Page 2 of Exposed

Which means, I need this meeting to go well.

I push through the door of the café and smile at the hostess in a sleek black dress standing behind the podium. “Hello. I’m here for a lunch meeting. I believe the reservation is under Daniel Armstrong. I’m a few minutes early.”

A few minutes is an understatement. I’m always early. The fear of being late plagues me, and I do not need any more self-inflicted anxiety. There’s enough of that to go around these days.

The hostess scrolls through her tablet before returning my smile with a generic one. “You are early, but your table is ready. Follow me.”

With two menus and a perfect sway to her slim hips, I follow her through the moody dining room.

I’m willing to meet potential clients anywhere. Since my office is currently the left corner of my lumpy sofa, I’ll even drive to South Beach where I can’t afford a side salad, let alone a lunch entrée.

She stops at a table for two.

Two?

I guess the bride won’t be involved, which makes this even more unusual. What bride doesn’t want to interview prospective wedding planners?

I take a seat with my back to the wall so I can be on the lookout for Mr. Armstrong. I have no idea what he looks like. I did my normal stalking search on all the regular social sites, but my investigative skills came up empty. Even with a generic name like his, none of them made sense. I hate knowing so little. Meeting a prospective client always feels like a blind date from the dark ages.Most people can be found somewhere on the internet, making the true blind date nonexistent these days.

“Your server will be with you shortly. Enjoy.”

“Thank you.”

I glance at the menu where the prices are missing.

Not even one.

Well, then. I know what that means.

I officially cannot afford a side salad, much less the bill with my potential client, which I always pay. But that bill is usually at a coffee shop, not at a fancy seaside restaurant in South Beach.

I pull in a deep breath.

Make it or break it.

Positive thoughts, Goldie.

If Mr. Armstrong is setting up lunch meetings in South Beach, then his budget has to be a big one.

This is why I took a chance on Miami when the opportunity presented itself, despite my mom begging me to stay in Virginia. That was before my business went south—geographically and financially. But it has to get better.

This is what I chanted to myself over and over after I scheduled this meeting with an unknown man.

I normally only meet with the bride. Sometimes with her mother or best friend. In the years since I started Amare, I’ve never once met solely with the groom for the initial meeting.

This is definitely unusual, but I’m desperate. And it’s South Beach. What can happen here?

“Good afternoon. May I get you something to drink—maybe something from the bar? We’re featuring a fresh sangria today.”

My mouth waters at the thought. I would wash dishes for a fresh sangria. “As delicious as that sounds, this is a working lunch for me. I’ll stick with water.”

My server gives me a slight bow as he backs away from my table, probably calculating how much he won’t make on a tip. Ilook back to the menu and search for the smallest salad I can find.

He returns with two waters and a promise to check back in soon. I turn my attention to the ocean. But I don’t have time to get lost in the rolling surf because my name hits me in a low, rumbly timbre.

“Marigold Carter?”

My eyes dart from the sea to the man standing over me. I don’t confirm my identity or correct him that no one calls me Marigold, because my voice has taken a mini vacay to the Keys.

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