about sports, which means I won’t fangirl or try sliding my number to someone known in the game.
Rolling my shoulders back, I nod at her. “I can do that. No judgment.”
Unless he hurt an animal. Then there will definitely be judgment. I’ll just keep it to myself.
“Good,” she praises. “And try not to let him get under your skin. He’s good at that.”
Janel opens the door after the heeded warning, leading me inside the large room with a walnut conference table and expensive office chairs surrounding it in the middle.
Above the polished wood hangs a chandelier that looks oddly out of place compared to the crisp, clean aesthetic below it.
There’s a drink bar set up off to the side with coffee and water on top next to the crystal glasses, and alcohol inside the glass cabinet that looks well-stocked.
The paintings hanging on the walls are minimalist and make no real sense to me, but I don’t pay them much mind.
Not when I see the man sitting casually at the end of the table with a scowl on his ruggedly masculine face.
“Mr. Moskins,” Janel greets, setting her laptop down on the opposite end of the table. “It’s nice to see you again. Will your agent and manager be joining us this afternoon? I can wait for them.”
His eyes slide from Janel to me, dragging along the front of my body.
I can feel his gaze like a heated touch, and the pin prickles of heat travel from the crown of my skull down to my painted pink toenails stuffed into a pair of white heels that are a size too small for me and bound to leave blisters.
There isn’t a centimeter his focus doesn’t graze with curiosity, and I feel it all.
Goose bumps cover my skin as he appraises me like a sculpture he wants to put a bid on, and I’d be lying if I said the feeling wasn’t nice. Men have noticed me before, but their gazes always feel slimy. His is curious, maybe a little calculated, but overall cautious.
Good. He should be.
Janel notices where his attention is too. She puts a hand on my arm and says, “This is Winter Bronte. She’ll be assisting me with your case. Winter, this is Thomas Moskins. He’s a hockey player with Connecticut’s new NHL team, the Fireflies.”
Ah, a professional hockey player. I’m not familiar with many of them, but he certainly looks athletic.
Bulky and muscular in all the right places, like he can take a hit and still play.
I’ve heard hockey is a violent sport, but his body is definitely built to handle it.
I’d read that Fairbanks was getting its very own pro team in the league a year ago, which is supposed to boost the local economy when they officially start playing in the fall.
“Bronte?” Thomas repeats, studying me with his arms crossed over his broad chest. He’s not nearly as dressed up as I am, but he wears his long-sleeved shirt well. It isn’t baggy and hugs his torso and arms like he needs to size up.
Not that I’m complaining.