- Oaklyn -

I am somehow always running late.

Take, for instance, back in high school, I'd leave my home thirty minutes early only to add my car to the sluggish parade of caffeinated-deprived souls at Dunkin' Donuts, yet, still ended up serving detention later that week. Fast forward to college, where I managed to miss the first half of the lectures considering the business lecture hall was a stone's throw away from my dorm. Though, I can't blame that all on procrastination. I'd say fifty percent of the time I contemplated whether or not I should go to the lecture classes.

The point is that my secret boyfriend 'late' and I have a close relationship. He goes by plenty of nicknames—tardiness, delayed, belated. The list goes on. He is sort of an international playboy, so his having multiple interests is kinda his thing. No judgment there.

We go way back. I usually like to consider him my partner in crime.

My ride or die.

And thanks to my 'tardiness' I was now running down the hall to my office in heels and a sweat stain blossoming right underneath the armhole of my dress shirt. I could practically feel the air conditioning winding through the inside.

Lucky me. Great way to impress Boston.

Nothing's sexier than a girl that reeks of musty armpits.

I barged through the office doors and spotted my assistant, Chandler Beaumont, frantically scribbling down nonsense on his work tablet. The ginger fringe strands of his falls in front of his eyes and I know that he's going ballistic for this consultation. The poor boy could easily even find a reason to panic over a misplaced paperclip.

He was easily a modern-day Steve Urkrel.

"Where have you been?" Chandler gasped, clearly out of breath from his frantic rush.

I should be the one out of breath, considering the world-record sprint I just completed.

Brushing right by him, I reach for the folder in the center of my desk and use it to fan myself. If I didn't sit down, I was going to pass out.

That'd give him a reason to panic.

"Oh, you know, just battling traffic and all my poor life choices," tell him.

Why was he asking a question he already knows the answer to?

Chandler nervously fixes his lens and takes a deep breath. "Mr. Vanderwood's daughter and her fiancé will be here for their consultation in exactly five minutes," he informed.

"Five minutes? That's an eternity for me."

I opened the applications desktop computer and waited for the spreadsheets to load.

"We're very unprepared and behind schedule," he said, rooted still as cement.

The mental checklist I made said otherwise. I did a fast rewind. Important documents: check. A list of pertinent questions: check. Chandler's ability to grate my ever-lasting nerves: check, check, check!

Chandler is a competent assistant. Punctual to a fault—always an hour early. His listening skills are passable for the most part. But his attitude and constant worry about the smallest things are a hindrance that will not get him far in this industry. If it was not for my mom being the founder of this business Everlasting Knots Weddings Co. I would've kicked him to the curb ages ago.

"Chandler, chill out," I warn. "If being late is the worst thing that happens today, we're golden."

What's the worst thing that could possibly happen today?

"Try not to go too deep into the abyss, okay? We can't afford any more delays," he responded, his tone slightly apprehensive.

Our eyes locked. I delivered a tigress-piercing gaze that signified my authority. "Are you suggesting you know better than me how to do my job?"

I've never seen someone's face go so pale. A rare sight as the complexion drained all his color.

"No, ma'am. I was simply providing you with a heads-up . . . that's all," he explains.

"Good boy."

I took a moment to study him silently. Down to his every move. Chandler's inclination to exaggerate could never be avoided. I knew deep down that his intentions were pure, and he genuinely wanted to lend a hand. But at the end of the day, any problem out of alignment was mine to deal with. And if I didn't stress, he shouldn't either.

It was ingrained in me—in my very blood—to excel at this.

I thrived to perfect flawless weddings.

Smiling, I dialed in. "Now let's make sure everything is as pristine as a freshly dry-cleaned suit order for this important consultation."

Chandler visibly relaxed at my joke. A faint smile crept across his face. "Of course, Ms. Miller. I'll make sure everything is ready to go."

I dismissed him and resumed to the computer. I felt gross as I remembered the sweat stains under my pit began to dry slowly. Sure, I told Chandler not to worry, but now I was feeling the same.

Something didn't feel right, and I'm not sure why.

I was interrupted by a ringing sound emanating from the receptionist's desk.

"Yes, Mrs. Griffins," I answered, picking up the call.

Mrs. Griffins held a special place in my heart, ranking high among my favorite employees— second only to, well, my boss. If I were to choose, l often found myself wishing she were my supervisor. Call it crazy, but it is what it is. Age was but a number to her; mentally, she resonated more with someone in their late twenties. In short, we have an uncanny bond with me, akin to that of my mother and Sailor. We knew each other inside out.

I dread the day she retires from this place.

"Your client, Alexandria Vanderwood, has arrived for her consultation," the receptionist replayed.

I acknowledged her message with a thoughtful hum. "Send them up, please. Mr. Beaumont will be joining them shortly."

"Will do," came the receptionist's prompt response, affirming her understanding of my request.

The intercom call ended and I swiftly composed myself, tidying up the immediate area around me. In the process, I came across the jam-packed calendar and let out a sigh. The morning had been so hectic that I had completely forgotten to call Boston as intended. I made a mental note to try again the second when I had a moment to breathe.

Or at least pretend to breathe.

Beneath this tough skin lay the hopes and dreams of this once fourteen-year-old girl. That teenager grew up to follow in the footsteps of her mother. Nearly two years later, today marked the day to showcase my skills to a Vanderwood family. Who would have thought this would happen to me of all the people?

There was no time to waste.

Let's do this, I whispered positively, ambling around the desk.

Meanwhile, down the hall, I can hear the elevator banks slide open along with Chandler's distinctive high-pitched tone. This is the best yet typically the scariest part about meeting new clients. A first great impression goes a long way.

However, I did hope that Alexandria Vanderwood and her fiance were not one of those snobby, deep-pocket people. Out of all the Vanderwoods, she was the one with the least amount of public interaction. No one barely knows about her personal life outside of charity events and grand openings.

Nonetheless, her love life.

When it came to dating, boyfriends, hookups, and all the insane rumors, Alexandria's relationships were as strenuous as reading a novel with invisible ink. It was there, but impossible to read.

Not to brag, but it is a privilege to be one of the first to get the opportunity to be this involved in her gatekeeper love life.

"Hello, Ms. Vanderwood. It's nice to see you in person," I greeted her professionally with a firm handshake.

Alexandria chuckled. "Please, I got no sleep last night because I just couldn't wait to meet you. My assistant and I have been eyeing your work nonstop. We're obsessed."

Alexandria looked even more gorgeous in person.

Instead of an aisle, this baddie needed a runway. She could easily outshine those models at Miami Swim Week. With her soft blonde locks, radiant smile, and electrifying energy, she was a total badass.

She had it all.

There was no doubt in my mind that she was the daughter of Clark J. Vanderwood.

I gave her a warm smile. "Thank you. I'm glad to hear that my reputation precedes me."

I skim around the waiting area. There's Chandler. And Alexandria. But her fiance is notably absent.

Alexandria quickly notices our concern.

"I'm so sorry for the hold-up," she apologizes and looks towards the staircase exit. "This is super embarrassing to say, but my fiance, um, he sort of hates elevators. He refuses to take them."

"Is that so?" I mused inwardly, finding it rather peculiar.

How lame.

What grown man is scared of an elevator?

Chandler walks over and stands underneath bright red exit signage. He opens the heavy door slightly to find the lucky man. Seconds later, the loud pattering of footsteps echoes the staircase.

"Here he comes," Chandler announces.

There's a sonorous and baritone voice behind the door and it sounds awfully familiar. I anxiously wait for the man to approach us, but the evidence is impossible to ignore. You couldn't miss him. The new yet eerily familiar face stepped into the open lobby and I wanted to rethink my entire career right then and there.

I must be experiencing déjà vu all over again.

His muscular physique and ruggedly handsome appearance commanded attention—I'd recognize this man even if I was blindfolded in a room full of people. Our eyes locked, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. His mouth dropped open in shock as if he had stumbled upon a plot twist he never expected to find—me.

Before us stood none other than Boston Young, the groom-to-be.

• • •