Six Month Rule (Kingston Ale House) (2 page)

Chapter Two

When Holly got to her office at half past seven—okay, it was a cubicle—Andrea had left her an email saying she’d be a few minutes late and she’d email again when she was ready. Holly spun back and forth in her chair, refreshing her screen again…and again. Andrea was always punctual, and she had called their meeting for eight.

Refresh. Refresh.

Still no email, and it was twelve minutes after eight.

“Partner yet?”

Holly gasped as the Arts and Entertainment section of the
Tribune
dropped onto her keyboard.

“Shit, Charlie! You’re going to kill me before I even have a chance!”

“Just thought you might want to see your name in a headline,” he said, and Holly’s eyes fell to the paper in front of her.

Holly Chandler: A Fresh New Name on the Chicago Fashion Scene.

“You beat out every concert, movie premiere, and even that high-end boutique opening with all those celebrity guests. Holly Chandler can’t be beat,” he added.

Her heart swelled in her chest. Maybe she’d never played competitive sports, but it still felt good to win. Sure, she was fresh as far as the newspaper was concerned, but Holly had been on the fashion scene since she graduated college. She was already a five-year veteran, but the recognition was something new—and definitely welcome.

She stared at the picture of herself standing center stage, dwarfed by all the models from the show, but there she was nonetheless: Holly was used to the spotlight. She’d been a theater kid all throughout high school and college. But this was different. This was the rest of her life, seeing something she created come to fruition. And even before she entered Andrea’s office, someone had already recognized what she had to offer—what she’d worked so hard for.

“Aren’t you lonely putting your personal life second?” her sister, Brynn, had asked more than once. But she didn’t get it. Personal…professional…it was all the same to Holly. Making a name for herself would bring her happiness in
all
aspects of her life. The proof was in the headline, because, without even reading the article, that tiny puncture in her bubble sealed itself right up. Nothing could burst it now.

And just like that, up popped the email from Andrea she’d been waiting for.

Ready for ya, rock star
, was all it said, and it was enough to permanently affix the grin to Holly’s face.

“Thank you, Charlie,” she said, grabbing the paper to bring with her, in case Andrea hadn’t seen it yet. She stood and curtsied, giving him a wink. After all, she
had
beaten out all the other Chicago entertainment that weekend. Nothing was going to stand in her way now.

“Still around if you want to celebrate tonight,” he said. “Kingston Ale House?”

There would definitely be cause for celebration. Besides, no one liked to celebrate alone. Why not?

“Sure, Charlie. I can always go for a pint.”

With that she rounded the corner to where the reception desk separated the cubes from the full-sized offices—Andrea’s and a space that served as a conference room but was big enough to be split into a meeting room and another office.
Her
office.

Andrea’s door was open, so Holly walked right in, permagrin in place, heart swelling, and the article with her name in bold letters folded in her hand.

And then her impenetrable bubble started to squeal as that small puncture began to leak. Because Holly was now face-to-face with not only her boss but with Mr. British Elevator Ass, too. Or, she supposed, for him it would be
arse
.

“There’s my superstar!” Andrea said, and Holly should have been beaming right along with her. “So glad you’re here. Holly, this is William Evans.”

Holly’s palm began to sweat against the inky paper it held, and she was happy for an excuse not to be able to shake hands, not that he was offering her one. He stood next to Andrea, a cup and saucer in his hand as he sipped her boss’s beverage of choice, straight espresso. His blue-eyed gaze betrayed nothing of their meeting in the elevator, so she did the best she could to shutter hers.

“I wanted to wait until Mr. Evans got to town to tell you the good news,” Andrea continued, all grace and poise as if she still walked the runways. “We’ve landed the Tallulah Chan account. Her debut American show will be with Trousseau. Mr. Evans is her publicist and will oversee the planning of the event, which means you and he will be working together from now through the new year.”

Holly still hadn’t said a word. Or had she? She wasn’t sure. The only thing she was sure of was that so far Andrea hadn’t said anything about converting the conference room into Holly’s new office.

Andrea placed her own cup and saucer on her desk and moved closer to Holly. The woman’s smile was giddy. Holly was supposed to see this as some gift sent down from the heavens. But what that smile was really saying was that she hadn’t proved herself yet, not by a long shot.

“I’m giving you this show, from the ground up, your first international client. Will said he wanted my best director, and I told him you’re it. Hands down. Pull this off, and you can kiss that cubicle good-bye.”

Holly could feel the ink bleeding into her palm, the headline fading into her skin as the reopened puncture turned into an explosive
pop!
Shreds of that perfect bubble littered the office floor, but Holly was the only one who could see them.

“Holly?” Andrea asked, and Holly realized she had been staring at Will Evans the whole time Andrea had been speaking. The suit, the accent, the wavy hair perfectly situated on that beautiful, British head. The hint of a grin, like she was some form of amusement, tugged at one corner of his mouth. He was picture-perfect, yet that didn’t stop her from wishing actual daggers would shoot from her eyes and into his chest.

“What? Oh, yes. An international show.” She was looking at Andrea now. “Thank you for this opportunity,” she said, her own voice sounding far away, though she knew she was no ventriloquist. “You know I won’t let you down.”

Then she brought her eyes back to meet
his
.

“And Mr. Evans will set up shop…”

“In the conference room, of course,” Andrea said.

Of course.
The room that would have replaced her cubicle. That
should
have replaced it after what she pulled off this past weekend.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Evans.”
Bubble burster.
“I look forward to working on Ms. Chan’s show with you.”
Office stealer.
“I’ll start drawing up some initial ideas today.”
So go back to your espresso and stay the hell out of my way.

Andrea beamed. “See?” she said. “What did I tell you? She’s the best of the best. My go-getter!”

He offered a slow nod, his grin never quite making it past the halfway point.

Holly started backing out of the office.

“I’ll have a proposal for you by the end of the day,” she said, so close to a clean getaway.

“Great!” Andrea said. “Wait, what are you holding?”

Holly looked down at the crumpled article in her hand and packed it even tighter into a ball.

“Oh,” she said. “Just wanted to know if you saw the paper today.” She straightened her posture, shoulders back and head held high.

Andrea smiled warmly. “I did. You should be really proud. Like I said, you’re my best director. Just one more box to tick off—an international show—and you’re in.”

Funny.
She’d thought all the boxes were already checked.

She pressed her lips together and forced one final smile.

“Thank you,” she said. “I should get back to work. Good to meet you, Mr. Evans.”

Then, along with the certainty of what today had meant, Holly dropped the article into the trash.

Maybe she’d been beaten, but only temporarily. If Andrea wanted her to prove herself one last time, then prove herself she would.

And nothing would distract her from what was rightfully hers.

Chapter Three

Will leaned back in the conference room chair and rubbed his temples. Andrea Ross, runway model turned entrepreneur, would hear nothing of him heading back to his hotel, not wanting him to work all day alone when she and her company were there for whatever he—and by extension Tallulah Chan—needed. He knew she meant well, offering up her conference room to him as his home away from home when he was at the office. But he didn’t want to get comfortable here.

He’d filled the day well enough with phone calls and site surveys for where they would hold the show in December. But the morning’s espresso had worn off hours ago, and the plush leather sofa beckoned him from his ergonomic chair. All he had to do was wait for the lift woman, Holly, to finish her proposal so he’d have reading material for the evening, and he could return to his hotel and finally unpack, shower, maybe even sleep. Hell, it was past midnight his time already. Where was this bloody proposal?

He rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie, just enough comfort that he could tilt his head back and close his eyes for no more than a minute or two.

“You know, Andrea did give you full rein of the
entire
room. There’s a couch.”

Looked like his proposal was on time after all—possibly a few minutes early.

Will opened one eye to take her in, and Christ if she wasn’t still as crisp and polished as she had been in the lift this morning. Her silky brown hair hung in a long ponytail over her bare shoulder. Had he noticed her hair before? Or the vintage black dress that she
more
than pulled off, even with last season’s shoes? No, he realized. What he remembered were the eyes. Those shining green eyes he’d noticed earlier now narrowed at him in slits, and he could feel her ire, lasers of it aimed at his head.

Right, well, this would be a lovely six months.

He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I quite like the chair,” he said. “Excellent lower-back support.”

Her expression remained impassive as she strode through the doorway and slapped a manila folder onto the table in front of him.

“I know Ms. Chan’s designs,” she said. “I own quite a few of her pieces. Even if they are
last season
. I’ve been following her progress since she launched her line in London a year ago, and I think I have a handle on what will give her the best exposure here in Chicago. We’re honored your client has chosen our firm for her U.S. debut.”

She was all business, which was what he wanted. No distractions, pull off this event, and get back home. Yet the sting in her words,
last season
, niggled at something inside. He had been honest, after all, even paid her a compliment, yet she somehow felt he had wronged her.

She had caught him off guard earlier. Maybe he had come across a bit untoward. But Will wasn’t in the habit of smoothing things over in a place he didn’t want to be smoothed. The less he found pleasant about his time in Chicago, the better to remind him what waited at the end of his stay. Still, the way she pierced him with that stare—he should say
something
.

“About the lift,” he began, placing his hand on the folder next to where her palm still lay. Her brows rose slightly, and he realized his mistake. “The elevator…about the elevator…”

She leaned down, close enough that he could smell a mixture of floral and citrus, and spoke, her head inches from his.

“I work hard, Mr. Evans. I may not have the bankroll to prove it…
yet
. You noticing what line my gorgeous peep-toes are from tells me you might know a thing or two about shoes, but you know nothing about me.”

He didn’t flinch. Never mind that each second she stood near him he grew closer and closer to losing focus, her scent mixed with her anger an intoxicating combination.

No, it was the bloody jet lag. And now that he had the proposal, he could finally head back to the hotel and regain his sanity.

“Well, Ms. Chandler,” he began, sliding the chair behind him so he was standing along with her. “I work hard, too, and I don’t rest until everything is as it should be.” Will tugged the folder out from under her palm. “I’ll review your proposal this evening and get back to you with any concerns in the morning.”

She straightened. Even in those four-inch heels, he still towered over her, but that didn’t overshadow her presence. She was beautiful, sure. And poised. And dammit, she wore the hell out of that dress. But her talent and work ethic preceded her. The article she’d brought up to Andrea was the same one he’d read on the car ride over. Maybe he should have recognized her in the lift, but the photo in the paper had been grainy, and it was a group shot.

There was no mistaking it. Holly Chandler had
presence
.

She chuckled, a playful sound. Her lips parted into a coy smile. “You won’t have any concerns, Mr. Evans.”

She was bloody confident as well, and he couldn’t help but admire her more.

“Then I guess that will be all, Ms. Chandler. Thank you.”

Will reached for his jacket that hung over the back of the chair, then spun back to drop the folder in his leather case. He strode down the side of the table toward the door, and Holly made her way down the opposite side, her pace matching his. When they met, she stood in the door frame, blocking his exit.

“Wait a minute,” she said, and he nodded. “Did you just…dismiss me?”

Will sighed.

“Look, Ms. Chandler, I’ve been awake since yesterday. I’ve still not unpacked. It’s…” He made a show of looking at his watch before his eyes met hers again. “…nearly midnight in London, and I still have to read what I’m sure is a lovely proposal for Tallulah Chan’s U.S. debut, the one you’re so honored to be working on. I may even be able to squeeze in room service and have a shower as well. So pardon me if it seems I’ve
dismissed
you, but it’s been a long couple of days, and now I’d like to leave. Is that all right with you?”

Holly stepped aside.

“Quite,” she said.

The set of her jaw was tight, and her gaze bored into him once again, lasers and all.

Will slid past her. Andrea was already gone for the evening, so all he had to do was make a beeline for the lift. Once inside, he let out a breath, only now realizing he’d been holding it so he wouldn’t fall prey to her scent again.

Then he let his head fall back against the wall, and he laughed.

He had just dismissed her, hadn’t he? Christ. He could tell himself it was the jet lag all he wanted, but Holly Chandler was a force to be reckoned with, one he wasn’t prepared for.

Right, then. He’d get to the hotel, regroup, read her proposal, and finally—sleep. Everything would right itself in the morning.