N.Y.E. Read online

  Contents

  TITLE

  DEDICATION

  - ONE

  - TWO

  - THREE

  - FOUR

  - FIVE

  - SIX

  - SEVEN

  - DON'T FORGET!

  - ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  - ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  - STALK HER!

  N.Y.E.

  --

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2018 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock .com/ Roman Sambroskyi

  DEDICATION

  To fresh starts.

  And those who need them most.

  ONE

  - Meeting

  If I had to plan one more gender reveal party, I was going to scream.

  Cakes colored on the insides only.

  Pink or blue smoke grenades.

  Mimosas that the mom couldn't drink.

  It was a shower, rinse, repeat each time with only a slight change in decor and menu.

  Sure, they paid the bills. They fleshed out my portfolio. But they weren't challenging. They weren't what was going to help my business grow, allow me to hire more employees, get an office that wasn't above a Chinese food restaurant that made me paranoid that I always smelled like onions and soy sauce when I went to meet a new client. They wouldn't let me get out of my shoebox apartment where the sink dripped no matter how many times the super came to fix it and the radiator had only two settings - summer in Hell or winter in the Arctic.

  I didn't have some grand ideas of becoming a millionaire with my chosen field. I mean, I guess there were a few party planners who gained that distinction, but they were the exceptions to the rule.

  I'd learned that life was a heck of a lot more tolerable if you accepted that you were the rule, not the exception.

  So I wasn't going to be sitting in my penthouse counting stacks of money in Louboutins and La Perla lingerie while sipping Dom and looking down on the world.

  I would settle for an apartment with an actual bedroom and a couple basic pieces of work attire that didn't come from the discount rack at Marshalls with little tears or stains that I had to fix myself. And maybe a Sunday that I didn't have to sit coupon clipping for new craft supplies to make different invitations and centerpiece ideas.

  That was the goal.

  And that was why I was responding to a message left with Evan - my only employee despite the fact that he was woefully underpaid and needed to work some nights bartending to make his ends meet - for a New Year's Eve party.

  Most people would be flattered.

  To get the opportunity to pitch to an ultra-rich CEO who was throwing a big shindig for his entire staff and their spouses.

  But the fact of the matter was, the only reason his secretary was even contacting me was likely because it was too short of notice for such a huge gig on one of the biggest holidays for the city. And all of the big name planners either already had parties to do, or knew it was simply a pipe dream to pull of something that huge on such short notice, and didn't want to put their reputations on the line for a party that could be a massive flop.

  So, really, I was simply a name on an internet search, a possibility of a yes.

  "You shouldn't be doing this," Evan told me from where he was perched at the desk we shared - bought on a Black Friday steal at Target two years before - his legs crossed, filing his left thumbnail with an emery board I knew for sure I didn't keep laying around.

  Evan was a cynic by nature, every ounce of his slight one-hundred-forty frame soaked in sarcasm and suspicion. He was the first person to tell you that your hair looked like crap or you were getting a bit pudgy around the middle or that your dark eye circles were starting to become dark cheek circles. You had to have thick skin to subject yourself to him on a daily basis, but he could always be counted on for an honest, unbiased opinion on an idea or an outfit to go meet a new client in or the possibility of your sort-of-boyfriend being a lying creep that you needed to - and did - dump.

  "Ev, it could mean a giant paycheck," I reasoned, thinking of my back that was in desperate need of an adjustment but our crappy insurance didn't cover it, and getting office supplies was a tad more important than going to the chiropractor.

  "It could mean a giant writeup on page six about the shitshow Sage Walters Designs tried to pull off," he reminded me of a fact that had been on my mind constantly since the evening before when he'd told me of the message. "It could doom you for any future jobs in this city," he added with a point of his emery board.

  "I see your point," I agreed, taking a deep breath. "I'm not saying I am going to sign us up for it. I am just going to go see what they have to say. If maybe they have a venue booked. Which would make this tough, but totally possible if we pull in some serious overtime."

  "Girl, you already work sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. How much more overtime can you take before you die of exhaustion? Or, worse yet, get stress wrinkles on that pretty face? And you know that once you get there and see all those zeroes, you are going to take it even if they don't have anything booked which is going to make this about a million times more difficult. If not impossible. Cancel the appointment."

  "Right. Because that would be professional. I have to go now that I have the appointment," I reasoned as I turned to the full-length mirror that had shown up one morning courtesy of Evan who was a shameless self-admirer.

  I wished I had something nicer to wear, something that didn't scream reduced price. The blazer was a navy blue and fit well even if I had to sew on the buttons every third time I wore it and there was a tear on the lining that was impossible to sew or patch. My pants were slightly less embarrassing - a matching blue, fitted, well pressed, long enough to half-cover my nude heels that matched the silk camisole underneath my jacket. The single pearl settled against my chest on an almost invisibly thin chain was, well, fake, but passable. Or, at least, I thought it was. I kept my makeup minimal - a little mascara around my green eyes that were a sage shade. Which was how I got my name - my parents placing their bets that I would inherit my mother's eye color. I covered up my dark circles and put a slightly more rose-colored lipstick on my lips. My hair - an unimpressive medium-brown that was wavy naturally, was pulled back because I felt it made me look a little older. And this world had this weird ageism thing with women. They had a hard time finding you sexually appealing after your twenties, but refused to take you seriously if you were in your twenties.

  And, thanks to my mom, I was thirty, but looked in my mid-twenties at the worst. I was sure I would be thanking her when I was in my fifties and looked like my early forties, but right now, the youth was not working in my favor.

  "We all know you look hot," Evan broke in. "You can stop being vain now," he added, knowing I was more of a mirror-avoider than a self-admirer like him, convinced my ass got bigger by the day.

  Thanks, Dad, for those genes.

  "Do I smell like Chinese food?" I asked, wrinkling my nose as he hopped off the desk, moving over to me in his long-legged gait to lean in and give me a sniff. I wasn't s
ure how he smelled anything over the clean, spicy scent of his own cologne.

  "Here, spritz," he said, grabbing a perfume bottle I kept near the door for just this reason, spraying three times in the air of the somewhat expensive perfume that was already getting dangerously low. I wondered as I walked through the cloud of scent if there was a coupon for Ulta I could use. Then immediately tamped down the excitement over the idea of a new, full bottle that I didn't have to ration because everyone knew those coupons always excluded fragrances.

  "Stop being so nervous. You've done hundreds of these."

  "At people's houses. For parties one-hundred people and under."

  "Hush. What did I tell you about all that negative self-talk?"

  "That for each sentence, I am dooming myself to another premature gray hair."

  "That's right," he agreed with a nod. "Now say something nice about yourself to counteract it."

  "I don't think hair color works that way."

  "Bitch, did I ask you about science? Just say something nice about yourself, and get on your merry way to go seal our doom."

  "My Instagram game is on point," I decided.

  To that, I got an eye roll. "That barely counts. But I am going to let it fly this once. Once," he added, pointing the perfume bottle at me. "Now scoot."

  Scoot I did, splurging on a cab because I was always paranoid the subway would run late or someone would spill something on me. And I couldn't afford to be gross.

  Because, quite frankly, Evan was right. Once I saw the money, I knew I was going to accept. Even if it would be hard, damn near impossible. Even if my dark eye circles became dark cheek circles.

  Because, yes, it could doom us. But it could also put us on the map. And maybe that was a risk I was willing to take if the outcome could be favorable. Even if the chances were slim.

  Maybe it would mean that when I went home for Thanksgiving next year, I wouldn't get the traditional Party planning isn't a career lecture from my father. And maybe I wouldn't have to let my gaze go to my mother who was pretending her plate was taking all her attention because she never stood up to my father, not even to defend me. Maybe when he started in on me about my chosen path in life, I could tell him all about the six-figure parties I had planned over the last eleven months. Maybe he would finally stop telling me how I had wasted my potential, how my mind for numbers would have suited a more stable, predictable career as an accountant or CPA. Maybe the confidence of being successful would make me finally stop feeling like a little girl in his presence.

  I shook my head as I climbed out of the cab, trying to clear the thoughts that were still too fresh on my mind since I got back a few days before. I could punish them with myself at some other time. Now, I had to focus. To feign the confidence that didn't always come naturally to me. Especially as my head craned upward, taking in the glass and steel structure of Calgary Industries where even the lowest men on their totem pole likely made more than I did a year just to shuffle mail or sweep floors.

  Taking a deep breath, I switched my phone off, squared my shoulders, and made my way inside, getting a visitor badge from the security desk, then riding an elevator up to the top floor, trying not to tap my fingers on the railing, my purse, my thigh - a nervous habit I had developed in middle school and had a hard time curving.

  The doors slid open to reveal a tall white desk where two women in form-fitting black dresses stood in front of a frosted glass wall that stated the company name, shuffling papers, clicking on their keyboards, looking busy and important, making me feel small as I moved in front of them, waiting to be noticed.

  "Can I help you?"

  "Yes, hi, um..." - Damnit, Um was not professional. "My name is Sage Walters, I am here about..."

  "Yes, of course," the blonde cut me off, nudging the brunette who handed her a sheet of paper, then handed it to me. "Just fill this out," she told me, adding a pen to the paper, gesturing toward the side. "Someone will be over to get you in a moment."

  I glanced down at the paperwork that was, essentially, trying to figure out how important I was in the world of party planning. Which was not very important at all. But I took one of the clipboards sitting on the glass coffee table and sat down on a charcoal gray couch that hurt my butt in only the five minutes it took for me to fill in my information.

  "Walters," a voice barked suddenly, making my whole body jolt unexpectedly.

  Because it wasn't the blonde or the brunette with their firm, but high feminine voices.

  No.

  This was a deep, masculine rumble of a noise with enough force behind it that I felt myself stumbling a bit awkwardly to my feet.

  "That would be me," I said as I looked for the source of the voice.

  I found it from behind me, making me turn on my low, professional heels.

  And then there he was.

  Not some male assistant like Evan was to me.

  A right-hand-man.

  Oh, no.

  This was the man himself.

  You know, the man.

  As in Grant Calgary himself.

  The CEO.

  The man who signed the paychecks.

  The one who had last-minute ideas about corporate events.

  The one who could hold the future of my career in his hands.

  The first word that came to mind was intimidating.

  That was the aura this man had around him. From his height of a good six-three to my rather short five-three to the wide shoulders that meant he filled out his expensive - so expensive that it would likely hurt my head to think about - light gray suit. To the perfect shine on his black shoes - so perfect that I could likely see my reflection in. I didn't even own any shoe shine materials.

  Then, of course, there was the fact that he was incredibly good-looking. The kind of handsome that made you want to go check and see if you had something in your teeth and make sure your hair was in order and you didn't have the dreaded bra-strap-fat-roll thing going on.

  His inky black hair was kept just a tad longer than you might expect for the CEO of a big corporation, a cut that made his classically well-bred features have a slightly more rough look, made your mind travel to the bad boy tropes that you used to fantasize about as a teenager - bikers and mobsters and manwhores, oh my! His forehead was high and strong, his jaw cut, nose well-proportioned, lips full but not feminine-plump. A stubble darkened his jaw and upper lip. Dark lashes framed his deep eyes, more black than brown. The kind of eyes that could be called nothing but unreadable.

  "Is that you?" his voice rumbled, a sound that moved through my insides with a shiver which I couldn't decide if it was delicious or unnerving. Maybe both.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Are you Walters?" he repeated with a sigh. Like I was trying him. Like I was wasting his precious time. Which, I guess, I was.

  "Yes. Sage Walters," I agreed, moving to lift my arm to shake his hand only to have it hang, rejected, in the air for a long moment before falling numbly at my side.

  Because he had turned and walked away.

  Figuring I was supposed to follow, I rushed to pass through the frosted glass door that was quickly closing, moving into a space bathed in light from the far wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, his desk - executive, cherry wood - sat in front of. The space was unnecessarily large for the sparse decor. Aside from the desk, there were two barrel chairs in a deep red leather situated in front of it and a long cherry wood cabinet to the left where a Keurig was situated with a glass bowl loaded up with black-topped pods just waiting to be used.

  I was not offered a cup.

  I was not even offered a seat.

  But as Mr. Calgary moved behind his desk, unbuttoning his jacket, and dropping down into his seat, I figured that was as close to an invitation as I was going to get.

  Men like Grant Calgary, it seemed, could get away with being entirely devoid of manners.

  I guessed when you were raised in this old money lifestyle in which you were forgiven damn near anything, you didn'
t think of things like offering coffee to someone in an interview.

  "To be perfectly honest with you, Miss Walters, you are my last choice."

  Wow.

  Okay.

  That was a gut-punch I hadn't anticipated.

  Sure, it made sense. And, yes, of course, I was nowhere near his first choice. But being told you were literally the last choice, that he was scraping the bottom of the barrel and was less than satisfied with the slime he was faced with, yeah, that didn't feel so great.

  I was suddenly glad I wasn't given coffee even if I hadn't gotten much sleep at all the night before because I was pretty sure that if I had, it would not be settling well in my stomach.

  I fought back the urge to snap back, to inform him how rude that was, took a deep breath, forced my chin up, and met his gaze.

  "Well, then I guess my work is cut out for me then, isn't it?"

  "You don't have the job," he told me, but I felt like there was a yet in there.

  At least I was hoping there was.

  "Yet," I clarified, proud of how strong my voice sounded. Confident, even if I was faking it.

  To that, one of his brows rose, but he said nothing for a long second. "Your portfolio is full of parties for babies."

  "Word of mouth travels. And since those mouths run in circles of other parents or soon-to-be-parents, it has meant several gender reveal or baby showers the past year. That doesn't, by any means, mean that all I know how to organize is child-based parties."

  There.

  I didn't know where that came from, but it was the right thing to say.

  "Fair enough," he agreed. Then said nothing else.

  "May I ask, Mr. Calgary, if you have a venue booked yet?"

  "And there is the question that sent all the other, more reputable, planners out the door."

  More reputable planners.