Cheers drowned out the rest of the questions and answers, and camera flashes erupted like fireworks.

  Past the glare of one, I saw Chuck looking on in dismay, his face slowly registering the fact that he had overpaid for shares that would soon be dropping like Sherlock Holmes off the Reichenbach Falls.

  I gave him a sweet little wave and giggled, warm satisfaction filling me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

  Today was shaping up to be a perfect day.

  #

  “Need any help finishing up?”

  “Nah, I’ve got just about the last of it.” I chucked the last box of empty bottles into the back of Hunter’s car, the Rolls that Martha loved best. “There. All set.”

  He grinned, sliding an arm around my shoulders. “Well, I do believe this calls for a celebration.” He offered me a bottle of the beer. “If you’re not sick of it yet, that is.”

  “That’s about as likely as me getting sick of you,” I shot back, and took a long, refreshing draught.

  We sat down together on the trunk of the car, passing the bottle back and forth in silence for awhile, savoring the feel of our bodies at rest against each other.

  “So,” I said finally, leaning back into his shoulder. “I’d say today was a success. What about you? Did you cross everything off your list you wanted to say and do?”

  “Almost,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “There’s just one thing I haven’t said yet. But I’m hoping to cross that off very soon.” And then he leaned into me, his lips pressed against my hair, and whispered: “I love you.”

  Time stopped. The world ceased to turn. Fireworks burst above my head, cannons roared, angels sang.

  Tears pricked in my eyes.

  “Ally?” His voice was concerned now, verging on panicked. “Ally, are you all right?”

  I leapt into his arms, twining my legs around him, cupping his face in my hands, his stubble scraping slightly against my fingers. “Oh, you beautiful, beautiful man.” His eyes were so wide and worried. I kissed each eyelid, and his nose, and his cheeks, and his lips. The tears were streaming down my face now, and I was laughing, and I was smiling, and I was happier than I could ever remember being. “I’m all right. I’m more than all right. I—oh, Hunter, I love you too!”

  Relief washed over his face and he pressed me to him, our foreheads touching as we shook with joy and the release of our long-held tension.

  “Never let me go,” I whispered against his stubbled cheek.

  “Never,” Hunter promised, his voice rough with unshed tears. “I never could. We’re a team. Always and forever.”

  I kissed the tears from his cheeks, not sure which were from me and which from him. Then I smirked a wicked smirk and dangled the half-empty bottle of bourbon beer between us.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Have you seen this? You did it, Hunter!”

  “We did it,” he corrected sternly, before grinning and wrapping me up in a great big bear hug. I hugged him back, inhaling that sweet wonderful smell that was purely him. I delighted in the feel of those strong arms around me, a sensation that still hadn’t lost its magic despite how often it occurred. I let my hands relish the feel of his strong back beneath his fine linen shirt. I was rapidly on my way to becoming addicted to this man, if I wasn’t already.

  It had been a few months since the Martinville expo, and today was the first day of sales for the bourbon beer. We’d been monitoring the numbers coming in all morning, and as of five minutes ago, it was official: we were in the black, and looking to stay that way for the foreseeable future.

  That was encouraging, to put it mildly, and so were the articles that had been hitting the page—both the printed and the online one—about the quality of both the beer and the company. ‘The most exciting new product on the market in over fifty years’ was about as close to lackluster as they got.

  “We should celebrate,” Hunter murmured in my ear.

  My skin heated at his very words. “Your place or mine?”

  I could feel Hunter’s grin stretching wide. “Oh, I’m not fussy. But there is another place I’d like to stop off at first.

  #

  I mock-glared at Hunter, my hands on my hips. “Seriously? This place?”

  “Seriously,” he said. “After all, this is where the magic all began.”

  “Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?” I asked. “‘Magic?’”

  “Well, that’s what it feels like to me,” said Hunter, with a purely joyful smile that melted the façade of my anger. “Shall I get us a private booth?”

  I gave him a playful shove. “You do that, Mr. Self-Made Man.”

  We were at the bar where we had first met. It looked like it had had a bit of a makeover since then; a few nicer pieces of art hung on the walls, and the floor looked as if it had been freshly polished. But the color of the stained-glass lamps and the deep walnut of the wood still conjured up happy memories.

  Hunter’s fingers tangled with mine across the table of our booth as we both took our seats. “Are you saying you didn’t find it magical, Miss Bartlett?” he said with a smirk, his honey voice spreading out in a satisfied drawl. “I seem to remember several very vocal statements on your part that would lead me to believe otherwise.”

  “Really?” I said sweetly. “All I remember is how a certain someone just had to leave the festivities before things could get really interesting.”

  We grinned at each like fools. I was surprised we had any blood left in our veins, with all this sap going around.

  And I wouldn’t have changed a moment of it. Not for the world.

  “Come on, man, she was asking for it!” A drunk slur interrupted my ruminations, and both Hunter’s and my heads jerked around for the source. Just some drunk guy getting kicked out of the bar—wait, was that—

  “Oh my God,” I said to Hunter. “I think that’s Chad.”

  Hunter scrutinized him before Chad could go sailing out the door. “I think you’re right.”

  Well, looked like karma was a bitch. This made the perfect cherry on top to the rest of the Douchebros’ collective fortunes: after the old company went down in flames (it was all those investors jumping ship to invest in Hunter’s new company instead), they’d had quite a hard time finding anyone else who wanted their services.

  Knox Liquors had actually tanked so bad without Hunter at the helm that he was able to buy the Knox name back for next to nothing. He’d told me he might use it in the future, but for now, he was happy to be building something of his own.

  He’d named the new company ‘Bartlett.’ Just thinking about it now made my heart feel like it was being squeezed.

  Hunter interrupted my memories: “So you saw the new space today, right? The one in Charleston? How’s that?”

  “Oh, you know,” I said, flagging down a waiter. “It’s all formless white until you start to press some personality into it. I’m sure it’ll shape up in no time, though.”

  As soon as Hunter’s company had gotten onto solid ground and his need for my professional services twenty-four/seven had started to decrease, I had begun to look into putting together my own advertising consultancy firm. My campaign for him had brought in tons of new clients, and the Charleston offices were just one of three different sites I had all over the South. I was due to be profiled in Forbes next week, and I still kept having to pinch myself to make sure that this was all really happening.

  “Ally?” Hunter said. “Earth to Ally, come in, Ally, come in.”

  I came back down from the clouds with a start. “Sorry, you were saying?”

  “I was saying,” Hunter said with an indulgent smile, “that I happened to have booked a room in this hotel. If after you finish your drink you find yourself feeling a bit too tired to drive, might I invite you up just in case you’re interested in a…retry?”

  A wonderful assortment of images danced through my head. I thought for precisely one second, and then I grinned.

  “Who needs beer?”

  THE END.

  Thanks to knowledgeable (and sometimes flirtatious) bartenders in Los Angeles who talked to me for hours about whiskey.

  Thanks to Uber for all the rides home.

  Thank you to the bloggers and readers who make promoting this work so much fun. Your humor and intelligence inspire me to be a better writer. Your perversity and Tumblr proficiency corrupt me.

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  Do you enjoy fun, romantic reads? Read on for a sneak chapter of The Art of Stealing Hearts by Stella London, available now.

  Meet Grace and St. Clair: she’s an aspiring gallery girl, he’s the sexy billionaire art collector. Together, they’ll discover a world of romance in the hot new series by Stella London!

  THE ART OF STEALING HEARTS available now!

  CHAPTER 1

  My mom taught me that art is everywhere; you just have to look. “Keep your eyes open, Grace, and you can always find the beauty,” she said, filling our small apartments with gorgeous paintings and bright colors, pointing out shapes and compositions as we walked city streets. Her love of art inspired mine, but right now my heart and head are pounding under the stress of running late, so it’s hard for me to notice anything pretty about the traffic literally standing between me and the chance of a lifetime.

  “Um, excuse me?” I pipe up from the back seat of the immobile taxi cab, anxiously looking at the driver slumped in his seat. He ignores me.

  I check my watch again: 8:41 am. Crap! I bite my lip to keep from yelling. Crapcrapcrap. I’m supposed to be at Carringer’s Auction House in nineteen—make that eighteen—minutes. First BART was late, and now I’m spending the last of this week’s tips to be trapped in this smelly cab, sweating under my best business outfit. My only business outfit.

  After a year of dropping off resumes and talking up gallery owners and museum directors, I’d nearly given up hope of finding a job in the art world until last week when the best auction house in San Francisco called me. Carringer’s deals in the most sought-after and highly-valued art and antiquities in the world: French Impressionist paintings, Chinese ceramics, Native American head masks, Greek sculptures…I get chills just imagining the masterpieces that flow in and out of those vaults. If I’m late to this interview, the first opportunity I’ve had in months might slip away and I’ll be serving spaghetti and meatballs at my waitress gig until I permanently smell like marinara and am too old to remember the specials.

  “Sir?” This time I rap insistently on the plexiglass separating me from the driver. He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “I’m super late. Is there a short cut or something you could use?”

  The minute hand on the watch my mother gave me jerks forward again and we’ve gone less than a block. Why aren’t we moving?! As if the obvious answer wasn’t right outside my window, honking and spewing fumes and inching along like snails on their way into the financial district’s high rise office buildings.

  The driver just laughs at me. “What do you think?”

  I think you smell like someone Febreezed over a cigar shop. But it’s the number one rule of waitressing: rudeness never pays. “How much further is Gold Street?”

  The cabbie shrugs. It’s 8:43.

  “Is it close enough to walk?” I press him.

  “Sure,” he says. “Everywhere is close enough to walk to eventually.”

  Screw this. There is no possible way for me to arrive looking cool and collected as planned anyway since my makeup probably already looks like a Jackson Pollock, and I’m not going to let some stupid traffic keep me from my dream. “Here,” I say, tossing a pile of ones onto the front seat and scooting out the door. “I’ll take my chances.”

  The cab driver rolls his eyes. “Maybe ten blocks,” he says. I inhale a deep breath of crisp ocean air, steady my purse on my shoulder, and start jogging.

  Immediately, my sensible yet stylish heels feel like vice grips on my toes. My feet are used to day-long shifts in sneakers, and it’s hard to run in a skirt, but I can’t give up. My carefully blow-dried hair is getting wind-whipped and frizzy, and my bangs are sticking to the sweat beading on my forehead.

  “Sorry! ‘Scuse me! Coming through, please!” It’s like running an obstacle course in heels.

  I dodge through the crowd, trying not to think about the frazzled and sloppy impression I’m going to make. In the meantime, I force myself to focus on the beauty of this city: the long shadows of the tallest buildings, the modern architecture, the sunlight reflected and refracted off a thousand windows, the blue sky beyond. I love San Francisco, even though right now it is not loving me back.

  One. More. Block. So. Close. I can almost see the brass carvings and scrolled handles on the thick auction house doors as I cross Gold Street and round the corner…and smash right into the muscular chest of a man coming from the crosswalk.

  I shriek at the same time he says, “Whoa, there,” like he’s a cowboy, except he’s as posh and polished as can be. He holds his coffee cup out in front of him like a bomb and I see the brown liquid dripping down his blue tie and white shirt.

  “Oh my God!” I grab some clean tissues out of my bag. “Here, let me help,” I say, reaching for his tie, but he’s already shaking it out. Luckily, most of the drink seems to be splattered on the concrete.

  “It’s fine,” he says, catching my hand. “There was too much sugar in that latte anyway.” He looks at me as our fingers touch, his eyes flecked with shifting shades of blue like Van Gogh’s night sky and just as mesmerizing. I want to paint them, but then I remember my priorities.

  “I’m sorry about the spill, but I really have to go.” I check my watch. “I’m running late for an important meeting.” I start to turn away, feeling guilty, but his voice stops me.

  “So this is a run-by coffee-ing, then?” He has an accent. British. Sexy.

  I turn back, unable to keep from checking him out again. He has a mouth that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo, perfectly shaped lips that smile at me and highlight the sharp cheekbones as sculpted as the famous David’s. It’s like his face belongs in a museum. Whoa, there. “Should I call the police?” he asks.

  I smile despite my hurry, sure that my face is turning strawberry red. I’d love to stay and flirt with this gorgeous man, but there’s no time. “Look,” I say, backing away. “If you give me your card, I’ll happily pay for the cleaning bill, but I really do have to run.”

  He falls in step beside me like we’re old friends. “Oh, no,” he says, loosening his tie as he easily matches my sprint. “Don’t you worry about this old thing. I’ve been meaning to donate it.” He tosses it in a trash can as we speed down the sidewalk and I can’t help but notice the triangle of smooth chest showing now that he’s unbuttoned his collar.

  “It mostly missed my shirt, which is good because the public tends to frown on shirtless businessmen.”

  I imagine him shirtless and almost walk into a mailbox.

  “That was a joke,” he says, smiling.

  Over the smell of salty sea air and car exhaust I catch the fresh, soapy clean scent of him. “Oh,” I say, avoiding a pothole, and thinking that no one would frown at that body. “Funny.”

  “This meeting must be a big deal,” he says. “If you’re too distracted to converse with a handsome man.”

  “It really is,” I say, separating from him just long enough to weave around a woman walking a poodle. “Life-changing actually. It’s a job interview at Carringer’s.”

  “Ouch,” he says, putting a hand on his heart in mock anguish. “Not going to bite on the handsome line?”

  “Oh!” Flushed, party of one, please. Thank God for the cool air. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just—”

  “So you’re admitting you do think I’m handsome?”

  “I admit nothing,” I say, laughing.

  He grins. “My kind of girl.”

  I stop to catch my breath as we arrive at the gorgeous façade of the Carringer’s Auction House building. Time to bid farewell to Mr. Charming. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed to see him go.

  He smiles at me face-to-face and oh dear God, he has actual dimples. “Good luck with the interview.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my gaze flicking to my watch one last time. It’s 8:54.

  “You’ll knock ‘em dead,” he says. I nod, trying to paste a confident smile on my face.

  I face the doors I’ve been dreaming about opening for the last week—well really, for the last twenty years—and feel hopeful again. I have five minutes to get inside and pull my shit together so I can show these people what I’m made of.

  One last thing first. “Are you sure I can’t replace that tie I ruined?”

  “Tell you what,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll swing by here next week and if you’re working, you can buy me a coffee.”

  Because he’s gorgeous and he made me feel better and I’ll probably never see him again, I’m suddenly brave. I say, “Off the record, I would definitely call you handsome.” I wink at him and enjoy the surprise on his so-totally-more-than-handsome face as I stride away from him and toward my waiting future.

  Inside, my bravery falters: this place is seriously impressive. A huge lobby with a polished marble floor, white marble columns reaching to the ceiling, and holy crap, an actual Rodin sculpture in the middle of the room. I stare at it, awed, until I notice a short, brisk-looking woman holding a clipboard. I nervously approach. “Hi, I’m Grace—”

  “Bennett? You’re the last to arrive.” She guides me out of the lobby and pulls me toward the main auction hall as I fiddle with my skirt and make sure my blazer is on straight.

 

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