Page 17 of Maverick Mogul

I’ll tell you what they’d say: ‘Who’s Grace Sommerville? Can you point her out in a lineup?’

I googled Charlie after our little surprise meeting with Olivia, and it seems that he owns one of the hottest bars in the city. A recent article popped up, complete with model-handsome pictures and some thirsty captions. I can’t blame the journalist, really—his co-investors look like they were chosen based on net attractiveness. A killer’s row of dimples, sultry come-hither stares, and artfully tousled hair.

If the whole ‘nightlife mogul’ thing doesn’t work out, they can pivot to a male stripper revue, no problems.

Based on all of that, I should be intimidated. But I’ve already humiliated myself in front of Charlie Fox, right? If nothing else, I’m getting paid to enjoy a gorgeous summer evening in Central Park. Hell, I’m getting paid to eat wedding cake, an activity I would absolutely do for free. And if Charlie did hire me out of pity, then watch me wow him now. The yelling-at-him while wearing sweat-clothes in a Michelin-starred restaurant is the least graceful version of Grace. Tonight, I can handle everything perfectly.

Probably.

Still, despite my pep-talk, when Charlie’s town car pulls up outside my aunts’ shop, I consider fleeing straight back upstairs. Thissoisn’t me—the chauffeured ride, the formal dress code. But before I can make a break for it, Charlie steps out, looking completely dashing.

Men in black-tie, man. It’s not fair.

“Hi.” I press my lips together before I can drool at the sight of this man. To my surprise, he has a pocket square in a black and white floral pattern, and I smile at him curiously. Charlie Fox: Fashion risk-taker?

“You look great,” he says, opening the car door for me.

I snort with laughter. “I bet you say that to all the paid platonic escorts.”

Once he settles into the backseat beside me, I catch the scent of a faint, woodsy cologne. Great. His hotness is a multi-sensory experience.

“So… About tonight,” I start, bracing myself for more attitude. We didn’t exactly strike this deal under the best of terms, but to my surprise—and relief—Charlie seems in a way better mood.

Either that, or he’s resigned to his fate, squiring a woman he would never dream of escorting under any other circumstances.

“Should be smooth sailing,” he says with a smile. “Ease you into the madness.”

“Easing is good,” I agree.

“I’ve known the groom a while now. He actually met the bride at my bar,” Charlie adds. “It was love at first cocktail.”

“You own a bar?” I ask casually, as if I hadn’t spent an hour on Google drilling down every one of his major life events. “That’s cool. Wait. So, you’re the reason they found each other?”

“I guess,” he says, mildly.

“Well, aren’t you nonchalant,” I observe. Maybe I’m a softie, but there’s something magical about chance connections, especially in such a huge city. “It wouldn’t have happened without you. That has to be a cool feeling.”

Charlie gives me a wry grin. “Or a lot of pressure, if it doesn’t work out.”

I gasp. “You can’t say that! Not en-route to their wedding!” I pause. “You don’t think they’re a good match?”

He gives a shrug. “I think commitment like that is always a risk. A lucky few will make it, and the rest… ? Well, there’s a reason there are so many divorce lawyers in this city.”

“Bleak,” I inform him. “Anything else I need to know—besides the fact that you’re a romantic nihilist?”

He chuckles. “Well… I might need you to run interference with the bride’s aunt. She gets handsy after a couple of glasses of wine.”

“Noted. I’ve got your back.”

“You better.” Charlie smiles over at me. “Or she’ll get my backside.”

I laugh, realizing that I’ve relaxed considerably on the drive. We’re a two-person team with a mission, for this evening, at least.

The driver pulls over, and Charlie gallantly helps me out of the car. Then we make our way into Central Park, following the winding pathway towards the lake. “What’s the story about what happened at the restaurant?” he asks. “You moonlight cake delivery on the sly?”

“Cake?” I ask, confused. “Oh, you mean, the one that wound up wasted, smeared all over my asshole boss’s crotch?” I sigh, explaining Bret’s petty demand and my adventures in rushing around town, making sure he got every last thing he desired. “… And then, since the last open bakery only had a plain cake left, I texted a florist contact that I knew would have some edible flowers so I could decorate it. Myself.”

“You have edible flowers on your speed dial?” Charlie asks, looking amused.

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