Page 5 of Wes

He double checks my information and returns the document to me. “All set, Mr. Baron. Welcome to São Paulo. Have a pleasant stay.”

I stand up and follow him out of the plane. At the top of the stairs, I hunch my shoulders to brave a freezing gust of air.

“Fuck! I forgot it’s winter here,” I mumble, shuddering under the sixty-mile-per-hour winds pummeling me.

The sports jacket I have on doesn’t protect me at all. I run toward the shelter of the terminal where I find out the local temperature is fifty degrees Fahrenheit.

A dark-haired man not older than twenty pops up in front of me, a wide smile splitting his full lips. His excitement is clear on the twinkle of his green eyes when he greets me, “Good morning, Wes. I’ll be your assistant during your stay.”

“And you are?” I wink. “I don’t mind informality, but I like to know who I’m talking to.”

In this case, an obviously star-struck fan, but still.

“So sorry. I’m Alan,” he informs me, holding out his hand.

I shake it. “Great meeting you. What’s the plan?”

He gestures for me to follow him. “There’s a car waiting right outside to take us to Sala São Paulo, where they’re setting up the event. Still in the morning, there’s a rehearsal. Then, I’ll take you to lunch. After that, there’s the fitting.”

We climb on the limousine. As the driver pulls away, I furrow my brow. “Fitting?”

“For the tuxedo you’ll wear this evening.”

I control the urge to roll my eyes, with a lot of effort. “Yes, of course.”

“Then, there’s the dressed rehearsal and we’ll be ready to kick off the event.”

Twenty minutes later, the car stops in a parking lot behind a sprawling art-nouveau building. I don’t have time to admire the architectural gem as Alan rushes me inside saying, “Everyone’s already in. They’re just waiting for you.”

My jaw drops when we enter a room with an arched ceiling more than eighty feet high with a magnificent stained-glass skylight. The weak rays of the winter sun penetrate the amber and white slices of glass and form intricate shapes on the marble floor. At the end of the hundred-foot-long room, a raised platform holds a dozen people.

Alan points at them. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got to help set up the decoration of the concert hall. I’ll be back to take you to lunch.”

“See you then.”

Except, I don’t. Lunch break comes and Alan is a no-show. I grab a quick bite at the in-site restaurant with the others because we don’t have time for much else. The buildings in this complex don’t have heating while the high ceilings, polished stone floors, and open archway allow for the air to circulate freely and freeze anyone who’s dumb enough not to wear heavy clothes.

People like me.

Someone has borrowed a coat from wardrobe for me, but I look like a bullfighter from an opera. As soon as rehearsal is over, I rush around the multiple rooms in the arts center looking for my temporary assistant. I want to give Alan money and ask him to buy me winter clothes. With this tight schedule, I can’t do it myself. But I can’t find him anywhere.

I ask around and nobody has seen him for a while.What the hell?

Tired, cold, and cranky, I’m about to give up as everyone is busy either running around or working on something. I don’t want to get in their way nor burden them with my problems. I should’ve come more prepared. Now, I just have to grow some balls and endure the low temperatures.

A shiver runs down my spine and my teeth chatter. I tug the costume coat around myself while I find my way to my dressing room for the fitting. As I cross the hall with the arches and the skylight, I notice a young woman standing in the middle of the room. Her short frame sets off her pixie blonde hair. Her big blue eyes sparkle in her heart-shaped face as she spins around, gazing at the ceiling and tall arches that line the sides of the hall.

Over her black wool dress, she wears a white apron with Hidden Scars logo so she must be helping with the event. She probably works with the foundation or the organizers of the fundraiser. Not everyone speaks English in Brazil, so I’ve learned a couple of words the first time I came here.

I approach her in my broken Portuguese. “Favor poder ajudar-me?”

She snaps her head down to meet my eyes and all traces of joy vanish from her expression. With a deep frown marring her flawless skin, she replies in fluent English, with a hint of Brazilian accent, “Yes, Mr. Baron. How can I help you, sir?”

Despite the sarcasm dripping from her words, an acute urge to make her purr, both my name and the form of address, surprises me. I blink a couple of times to reset my mind. Maybe my body is beginning to suffer hypothermia.

I rub my hands together and try my best smile on her. “I’m looking for Alan.” If she knows who I am, she might know him as well. “Have you seen him? I needed him to buy me some clothes. I’m freezing.”

My charm has zero effect on her while she scans me up and down, setting my skin on fire. However, her expression remains serious, hostile even.

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