Come As You Are

“I’ll have the piece to you in two weeks.”

“Brilliant.” Taking a seat at his desk, he taps his keyboard, presumably to move on to the next item on his list. “And if this works out, we might be able to start covering that sector on a regular basis. You’d be first in line for the beat.”

“That’s great,” I say, reining in a big fat grin.

As I leave, I resist the impulse to run down the magazine’s hallway, smacking the walls as I hoot and holler because, holy smokes, from the party, to the guy, to the gig, my luck is changing.

Once I’m in the elevator, I start my research, googling Flynn Parker, eager to talk to him for the first time. When his picture pops up, a whoa slips from my mouth. Damn, he is fine-looking. Even though I’ve never interviewed him, I’m well aware he’s been named a most eligible bachelor, given his fortune, but I wasn’t aware he was quite this handsome. Now I see another reason he’s earned that title—that face. For the flash of a second, there’s something eerily familiar in the set of his jaw, and his eyes remind me of someone. But then, I can’t get a good look at them since he’s wearing glasses.

Not that it matters—I’m sure I’d remember meeting someone this fine in the flesh.

But who cares if he’s hot? I’m not interested in his looks. I’m interested in his story. Besides, I’m a professional. I’m going to treat this professionally because this is a tremendous opportunity that could lead to an even bigger one. That’s why I won’t let myself think twice about how good-looking he is, even though there’s a soft rap on the door in the back of my brain, telling me I’ve met him. I cycle through parties and conferences, keynotes and events. Surely, I’m remembering seeing him in passing somewhere, or saying hello after a presentation he made. That has to be it.

I shove him out of my mind for the moment. I’ll return to him tonight as I dive into my prep. When I reach the lobby I duck into the restroom, change out of my super-reporter outfit, and slip into something that feels more like me.

The me who met the duke.

Do-it-yourself Sabrina.

Since it’s easier to change here than go home, I tug on a short polka-dot skirt I made and a pair of red ankle boots, tucking my work skirt and pumps into my bag. I leave on the blouse since there’s just something about a cute white blouse that works with nearly any outfit.

As I look in the mirror, I consider my hair, scooping it up. Will he kiss my neck again today? Will he nibble on my earlobe? Grab my hands, steal me down a hallway, and press those lush lips to mine?

I shiver as the delicious memories dance before my eyes.

I’ll say yes. I’ll say yes to whatever he wants to do to me.

I let go of my hair, leaving it down, then clip one side with a small rose-gold barrette with a tiny crown design at the top. I pair them with little crown stud earrings, then I layer tiny pink hoops above them.

My stomach flips nervously. I’m going to see him in person. Without masks and with names. Will we still like each other?

Part of me wishes we could keep up the charade, but another part wants to know him for real.

As I catch the subway to The Dollhouse in Tribeca, my phone lights up with a message—the contact for Mr. Parker. I send her an email as the train rumbles under Manhattan, and when I arrive at the station, her reply lands in my inbox.

Tomorrow, I have my first interview.

A few minutes later, I enter The Dollhouse, grab a stool at the bar, and do a double take when I see Flynn Parker walking toward me.

11

Flynn

An hour earlier

“There you are.”

As I wait for the elevator—and “wait” is a generous description, because it’s more like I tap my foot and count down every single second because I am so amped up—I turn to see Jennica marching to me, pink sunglasses perched on her head, a huge purse weighing down her arm.

“Here I am,” I reply.

“You’re leaving early?”

“It’s five thirty.”

She arches a brow. “That’s early for you, Flynn.”

I shrug, taking off my glasses, wiping the lenses on a shirtsleeve, and putting them back on. They’re as clean as they were . . . well, before I cleaned them. “Anyway, you’re looking for me?”

“I want to let you know I’m ready to accept my badge of awesome right now.” She pats her chest.

“And to what do we owe the honor of your awesomeness today?”

She thrusts an arm in the air, victory-style, as the elevator arrives. We step in together, and I press the button for the lobby. “I was on the phone a few minutes ago with none other than Bob Galloway. He has officially assigned a reporter at Up Next to do an in-depth feature piece on you.” Her voice rises high on the last word as she pokes my shoulder with affection.

“Cool,” I say, checking my reflection in the elevator panel to make sure all the buttons are lined up on my shirt. You never know if you’ve misbuttoned something. Not that I did that in my senior year of high school before a speech. Not that I’ve ever forgotten that moment of embarrassment either. In my defense, buttons are hard.

“Cool? That’s more than cool. That’s amazing.”

“Right,” I say, nodding as I study the alignment. I bare my teeth next, making sure the choppers look sharp and lunch-free.

“I talked to the reporter too. The piece is going to pivot a bit from what I pitched them, but I think it’ll be even better. Get this—it’s going to be about you as one of the next generations of business visionaries.” She rattles off more details on the piece, telling me the reporter is Sabrina Granger, my assistant has scheduled a meeting, and tomorrow is our first interview.

I run a hand through my hair. Yup. Just the right amount of floppy mess.

“It’s going to be a fantastic piece,” Jennica adds.

“That’s great.”

The elevator goes silent.

Jennica clears her throat, catching my attention with the sound. I snap my gaze to her. Her hands are parked on her hips. “You’re barely paying attention.”

“Visionary, check. Tomorrow, check. Sabrina, check. Piece will be great, check.” I tap my temple. “I listened.”

“Hardly. You were distracted, and I’m willing to bet it’s because you have a hot date.”

I scoff.

She laughs, shaking her head. “Flynn Parker, you’ve been checking your reflection, and you’re making sure you don’t have lettuce in your teeth, even though it was five hours ago that we went to the salad bar for lunch, and you’ve probably also brushed your teeth twenty times since then.”

I blow out a breath of air. “Minty fresh. Guilty as charged.”

“Who is the lucky lady, and does she know you’re a certified dork?”

“Correction. It’s not yet official. But the Adorkable Committee assures me the certificate should arrive any day.”

“Excellent. We’ll frame it,” she says as we reach the lobby, and she shoves her bag higher on her shoulder. “Now, fess up. Who is the lovely you’re lettuce-free for?”

I laugh, shaking my head. Jennica wouldn’t believe me if I said I didn’t know who she is. I hardly believe me. “She’s a bit of a mystery.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and she hums her approval. “A mystery girl. How intriguing. What do we know about her?”