Page 1 of Inflame

1

CLAIRE

I jog up the street, trying not to be any later than I already am. I shift my vision board under my arm to keep from dropping it. I finished an invigorating workout class that I led down by the river with just enough time to get back to the apartment, clean up, and grab my visual.

Springtime in Portland is my favorite time of the year, and this one has been particularly warm for being the end of March. Everything smells fresh again, and the new budding life sprouting from the trees gives me hope in possibilities.

My hair is in pigtail braids, still damp from the shower. My outfit is a simple pastel plaid wrap dress, paired with overpriced flip-flops. From the way they are making my toes hurt, I really don’t see the appeal.

I push open the cafe door and find my fellow party planner, Nic Hoffman, watching me from the corner table. I use his job title loosely. He has basically done nothing to help thus far, unless you count the blatant ignoring of my emails or vetoing of my ideas. I actually think he thrives on being difficult.

For the past three months—since Angie and Graham appointed us as maid of honor and best man—I’ve been doing all of the work. Granted, it has mostly been from a socially safe distance from each other. But I can no longer avoid the roadblock that is Nic Hoffman. I mean, I should have seen it coming. His brother lives by his own set of rules. It must run in the family.

Nic’s fingers tap the smooth surface, while his eyes study my every movement. His other hand is curled around a mug of coffee, forgoing the handle completely. My gaze lands on his gold ring. I guess when your brother is running the top jewelry company on the entire West Coast, you get special privileges of custom pieces meant only for you. But something tells me there is more to this ring than simply the family connection. Nic doesn’t seem like the man to be random about his style selections, and he definitely isn’t the type to follow a fashion trend either.

I hate how he is looking at me. It is borderline rude. Or perhaps it is just my own salty projection of my feelings toward him.

“You’re late,” he says flatly.

I guess I expected more indifference from him than directness. I want to reply with some snide remark, and normally I would without hesitation. But I still subconsciously think of Nic as my boss, since my name is still floating around the Entice database. My boyfriend, Ethan, insisted on me keeping my employment status as a high-class escort inactive instead of quitting entirely. He rattled off a bunch of stuff about insurance and benefits-package perks that I honestly wasn’t really following. When it comes to money and healthy financial decisions, I am clueless. College was paid for by my parents who I think were happy I switched coasts just to alleviate some of the face-to-face guilt they were experiencing when I was in their presence.

“My Zumba at the River class ran over, and I needed to go back to the apartment to shower,” I explain, watching him rise from the table.

The gray military-style fabric belt adjusts to allow his jeans to hang low on his hips, but tight enough to keep the sag away from his legs. He has on a solid black T-shirt that I know did not come from one of those three-packs at the department store. His outfit is casual, yet completely put together. He looks amazing.

His blue eyes catch mine and in this instant, I wonder if he knew I was checking him out. I shake my head as if my thoughts will clear from the movement. I need to stay focused on our job that we both agreed to do—together.

“I brought my—”

His hand moves up to halt my words. “What would you like to eat and drink?”

“I, um,” I stutter, not really planning on consuming a meal right now. I turn back and glance at the menu that is written on a whiteboard with washable markers. It only takes me a few seconds to realize that there is nothing here for me. I am in the middle of a five-day cleanse that I need to complete prior to the trip. I turn back and look at Nic. Despite his hair being shorter and lighter in color, he looks alarmingly like his brother, Graham.

“My treat,” he says, reaching for his wallet.

“Oh, I’m good actually,” I answer quickly. I dig out my lip gloss and reapply it.

Nic’s eyes narrow. “Not even a drink?”

I look toward the list of beverages and frown. There just isn’t anything here for me other than water. “Maybe just a bottled water.”

With a single nod, Nic vacates our corner table and goes to wait in line. I sit down opposite of his coffee mug and spread out my trifold board. It bumps into his mug, and I gasp as the liquid sloshes up the interior sides. Why am I so nervous? Nic returns and hands me my drink. He also places a muffin wrapped in plastic wrap onto the table in front of me.

“In case you change your mind,” he says simply.

I smile. “Thank you.”

“You’ve been busy,” he says, pointing toward my picture board and itinerary planner. I designed, printed, and laminated all of the things we need to get accomplished on the long weekend to Vegas. On the backs of each slip, I glued Velcro so we can discuss the plans and the overview of the trip—while being able to easily rearrange any events to allow for flexibility. Nic glances at his watch. “You know this place closes at ten at night, right?”

“Okay, great, that gives us roughly eleven hours to hash this out,” I say blankly. I can’t tell whether or not he is trying to be annoying or cute. Either approach unnerves me. I’m here to get the job done, not make jokes. Giving my bestie the best bachelorette trip of her life is my goal. Surely, her future brother-in-law and I can meet in the middle in regard to planning this thing.

Nic takes a sip from his mug and leans back into his chair as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Must be nice to have such freedom from the mental clutter that I typically have to sift through on a daily basis.

“We could have avoided this meetup if you would have just answered my email, you know?”

“And miss out on this…”—he points to my board and snickers—“special display of resource over-usage.” His eyes focus in on my perfectly crafted details. “What is it exactly?”

My eyes narrow. “It’s a vision board.”

---