Page 3 of One Weekend in Vienna

But Felix isn’t here this weekend. And I’ll be spending the next few days working very closely with Anna.

If I won her over once, maybe I can do it again.

2

ANNA

Ican feel Max behind me, his presence as bright as noon sunshine and just as overwhelming, like glancing up into the light without sunglasses. When my boss suggested this campaign, I had a dozen names ready, but they only wanted Max.

Of course. Everyone wants Max. Hockey’s golden boy. His grandfather had been one of the league most renowned players. His parents are movie stars. Both of them. His birth was so celebrated I can find his baby pictures online.

Not that I’ve looked at them.

Very much.

I sigh. It’s just a few days. I can put up with everyone gushing over Max for that long. I just have to remember his ego is so big I can’t get too close or risk suffocating.

I step onto the elevator and press the button, keeping my eyes forward. I know his eyes are on me and the back of my neck prickles. I’m not going to engage. I’ll just pretend to ignore him,even though it’s always hard. He really is like the sun, and I’m drawn to the warmth.

The elevator dings and we step out onto an executive floor, the meeting room doors thrown open where my colleagues are eagerly awaiting the hockey superstar.

I hang back as Max strides in, like a prince ready to hold court. The members of Luxx’s executive board trip over themselves to greet him, as if they’ve never seen a celebrity before. As I watch, Max shakes hands, turning on the charm like it’s his own personal brand.

Which, considering how well he’s doing at it, might as well be. I make a beeline for the coffee bar, reminding myself as Max’s laughter fills the room that this is exactly why I moved heaven and earth to get him here this weekend. Max could sell ice to a penguin. Max can sell anything without even trying. A few years back, someone snapped a picture of him at a charity run stopping to switch out his sneakers and that particular brand sold out online in minutes.

His beer of choice, and inwardly I roll my eyes at this bit of marketing magic because I happen to know that Max Walker doesn’t actually drink beer with his nutrition plan, has been an international bestseller ever since he did that ad campaign where someone hands him a cold one in the locker room after a divisional final and he pulls his shirt off, holds the bottle against a nasty bruise coloring his collarbone before opening and draining it. Somehow, he managed to get a drop to fall perfectly so that it tracks down his perfectly-sculpted chest.

He's a professional athlete. Of course it’s sculpted, but to hear Sophie, our social media marketing VP talk about it, you’d think he invented muscles.

I take a bracing swig of rich, dark coffee, flinching at the burn. Speaking of Sophie, she’s zeroed in on Max like a kid seeing Santa on Christmas Eve.

“Mr. Walker,” she coos, with a smile so wide I experience a moment’s alarm that she’s about to bite him, “we can’t thank you enough for interrupting your busy season for this ad campaign.” She places a hand on his arm, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, “you must let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your weekend here absolutely perfect. We’re so thrilled to have you in Vienna.”

Did she just flutter her lashes? I suppress the urge to snort. She’s so petite, she looks like a little doll next to Max’s large frame. I shift in my heels. Is that jealousy making my chest tight? No one can ever accuse me of looking small, even next to professional hockey players.

“It’s my pleasure, really,” Max says, in that smooth, low voice he probably perfected by filming himself and replaying it until he’d hit that fine balance between sex god and boy-next-door. “Vienna’s a beautiful city. I’m just here to enjoy it and hopefully help promote Luxx in the process.”

I definitely can’t hold back the eye roll at his comment. Getting him here was a herculean effort according to his agent. Luxx paid through the roof to line him up for this weekend. I lean against the wall with my coffee and watch Sophie and the others fall over themselves to get Max to simply smile in their direction.

And he does—easily, effortlessly—as if it’s no big deal to be the most magnetic person in the room, even though he must be exhausted. He grins, wide and dashing, giving each person a look that seems personal and genuine, from the hotel staff waiting to serve a light lunch, to the intern practically trembling in his presence, to each executive who made time in their busy schedules to come and meet him.

The man’s practically sparkling.

Oh, please.

I take another mouthful of coffee to keep from saying it out loud. Instead, I focus on steadying my breathing, trying not to let his stupid smile and overly polite tone get to me.

But the truth is, itdoesget to me. Max gets to me. Each charismatic laugh, every casual joke and clever quip that has the whole group chuckling, slowly drives me insane.

How does he do it? Am I the only one to see how he turns the charm on and off like a switch? He’s the son of two very famous actors, do they not see that he’s just playing a role?

I know the real Max. And it’s not this golden-aww-shucks-hockey god who skates like he was born with a pair of blades on his feet and a magnetism that cons everyone who comes into contact with him.

Max Walker is ruthless. He’ll do anything to win, no matter who gets hurt. It bothers me that no one can see beneath his carefully cultivated perfection.

But what bothers me more is that I can’t look away. I hate the effortless way he pulls everyone under his spell – the way he knows he’s got the entire room in the palm of his hand—including me, if I’m truly honest with myself. I swallow hard. I should know better.

I’ve been with Luxx for nearly five years. Four and a half years of dedication, late nights, and practically bending over backward to meet deadlines and product initiatives. All in hopes of finally snagging a promotion at the end of the season.

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