Groomzilla E-Book

Tere Michaels

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 253

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

When drama threatens to ruin a romance on a reality show, only a true friend can save a groomzilla's wedding. Daniel Green, an event planner with a neat, quiet, orderly life, reluctantly agrees to plan the wedding of his childhood friend Ander, an outrageous fashion designer soon to marry a wealthy entertainment lawyer named Rafe. To complicate matters, the happy couple have agreed to have their wedding made into a reality show—something that practical Daniel isn't sold on. Daniel is neither a romantic nor a wedding planner, but he's the only person in the world who can manage Ander. Distracting him from his mission is Owen Grainger, a too-handsome-to-be-true producer whose quiet charm pulls Daniel into his orbit. When the stress of the show triggers bad behavior from Ander, co-producer Victor Pierce decides it's the key to a ratings bonanza, and he begins to undermine Ander and Rafe's relationship to create more drama. Daniel is determined to protect his friend and his own reputation, but when he finds himself falling hard for Owen, there's much more at stake than ratings.

Leseprobe

Groomzilla

By TERE MICHAELS

When drama threatens to ruin a romance on a reality show, only a true friend can save a groomzilla’s wedding.

Daniel Green, an event planner with a neat, quiet, orderly life, reluctantly agrees to plan the wedding of his childhood friend Ander, an outrageous fashion designer soon to marry a wealthy entertainment lawyer named Rafe. To complicate matters, the happy couple have agreed to have their wedding made into a reality show—something that practical Daniel isn’t sold on.

Daniel is neither a romantic nor a wedding planner, but he’s the only person in the world who can manage Ander. Distracting him from his mission is Owen Grainger, a too-handsome-to-be-true producer whose quiet charm pulls Daniel into his orbit.

When the stress of the show triggers bad behavior from Ander, co-producer Victor Pierce decides it’s the key to a ratings bonanza, and he begins to undermine Ander and Rafe’s relationship to create more drama. Daniel is determined to protect his friend and his own reputation, but when he finds himself falling hard for Owen, there’s much more at stake than ratings.

It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Chapter One

“AND THAT’S why you’re the right man for the job.”

Daniel Green held the cell phone between his ear and right shoulder as he maneuvered his oversize shopping cart through the gargantuan aisles of the restaurant supply warehouse, artfully dodging displays of industrial-strength floor cleaner and rodent-reduction equipment. Ander’s speech had begun at his apartment and bled through the walk to the parking garage, the drive to the big box store in the wilds of New Jersey—on speaker, of course—and through his long list of necessities.

“Ander, you know I’m thrilled for you and Rafe. Thrilled to the bottom of my heart that you found someone also named after a romance hero from the 1980s who puts up with your shit. But wedding planning is not what I do.” He patiently recited the reason—again—he had to turn his best friend’s request down.

“You plan, Daniel—you were born planning. I have it on good authority from your grandmother you were born with a Moleskine in one hand and a Montblanc pen in the other.”

“Unlikely and a little gross.” Daniel struggled with the cart around another corner, checking the sweat-damp list he had clutched between his hand and the handle. Doing this run for table settings and linens on his lunch hour was a clear mistake—he could feel the exertion permeating his last clean suit. “Maybe a Bic and a used cocktail napkin.”

“Rafe and I both feel that we need a friend to oversee the happiest day of our lives,” Ander said, the epitome of pious behavior, which Daniel knew was a hot steaming lie. In his head he capitalized all the words after “oversee” and threw in a trademark symbol for fun. “You’re a professional and basically my brother, Daniel. Like we practically share DNA.”

“I love you, and Rafe is my personal hero for sharing a living space with you and never being arrested for assault. And while I understand and truly appreciate your trust in me, I’m not qualified, Ander. I plan corporate parties—buffets and gift bags and a podium for speeches.”

Not to mention the sheer terror Daniel felt each and every time he contemplated the insanity of saying yes to planning Ander’s wedding. He still had hives from the time he threw his best friend a twenty-first birthday party, after which he changed his number twice to escape the restaurant owner who either wanted to kill Ander or fuck him—he never quite understood the garbled Russian voice mails. “Besides, as your best man, my job is already set. I have to write a speech overlooking all your more horrendous qualities. I have to peel glitter-coated rent boys off your lap at the bachelor party.”

Ander tutted through the phone. “Darling, you are a brilliant man, capable of far more than you think. You are also the most organized human being I know. And quite frankly….” He dropped his voice slightly into cleverly designed pleading. “This is fast becoming less of a wedding and more of an epic undertaking. It’s become business, which you are so good at, and with Rafe so busy….”

“Wait, Rafe’s business is creeping into the wedding? Or your business?” Daniel pulled the cart to a halt near some rakes to catch his breath and loosen the tie still securely knotted against his throat. An attorney for a record label, Rafe Underwall—his real name as proven by the birth certificate Daniel had insisted on seeing—seemed to do most of his work in meetings and writing long contracts while wearing very expensive suits and saying the word “summered,” as in “summered in St. Bart’s.” If it was his business intruding on the nuptials, the wedding was going to be boring as hell.

And if it was an offshoot of Ander’s business, Daniel was joining witness protection.

“Funny story. I happened to get into a discussion with some gentlemen I met at a cocktail party and, well.” Ander laughed nervously. “They felt like Rafe and I are such a good example of romance and fabulousness and our careers are so interesting that they wanted to make the wedding into, uh… well, a show. For the Internet channel StarTime? Which will depict our journey to the altar.” He ended with a nervously trilled “ta da.”

“A reality show?” Daniel’s jaw dropped. “You guys have signed up for a web reality show?”

“Yes, well—yes. We have.”

“You want me to plan a wedding that will be featured on a reality show?” He repeated the words with precision, with clear derision and scorn caressing each vowel. Ander should know him well enough that this would take his “no” to a “hell no” in ten seconds flat.

“Yes! Because you know, this takes it to another level!”

“Which is why I won’t do it.” Daniel didn’t bother to hide his exasperation. Ander’s aversion to hearing the word no was both epic and legendary, but this—this was the way of madness.

“It would get you noticed, Daniel.” Ander had moved to wheedling. “Groomzilla is going to be—”

“What did you just say?” Several people grumbled as they maneuvered around him, but Daniel was locked into place. “What is the name of this show?”

“Groooomzilla!”

“Oh my God.”

“It’s a fun title!”

Daniel put one hand over his eyes. “So you think I should advertise a gay wedding reality show on my website, along with real estate firms, aviation companies, and several universities of good repute? Really, Ander, in all seriousness, you have to understand why I can’t do this.”

“The pay is phenomenal.”

“I’m not hurting for money.” Daniel refused to think about the stack of bills back at his office or the fact that “lunch hour” translated into “shopping for mundane crap”—work an assistant would be doing, if he had an assistant.

“I didn’t say you were. I’m just—I’m trying to make you see what a fantastic opportunity this is! You could make connections, totally reinvent your business—expand it! Come on, Daniel, take a leap of faith.”

Daniel meant to say no again, he did, but what came out of his mouth was “Let me think about it.”

THE BOXES of linens and table settings were stacked awkwardly in the corner of Daniel’s cluttered office. He had no storage space so everything ended up here in the studio apartment he’d rented on the bottom floor of a narrow Hoboken brownstone. Things he had used once but hadn’t tossed, things he had leftover but hadn’t gotten around to tossing, things he might use at some point for an event so he didn’t toss, and, of course, everything for the upcoming Snider Aviation Employee Picnic. Mr. Snider himself had requested Classic Americana in a fit of what he might call creativity, so Daniel found himself surrounded by checkered tablecloths and heavy white stoneware, not to mention American flags in every possible size.

A summery picnic in March, taking place in an airplane hangar, celebrating America. His work was so freaking creative.

He walked over boxes of files and around bags of flags, unbuttoning his heavy wool suit jacket as he went. Evolving over time, it was a complicated and cluttered organization, a system known only to Daniel and held together by the endless list tucked into the leather notebook in his pocket.

A breakfast meeting with a potential client had turned into errands, which turned into heavy lifting in a three-piece suit. Daniel felt like he was wearing a damp rug, the layer of sweat permeating everything, including his neatly trimmed beard and every available pore. A narrow red door led to a back staircase that took him up a flight to his apartment, a tiny one-bedroom with a far neater appearance than downstairs. If his office was clutter central, his apartment looked like the model they showed you during an open house.

Daniel eyed his life-in-three-rooms with a critical eye, trying to dismiss Ander’s sales pitch from his head. He was doing well—he was. Not many twenty-five-year-olds could boast having a semisuccessful business of their own in this day and age, particularly if their parents hadn’t left it to them or bought it for them. Unlike most of his fellow graduates from Harvard, he could take sole responsibility for every bit of his success—which also meant it was his responsibility for not having taken it further.

Corporate event planning wasn’t anyone’s dream job, but Daniel managed to fall into it during his tenure at Harvard. Working three jobs and making straight As on a scholarship for a liberal arts degree with a concentration in business management and administration had pushed his limits, so when the catering department offered him something other than cater waiter, he did not refuse. It went well enough that by his senior year, he was learning the ins and outs of planning large-scale events for the Harvard Alumni Association and, most importantly, he could quit his other two jobs. When it became clear that his combination of business savvy and genetic need to plan/research/organize—from his CD collection to the seating chart of a charity fashion show—merged seamlessly with event planning, a star was born.

Or at least a slightly shimmering light in the distance. In four years’ time, Daniel had paid off a large chunk of the student loans that filled scholarship gaps, rented the two apartments in a semidecent section of Hoboken, and made enough of a name for himself to have regular clients.

But he had to acknowledge the hold-steady pattern had been both holding and steady for at least a year. No new clients. No new events. Just the regular quarterly bits of charity and corporate pep rallies to pay his rent and utilities.

He was doing okay, but okay was starting to not be enough. In that leather notebook was an ancient bit of folded paper filled with goals and ambitions written by a kid without prospects. Harvard had been a pipe dream—until it was a triumphantly crossed-off achievement. But time enough had passed without another line being drawn. Time enough for Daniel to think about his future.

“I’m not interested in the circus that is reality television. I can achieve my goals without that sort of crazy springboard,” Daniel announced to his reflection as he got ready for bed in his pint-size bathroom. A small whiteboard sat to the right of the medicine cabinet, outlining his last-minute lists for the Snider picnic. His reflection rolled its eyes at him, at the lie. He was ambitious, or at least he used to be—which was why the status quo had started rubbing him the wrong way.

“This is crazy. I hate reality shows! I hate spectacles!” He announced that to his cell phone, which suddenly appeared in his hand. He thought it was a toothbrush, but no—no, he’d propelled himself into the living room and picked up the phone from where it was charging on his tiny desk, and he was now scrolling down to find Ander’s number.

“This will never work. I don’t know how to plan a wedding. Reality show?” All the words rumbled past Daniel’s lips as the phone rang on the other end.

“Daniel!” Ander said brightly as soon as he picked up. “Tell me something wonderful.”

“I need more details.” Daniel slumped backward onto his slim black sofa, facing the white brick of the nonworking fireplace. A single picture sat on the mantel—he and Ander the day of his graduation from Harvard. Ander’s hair was purple and his suit a pale lavender, Daniel a clean-shaven dork beside him in his cap and gown.

“That’s a yes!”

“That’s a maybe.”

“No, I’m taking it as a yes. Rafe! Honey? Guess what?”

Ander had clearly put Daniel on speaker, as Rafe’s deep rumbling baritone mixed with Ander’s animated tenor. “He wore you down.”

“I haven’t said yes. I said maybe. I said I needed details. Like why someone as sensible as you agreed to this circus. You’re a lawyer, Rafe. You like logic.”

“I’m going to e-mail you the contracts and everything from the producers, so you have all the information and can make a proper decision.” Rafe tried to sound serious, but his coughed laughter completely gave him away. “You know, analyze the cost-benefit ratio. And as for the other thing—we both know the answer to that.”

Ander began belting out “I Am What I Am” from La Cage Aux Folles in the background, and Daniel knew he was doomed.

RAFE’S JOB in the music business didn’t mean a whole lot to Daniel, who found music in the background of his work time distracting and rarely bothered to turn his iPod on. But when the perks of said job were passed along—like Yankee Stadium box seats and tickets to whatever major music event was happening that week—well, then he loved Rafe’s job, even if he didn’t understand it. Since Daniel’s attempts at having a social life rarely panned out beyond a nicely detailed list, it became his regular outlet for when living and working in three rooms by himself started to wear. As Rafe’s fiancé’s best friend, Daniel got the extra special treatment, like dinner reservations at snooty restaurants for before and a sleek black towncar for afterward.

Of course his date was almost always Ander, but it still counted, right?

Daniel assumed it was Rafe’s way of making sure Ander’s best friend—and the voice of reason—thought he was awesome, but while Daniel appreciated it, he only felt comfortable accepting those gifts because Rafe was so amazing to Ander. And for as long as Ander had been waiting for the Right Guy, Daniel had been waiting and praying he’d find him so nothing terrible would happen to his best friend.

Ander—who avoided reason like the plague—had the kind of taste in men that often led to lurid exposés on news magazines. His knack was for walking into a crowded room, finding the most charming sociopath he could, then falling in love with him at the drop of a hat. Which then triggered Daniel’s need to swoop in and stop Ander from running headfirst into a brick wall.

No wonder Daniel didn’t have a social life—he was Ander’s emotional bodyguard.

Which didn’t address why Daniel hadn’t had a date in the two years Rafe and Ander had been together, but that was neither here nor there.

Here nor there, at the moment, found Daniel in bed with the television on, Law & Order: Old School in the background with the sound barely there. He glanced at the ceiling, the television, and the LED lights on the alarm that said 3:45.

He’d read everything Rafe had sent over three times, and that well-earned degree in business administration meant he could actually read the contracts and understand them.

The serious money beckoned. Limited screen time, but a contractual obligation for at least ten hours of raw footage per week for the duration of the six months of the series filming, not counting his “best man duties.” But the money. It kept coming back to that, unfortunately, and that made it hard to act superior. Could he claim a hatred of reality television’s over-the-top exploitation of the fame-hungry when those dollar signs called to him?

Daniel could easily pay off the remainder of his supplemental student loans and create a nest egg for when he returned to the corporate spiel. Of course he could also use that nest egg while he was branching out, expanding his business, hiring someone to help….

Ambition bubbled up under his skin.

He’d been in a holding pattern for so long. Boarding school—get good grades to keep his scholarship. Harvard—nose to the grindstone. Starting his business—no time for anything. Corralling Ander out of trouble—no time for a man of his own. But now this opportunity dropped in his lap.

Who was he to turn it down?

How could planning a wedding be so different than pleasing Mr. Snider and his love of the American flag? This was Ander, the center of attention no matter where he went. Daniel could do what he did best—a little organizing and a whole lot of managing his best friend.

Chapter Two

IN THE chilly hangar of Snider Aviation, Daniel’s teeth chattered as he tried to maintain a polite smile. The bundled-up employees had dutifully snaked through the buffet while listening to the speechifying, following all that excitement up with a patriotic concert by the brass band Daniel had found through Craigslist.

The employees looked miserable, but Mr. Snider was beaming as he took pictures with the tuba player.

Daniel had high hopes for a good testimonial quote for his website.

A quick check of his watch promised he was almost out of here. The event ended at four, and the cleaning crew would be walking in at 4:20 p.m. He would pay Sammy his usual cut and then disappear into his rental car, where he would turn on the heat high enough to bake a cake—at which point he might feel his feet again.

“Daniel!” Mr. Snider waved him over, pale white skin looking partially frostbitten but oh, that pleased smile.

“Yes, sir.” Daniel strode over to stand near the risers where the band was milling about.

“You did a fantastic job, just fantastic.” He swung one bony arm around Daniel’s shoulders; Daniel huddled closer for warmth. “I am so pleased with how it turned out. Like you reached into my brain and pulled out what I wanted.”

“I’m delighted to hear that, Mr. Snider, thank you so much.” Daniel smiled as he glanced at his watch. “Would you like to make the announcement about the gift bags?”

“Oh right, right. We need to wrap this up. Unfortunately!” Mr. Snider thumped Daniel’s back. “Wish I could do this once a week.”

“You might tire of macaroni salad and John Philip Sousa.” Daniel gave him a wink. “But it makes me happy that you are so pleased.”

Mr. Snider reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope with a flourish worthy of the Academy Awards. “So pleased I wanted to give you your check now plus a tip.”

“Oh, Mr. Snider….”

“Here’s the tip—always take your shirt off before you iron it.”

Daniel’s keen ability to laugh at unfunny things came in handy; he tilted his head back and guffawed until Mr. Snider wiped his eyes with a “wooo” and a sigh. “All jokes aside, thank you, Daniel. You always do great work.” He handed over the envelope, which Daniel discreetly pocketed.

“Always at your service,” he said politely.

Mr. Snider gave him another back thump. “I’ll have Mimi call you about the Christmas party in the fall. And you know I’ll recommend you to anyone who asks. I take your business cards with me to all the conventions.”

Daniel “aw, shucksed” until someone called for Mr. Snider and he wandered off to give away ugly tote bags filled with useless crap to his frozen employees.

Bless and bye, from the bottom of Daniel’s heart.

He checked his phone as he headed toward the small corner that was his staging area. Sammy was in the parking lot with his crew, Ander had needed him sixteen times judging by the number of texts and missed calls, and one of his clients wanted a quote for a “corporate hoedown.”

Daniel texted Ander—working, cool your jets—and went about his wrap-up business. Pack up his stuff, keep an eye out to make sure no one stole anything he had to return to the rental place….

His pocket buzzed.

Call me immediately!!!!! EMERGENCY!

After so many years of friendship, Daniel had to translate the level of Emergency! Ander was talking about. Blood? No, Ander would be unconscious at the sight of it. Breakup? No, that would mean Ander showing up at the door of Snider’s hangar, clothes disheveled and tear tracks over his face.

Ah, the memories. Five years ago, the Hoover Realty Gold Leader Summit, at the Parsippany Marriott, Ander wearing his pajamas and rain boots. Daniel believed the dickhead in question was named Orlando.

All caps Emergency! spelled correctly meant wedding stuff or work drama, and Daniel considered how long he’d make Ander wait, calculating how much yelling that would translate into.

He was cold and cranky already, so he just pressed the little phone icon by Ander’s name and got it over with.

“Where the hell are you?” Ander demanded as soon as the call connected.

“Working in a cold airplane hangar, listening to patriotic music. Where the hell are you?”

“You have the worst job in the world.”

“Thank you. And just for that, I’m not stealing you a hideously ugly tote in a flag motif and a phone charger shaped like a tiny plane.”

“Oh my God, don’t tease! I want two.”

“Why are you blowing up my phone?” Daniel one-handedly finished filling the canvas tote with his various pens, screwdrivers, and double-sided tape.

“Because you work for me now and I’m your boss so you should be taking my calls,” Ander said sans irony.

“So you’re paying me to be your best man?”

“Wedding planner. We have so much shit to do and you’re playing with airplanes.”

“Ander, the wedding is more than a year away.”

The coughing sound through the line didn’t even come as a surprise. “About that.”

Daniel hung up on Ander and proceeded to finish his afternoon at Snider Aviation without focusing on future insanity. He paid the brass band, handed Sammy his check, put Post-it notes on what the rental place was picking up, and stole two phone chargers for Ander because he hated him but he knew it wouldn’t last. It never did.

Finally, after another thumping by Mr. Snider, Daniel limped on frozen feet across the parking lot to his rental car.

Only then did he call Ander back.

“Daniel!”

“Shut up and tell me when,” Daniel snapped as he slid into the front seat. The chill had spread to every part of his body; even his eyebrows were frozen.

“August.”

“Five months.” Daniel turned the car on, pressing the heat button as soon as the engine caught. “You want me to plan a wedding for you—you—in five months. On a television show.”

“Victor feels like we would do better for a fall ratings promotion blah blah something something—I didn’t understand the production particulars and I don’t care. I just want to get married to the man I love in spectacular fashion. He asked, I said yes, and then Rafe agreed.”

The blowing eventually turned from cold to something warm, and Daniel felt himself thawing against the seat. The windows steamed up as he considered the ramifications of just driving south until he ran out of gas, then abandoning the car.

“Listen, I know you’re freaking out right now because that’s what you do, but okay, here’s the bonus part: Rafe said that he would double your fee due to the rush and because you’d only be able to work on our wedding, so you don’t have to worry about paying your bills! I know your schedule is light until Christmas season, and this means you don’t have to take on any new clients!” Ander’s tone very closely resembled sincerity. “So now I just took care of what you were freaking out about.”

Daniel sighed.

Because that was what he was worrying about.

“We would need to start immediately, Ander. I have no idea what venue we’re going to get in August that isn’t already booked—”

“Westlake Estates, third Saturday in August. The producer? Victor? He pulled some strings—you’re going to love it. Big lake and luxury cabins—we’re getting married in a barn!”

Suddenly worried the cold had caused hallucinations, Daniel pinched his thigh. No, he was conscious. “A barn? Have you met you?”

Ander blew out an exasperated breath. “For your information, asshole, I picked it because it reminded me of your grandmother’s lake house and how much fun we had during our summers there and how it reminds me of the only family I really have—you.” He paused with dramatic effect. “I hope you feel bad now.”

“I feel bad now.”

“Fantastic. That means you have to meet me tomorrow at eleven in the city, because we’re having a sit-down with the producers.”

Daniel’s phone beeped.

“I just sent you the address,” Ander continued, fully embracing his upper hand. “Wear something that doesn’t embarrass me, which means any of your suits that are not gray or navy. I assume that leaves a black one. Oh God, I need to go, Rebecca is waving at my door like something is on fire. I pray it’s Sven’s desk. Or Sven. Bye, love you. Remember, no gray or navy.”

The call disconnected and Daniel let his forehead hit the steering wheel.

Chapter Three

THE NEXT day, at 10:50 a.m., Daniel fiddled with the collar of his pristine white shirt as the cab made the last turn and pulled up to the corner. The red tie and black-on-black checkered vest were two of Ander’s designs—gifts and therefore thankfully free. In the retail world they cost as much as Daniel’s nifty black suit. He’d followed Ander’s directions about his clothes because it was easier than being a rebel. Daniel hated being a rebel. They tended to be nonplanners and “wingers.”

He’d just finished paying the driver at the corner of Madison and Fifteenth Street when another cab pulled up behind his.

Ander.

Daniel walked over to open the door, revealing his best friend.

“God, you even shined your shoes, I love you,” Ander deadpanned as he exited the cab with a flourish. His black overcoat and shocking-neon-lemon-yellow scarf trailed behind him, blond-streaked hair teased and tormented into a wave that added another two inches to his willowy height.

“I wanted to look nice for your producer friends and avoid another harassing phone call from His Highness,” Daniel said with a smirk as Ander joined him after paying his driver. “Ander, you look positively respectable today. I’m stunned.”

Once upon a time, at a New England prep school far, far away, they’d worn each other’s uniforms and athletic sweats interchangeably. They were scholarship kids and, worse, lifers—kids who didn’t go home for holidays and rarely for summers, who sat by themselves during Family Fun Week and didn’t have their own credit cards. At some point Ander had discovered the holy grail of Fashion as Art of Expression and Attention and Daniel decided that a nice pair of flat-front trousers, loafers, and a cashmere sweater he scrimped and saved for satisfied him in ways a shirt made out of paper could not. Then came the growth spurt that Ander kept all to himself, now towering almost a full seven inches over the top of Daniel’s subdued yet fluffy hair.

“You look like a banker who needs a haircut.” Ander kissed his cheek affectionately.

“I look like an adult going to a business meeting.” A flip of Ander’s coat exposed black jeans with the thighs shredded to bits and a white T-shirt with a giant splash of black squiggles over a blurry picture of an astronaut. Daniel assumed it had cost a thousand dollars.

“Pft.” Ander tipped his heavy aviators up on the top of his unmoving ledge of hair. “They’re producers, darling. They’re used to creative people.” Ander popped Daniel on the nose. “You might scare them with your serious suit.”

“This is your tie and your vest from your line. I’m showing creativity.”

“No, you’re showing my creativity, and it’s a little… last year.” Ander whispered the last two words as if they were a secret best kept between friends.

“Then get me something this year and—” Daniel checked his watch. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”

Ander rolled his pretty blue eyes. “We’re standing on the sidewalk in front of the office. How are we going to be late?”

“I’m with you. I can’t be sure anything will go as planned.”

The doorman of the posh office building took their names and dialed up to the production office. He kept darting his gaze between Daniel and Ander as if trying to gauge their connection and whether they were armed. Daniel smiled politely, running his hand over his hair—of one shade, brown, and while in need of a trim, entirely natural—then smoothed the neat fabric of his suit.

Ander played with his iPhone while reciting a barely-under-his-breath commentary about needing better tailoring for the bulge on some trousers for his new line. “It’s a cock, not the Loch Ness Monster, Jesus Christ. Can’t I leave the office for five minutes?”

“You can go now. Take the center elevator to the penthouse,” the uniformed man said, his suspicious tone making Daniel’s smile go from stiffly polite to fake charming.

“Thank you so much,” Daniel said, gracious even in his annoyance that the man would look at Ander and think he was—whatever the guy was thinking.

“What?” Ander asked as Daniel manhandled him into the ornate silver elevator.

“You were making that guard uncomfortable.” Daniel regretted the words as soon as they exited his mouth.