Gwen’s phone at last updated the time from New York to Los Angeles. She marveled at the disparity, not just from the distance and the temperature, she’d landed in a different world. Once her phone finished syncing, it vibrated with waiting texts and emails.
“Great,” she grumbled seeing how many messages had poured into her inbox while she’d been traveling. “It’s five p.m. in New York. As far as I’m concerned, it’s happy hour.” Gwen tucked her laptop under her arm and with her new expensive shades, she left her suite in search of a glass of wine and Wi-Fi.
An hour later, her half carafe of Sauvignon Blanc was empty, and she reduced her cheese and cracker platter to crumbs.
She read email after email, but paused on one and cried out, “No. No. No. This isn’t happening.”
She grabbed her phone and called List LA.
“Kirsten, it’s Gwen Foley at Prada. I just—Yes, my flight was fine. I want to—Yes, it’s much warmer here than in New York. Can we discuss—” This is why I hate calling people. All they want to do is talk.
“Kirsten!” She ducked her head, embarrassed when others on the patio wrenched their necks in her direction. “Please. I got your email with the confirmed list of attendees. Is that number right?”
Her legs wobbled in the elevator and down the hall to Andrew’s room. He hadn’t answered his phone or responded to texts and emails. Her tears and business card had coaxed his room number out of the manager.
After her frantic knocking, Andrew answered. He wore a tee-shirt that looked as if he’d taken a shower in it. The soaked fabric outlined his pecks deliciously.
“Sorry, I just got back from a run.” He wiped his hands on his shorts.
God damn! She wiped her own brow and got herself in check. “I need to speak with you. I’ve made a horrible mistake.”
He stepped aside. “Come in.”
“No,” she answered, startled he’d so casually suggest it, given what happened the last time she entered one of his hotel rooms.
“What?” he said, looking clueless.
“I can’t go into your hotel room. It’s not appropriate. Especially, since we... Can we speak downstairs?”
“Gwen, we have suites for meetings like this.” He tugged her by the wrist, his warm fingers easily wrapping around her hand. Commanding and powerful. “I promise, I can behave myself.”
Glad you can.
His room at the W Hotel last year had been just a room. No waiting area, no sofa to make out on, they’d done plenty of kissing in the elevator. Steps from the door he’d lowered her on his bed and took them to another planet.
Gwen padded inside now, looking for something to distract her from that sizzling memory. His suite mirrored hers to a T.
With Andrew going through his workbag, she snuck a look at his legs. Prada trousers hid the curved muscles. And, yikes. Those shorts he had on were...short. She prayed he wouldn’t stretch and expose something she didn’t think she could handle seeing again. Instead, he took a bottle of water into his hands.
Oh, please dump it on your head.
She did a double take when she realized he was talking to her . “Huh? What?”
“I said, do you want some water?” Andrew held the bottle out to her.
Only if I can lick it off your lips.
“No, thanks. Listen, Andrew.” She held her stomach. She’d made so much progress with him and now it could all crumble. “I received the response count from List LA for the show.”
“That bad?” He wrinkled his nose.
“No!” She waved off that ridiculous notion. “Just the opposite. I never...I never gave them the ballroom’s capacity.”
“And?”
“We’re overbooked by more than double.”
Andrew relaxed. “It’s fine.”
“How can it be fine? We have three hundred people coming to jam their butts into one hundred and twenty seats.”
“This is L.A. They won’t all show up. List LA knew that.”
Yes, the local publicity firm had to have known the capacity. Gwen approved all the attendees, but she hadn’t done a count. “Has this ever happened to you before?”
“I never stressed over the headcounts to be honest with you.” He moved closer to her. “I relied on the people I hired to manage all that. But I’m glad you’ll be on top of things like that now. It would be a disaster if all those butts showed up.” He smirked at her adorably.
Gwen smiled back, but then got her serious face on. “Andrew, I’m sorry. I take full responsibility.
This will never happen again.”
After a long stare, he said, “That’s certainly refreshing.”
“What is?”
“To hear someone own up to a mistake.” He lifted his arms over his head. “All I get are excuses and how it’s someone else’s fault.”
Gwen geared up to ask him if his workout went well, hoping that would lead to him letting her touch his biceps again, but the sound of a loud knock forced Andrew to open his door.
“Morgan.” Salvatore glided in, moving right to Andrew’s windows like he was checking to see if the view was better than the one from his suite. “Enrico wants to meet immediately. We’ve booked the private dining room.”
“Signor Corella. Come in,” Andrew said with annoyance lacing his tone.
“Ah, bella. You are here.” He cast a sideways glance at Andrew. “Saves me a trip to your suite.”
“Let me get the rest of my papers,” she said, noticing the scornful stare that had developed between the two men.
Sitting with Salvatore on the plane was a genius move. Still, she didn’t want to professionally come between him and Andrew. Salvatore was a brilliant designer. The runway rehearsal and the media previews meant this collection would be spectacular. As the brand manager, Andrew should be proud of Salvatore’s creations to enhance the Prada brand.
“I’ll give you a hand, bella.” The designer followed her to the door.
“Salvatore, she’s a big girl. She’s managed a lot without you so far.” Andrew caught his arm.
“Besides, I have a few things to run by you.”
Relieved to be getting out from between them before she started drooling, Gwen clutched her laptop to her chest, calmed her hammering heartbeat, and said, “I’ll see you both in a little while.”
Not to mention, Andrew needed a shower. A long, hot one. Oh, to be a drop of Los Angeles County water right now. Gwen rushed out of the suite, wishing she had time to take a cold shower.
The private dining room was the most beautiful and exquisitely decorated room she’d ever seen.
She hadn’t known rooms like this even existed in hotels. Like their suites, one wall was entirely made of glass. The sun had set, but a wavy line of deep blue speckled with pink and gold stretched over the horizon. The smog blurred all the tones like a Monet watercolor painting. North Fork residents enjoyed colorful sunsets over the Sound. This West Coast version took her breath away.
The beauty and elegance around her gave way, however, to the overpowering aroma of roasted garlic and sweet basil. On the back wall, a long sideboard held trays and trays of food. With a phone tucked into the curve of his shoulder, Salvatore filled a plate with folded slices of Italian prosciutto and salami. Thalia picked at an olive and cheese platter. Enrico swirled linguine onto a fork.