Chapter 3
Roxy
Present Day
"For the love of everything I hold dear, please tell me that's not the bouquet for Iris!"
My assistant stares at me like I just turned into Medusa, so I force myself to breathe.
It's fine, Roxy. You can fix this. You always fix things.
"She asked for white chrysanthemums, Yuri. Not marigolds."
"They look the same. She'll never notice." My soon-to-be ex-assistant shrugs. He's the seventh one in two months, and I swear, it's not my fault.
Ignoring him, I pull my phone from my purse and stride to the window, dialing the florist I've worked with for five years.
"Yes, Roxy?" Simona answers, all chirpy and cheerful.
"Simona." I keep my voice level. "I get that Yuri has the attention span of a six-year-old discovering Fortnite for the first time, but what the hell did you drink this morning that made you send me marigolds instead of chrysanthemums?"
Silence. I can hear her rifling through her notes.
"Ohhh…no."
"Ohhh, yes." My grip tightens on the phone. "And I'm supposed to deliver this bouquet to the church in an hour. The bride is waiting."
More rustling papers on her end.
"I don't care how you do it," I continue, "but you will bring me the correct flowers to Harvest Chapel." My voice turns to steel. "Now."
I hang up.
Nobody can get anything right around here.
I've been with this event-planning firm for almost six years, since college, and I've always found it easier to organize other people's lives than my own. Perfect career choice, or so I thought. What no one told me? Managing chaos is one thing. Surviving it without losing your mind is another. This job means dealing with people. Lots of them. And most don’t have two working brain cells.
Case in point: Yuri, browsing food delivery apps instead of worrying about the bride’s bouquet.
“Yuri, you’re fired.”
His head snaps up from his phone, confusion written all over his face. We stare at each other for a solid ten seconds before his bottom lip starts trembling. Then he's crying. Full-blown ugly crying.
My eyes widen. None of my other assistants have burst into tears at being fired. Before I can process what's happening, he drops to his knees in front of me, hands clutching at my legs.
I'm one second away from swinging my purse at his head when he pleads, "Please, Roxy.
Give me one more chance. My mom will kill me if I lose this job too.
Just one more shot. I'll do anything. Well, almost anything.
Please don't make me deal with the old lady that works at the bridal shop; she terrifies the hell out of me. But anything else, yes."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Why do I always attract lost causes?
"One chance, Yuri. Mess this up and I'll make your life more miserable than a DMV visit. Clear?"
I don't even hear his answer. I'm already late for this wedding, and my dress is wrinkled at the bottom where he clung to it like a lifeline.
The second I step outside the office building, I feel it. That prickle at the back of my neck, the tiny hairs standing on end. I've gotten far too familiar with this sensation over the past few months ever since I gained my very own stalker. One who's terrible at staying hidden.
Instead of heading straight to the church, I duck into the café next door and order a vanilla latte for myself. And something extra for the guy sitting at the end of the street on his Ducati, pretending he's not watching me.
Once both cups are ready, lids secured, I walk straight toward the motorcycle that practically screams for attention.
Damien's eyes widen for half a second when he sees me coming. Then he masks it, sliding back into that cool, unreadable expression.
"So," I say, shoving the drink at him, "what's today's excuse?"
One year ago, my best friend's ex kidnapped both of us and ruined a stunning Zadig & Voltaire dress in the process.
I'm still bitter about that dress. Her boyfriend, Roman Borisov, who happens to be the Chicago Russian mafia leader, saved her life.
And introduced me to the man standing in front of me now.
Damien Kaminski. My personal headache for the past twelve months.
Ever since that moment in that damn warehouse, he's been following me around. And although I could've said something to Luna and solved this situation months ago, he's never actually done anything inappropriate.
Every other time I've confronted him about waiting outside my office, he's had some story ready. A business meeting a block away, errands nearby. I'm curious what he'll spin this time.
I wish my stomach wouldn't twist itself into knots as I study his face.
Because the head of the Polish mafia might be a walking red flag, but damn it, he's also exactly my type.
Tall, not too broad, messy hair, tattoos licking up his neck and arms, chain around his throat, warm brown eyes… and a mouth that could—
No. No mouth, Roxy. You don't think about his mouth.
"I missed you," he says with a roguish grin, sipping from his cup. His face instantly contorts in disgust. "What the hell is this?"
"Chamomile tea."
"Why would you give me this?" He sniffs it suspiciously.
"So you can finally calm down and leave me alone." I press my palm lightly to his chest and flutter my lashes at him.
His gaze drops to where my hand rests. Before I realize my mistake, his palm covers mine, trapping it against his chest.
"I knew you were crazy about me, Roxanne. But you don't have to be shy. Touch whatever you want, as much as you want, anywhere you want."
The way he says it makes my throat tighten. Low, rough, honest. And the scary part is he probably means it. What's worse? I want to take him up on it.
But he's a mafia leader for fuck’s sake. And, apparently, my stalker. A bad stalker, sure, but a stalker nonetheless.
"I know they just let you out of the psych ward," I shoot back, "but did you at least take your meds, Damien?"
"My therapist says I don't need medication," he replies, his voice a shade softer. Just vulnerable enough to make me feel like I've hit something raw.
And now I feel like an asshole.
The fact that this man, who radiates mental hospital on steroids, actually goes to therapy twists my chest in a way I don't want to think about.
I pull my hand away. Time to change the subject. I don't need to know him. He's just another man chasing a pretty face for a few months before moving on to his next obsession.
"What do you want from me, Damien?" I can't hide the exhaustion in my voice.
He studies me for a long beat, then his hand drifts to the base of my throat, coaxing my chin up to meet his eyes.
"Simple," he says. "I want you. A house. As many kids as you want but at least two. No cats. I'm allergic. You seem like a Rottweiler person anyway."
I blink. Excuse me?
House? Kids? Minimum two?
Breaking free, I back away. "In your dreams, Damien. And stop following me. Or at least do it better. It's not fun having a stalker I can spot every time."
His grin turns smug. "I knew you loved having me around. Don't worry, baby. I'll hide better."
I shake my head, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. I'm about fifty feet away when his voice carries down the street. “I always make my dreams come true, Roxanne!”
Something tightens in my chest. It's absurd that I could be anyone's dream. Words are easy. If he wants me to believe it, he'll have to prove it.
Thirty-five minutes later, I finally make it to the church. Simona's pacing outside with the correct bouquet in hand, looking ready to faint. She knows as well as I do that one wrong detail can mean a hysterical bride and a scathing review.
"Sorry, Roxy," she says, genuinely apologetic.
"I believe you. Just…be more careful next time."
I take the flowers and walk into the cathedral. Iris isn't here yet. I spot the bride's mother wearing every shade of green known to man and the groom's younger brother, Xander, pacing near the altar.
Reading people is part of the job, and let me tell you, he's not jittery from brotherly emotion. Something's wrong.
And where the hell is the groom?
I step toward Xander with a practiced, calming smile, resting a hand on his forearm to steady him. He jumps back like I burned him.
"Sorry, I just wanted to check if everything's okay. You seem nervous."
His eyes go wide. Sweat beads on his temples.
"You're Roxy, right? The planner?"
"That's right." My suspicion spikes.
He fidgets then exhales, resigned.
"God, I hate him for putting me in this position… The groom's not coming."
He didn't just say that. He couldn't have.
"Sorry, could you repeat that? I think I had a small stroke."
"He's on his way to Costa Rica. With his assistant."
He's where? With whom?
The priest is making his way to the altar, so I grab Xander's wrist and drag him outside, dump the bouquet on a bench, and thank God I didn't drink a second coffee this morning or I'd be vibrating enough to explode him with my glare.
"And when exactly were you planning to tell the bride? Because she just texted me that she'll be here in four minutes."
Puppy-dog guilt looks back at me. Oh, he’s just the scapegoat for his coward of a brother.
I rub my temples. “You’re sure?”
His face is answer enough.
A muffled scream escapes my throat. Instead of delivering a dream today, I’m about to deliver a disaster.
“Roxy?”
Iris’s voice. Behind me.
I close my eyes, steel myself. It’s fine, Roxy. She’s better off without him.
I turn and my courage falters.
She’s radiant in a princess gown, pearls at her neckline, blonde hair in a loose bun, silver rose-shaped earrings glinting. Hope shines so brightly in her eyes that it makes me sick.
Xander steps up beside me. He knows, same as I do, that we’re about to turn her happiest day into her worst.
“Iris, we have a problem.”
For the next hour, I hold her while she sobs for the future she thought she had. She doesn’t believe me when I tell her she’s lucky this happened now. She doesn’t believe me when I tell her she dodged a bullet.
And out of nowhere, my mind flashes to a gold chain and the scent of leather and musk. I shake it off.
They’re all the same. They’ll break your heart the moment you love them most.