RISE - Part One (The RISE Series Book 1) (2 page)

"I believe this belongs to you."

You would think that this nightmare would have ended when I woke up this morning in a cold sweat. I might be able to attribute my damp skin to the fact that my air conditioning isn't working again, but the cool breeze that was flowing in from my open bedroom window did little to shake off the overwhelming feeling of doom that has been stuck with me since last night.

Now, as I settle into my day behind my desk in the small office I rented on the Upper West Side, I don't need to look up to know that the pilot who haunted my broken dreams all night is standing in my doorway. When I do look at him, I clearly see one of my pale blue business cards in his hand.

When I'd strategically placed a small pile of them by a table situated at the entrance to the fashion show it wasn't with the hope that someone like him would pick one up. It was a ploy to grab a new client or two and he doesn't strike me as someone who throws many elaborate events. 

"What belongs to me?" I ask without thought.

"This." He steps towards me with a familiar pale yellow envelope in his other hand. My eyes trail across the open flap before they settle on him. He's as striking as he was last night when he was dressed in a suit. Today he's opted for a black t-shirt and jeans but the impact is just as overwhelming. He's muscular, trim and his brilliant smile is on full display once again.

"I told you that was trash." I gesture towards the simple, silver wastebasket that is next to my desk. "I don't want that back."

Without invitation he lowers himself into one of the white leather straight back chairs I purchased at a second hand store around the corner. The budget to decorate my office had been restricted to no more than a few hundred dollars, and I had used each and every penny wisely. The space is compact, but it's welcoming and hints of a business that is more successful than it really is. I may have to fake it for now, but I have little doubt that I'm going to make it.

He scratches the edge of his nose with one of his long fingers and that's when I notice the elaborate tattoo that is partially visible on his bicep. It's an intricate blending of shaded black and grey hues. There's no mistaking the beauty of several roses but woven into the design are other details that make it captivating. "Do you like tattoos, Tess?"

The question jars me enough that I push my back into my chair. I feel the leather on the seat pull apart as I shift and I wince. I'd taken the least attractive of the three chairs I bought and tucked it behind my desk. What is hidden from potential clients' eyes won't hurt them. It only hurts me or more specifically, the back of my thighs when I wear a dress or skirt. The hard, cheap leather of the worn seat scratches my skin almost daily but it's a reminder of what I'm working towards. My dreams of a beautiful office in a building on Fifth Avenue fuel me and make this used chair that much more tolerable.

"I guess," I breathe, pulling my gaze from his arm back to his hand. That doesn’t help. He's holding an intimate reminder of a life I willingly walked away from and a man who, at one time, was my future. "I told you that I'd call the airline today about that."

"About this?"  He taps the edge of the envelope against his knee. "I thought you might regret asking them to throw it out so I went JFK this morning to pick it up for you."

I glance quickly at the pearl encrusted watch on my wrist. Normally just the sight of it gives me a sense of comfort. My cousin, Ivy Marlow-Walker, designed it for me as a special graduation gift. Right now it's doing little to quiet my racing heart. I stare down at the delicate hands on its circular face. If he went to the airport this morning, he must have gotten up at the crack of dawn. It's barely past nine now.

"You shouldn't have done that." I lean forward so my elbows are both resting against the top of the antique desk that the former tenant left behind.  "Why wasn't it thrown out when the airplane was cleaned?"

"Gabriel's mother grabbed it after you left the plane." His eyes search my face. "She saw you tuck it into the seat pocket after reading it. She assumed you forgot it."

That's understandable given the fact that I could feel her eyes glued to the single sheet of yellow paper as I unfolded it and read it under the dim light that was cast from the overhead lamp I turned on when I thought she'd drifted to sleep. By the time I realized she had leaned close enough to me to make out the messy handwritten note, I hadn't cared. I knew that I'd be leaving it behind, just as I left behind the man who had written it to me. "She was mistaken."
              "How old are you, Tess?"

I should be mildly offended by the question, but I'm not. I'm asked it frequently. I used to think it had everything to do with the uneven pattern of freckles that are scattered over my cheeks and nose. I turned to make-up to remedy that but even the blush, mascara and shadow I wear don't mask the fact that I'm young. In a city where new businesses pop up and disappear at breakneck speed, being taken seriously when you don't look like you carry the expertise needed, is a challenge.

"How old are you?" I counter, not because I'm particularly interested in his age. I'd guess he's in his early thirties judging by his friendship with Gabriel. I researched both Caleb and Gabriel Foster before approaching them with my proposal to handle the event planning for the Liore show. I know everything there is publically known about both, including the fact that Gabriel is thirty-two years old.

"I'm thirty-one," he says with no hesitation at all. "If I had to guess, I'd say you're twenty-one."

With all the unwanted life experience I have I feel like I'm nearing fifty-years-old. The calendar suggests otherwise. "I'm twenty-two."

"This seems serious for a twenty-two- year-old." He picks the envelope up between his index finger and thumb so he can wave it in the air. "How old is the guy who wrote this?"

In human years, he's twenty-four. In emotional maturity years, he's a toddler. "It doesn’t matter."

If the words offend him in any way he doesn't display that. On the contrary, he pushes forward. "I'm older than you so let me offer you some advice."

I cock both brows. If I had a nickel for each time someone said that to me, I'd have enough money to buy three new office chairs. Granted, the majority of the time my father is the one offering up his unsolicited advice, but I welcome that because I know he wants me to find the best that life has to offer for myself. This man, who I don't even know, has no right to offer me anything. He may not realize that I'm wise enough to know that his advice is based on absolutely no knowledge of what brought on that written marriage proposal he's holding tightly to.

"There may come a day when you'll want to read this again." He sets the envelope on my desk directly in front of me. "Don't let a momentary feeling ruin an entire relationship. If I was you, I'd put it in one of those desk drawers so it's still there if you want it in say, five or ten years."

I stare down at the plain envelope. My name isn't anywhere on it.  The man who wrote the letter didn't take the time to address it to me. He'd simply stopped by the hotel I was staying at, pushed the letter, along with some money at the man working the front desk and told him to make certain it was hand delivered to my room. I pick it up tentatively before I rip it in two and toss both pieces into the waste basket. "You're not me."

"Did the pilot tell Gabriel anything about what you said to his mother?"

I gaze past my cousin to the display of heels that adorn the far wall in this trendy boutique in SoHo. Ivy is on a break from work and when that happens, I typically drag her out of her jewelry store and into another of the overpriced shops that line this street. I'm all for dreaming about what might be and right now I'm picturing an incredibly expensive pair of red heels on my feet. I'm tempted to look down at the comfortable, black heeled sandals I'm wearing but that will burst my bubble and I'm not ready to fall back into reality for at least another two minutes.

I'd celebrated with Ivy weeks ago when I landed the job as the Liore fashion show event planner. She's been my biggest supporter since I decided to start my own business but it's her husband, Jax Walker, who I most admire. The man has a sharp business sense that is unquestionable and he's been more than happy to share all of his expertise with me. He views me as a younger sister and since I've been in New York, his reassurance that I can make it, has given me the courage I've needed to keep steady on my career path.

"I don't think so," I say with a half-shrug. "Gabriel told me last night what a great job I'd done. He said I surpassed his expectations."

"Rowan said the same thing when I talked to her this morning." Ivy grins. "She said that you outdid yourself."

The temptation to ask Ivy to put in a good word for me with her best friend, Rowan Bell, had been hard to resist when I first approached Gabriel Foster about taking on the Liore event. Rowan, Gabriel's sister-in-law, deals with most of the day-to-day business operations of the lingerie division of the Foster's fashion empire so it was plausible that if Ivy mentioned her cousin's company as a contender for handling the management of the fashion show, that I would have had an instant leg up on all the competition.

I specifically asked Ivy not to bring the subject up with Rowan and she had handled that request with grace and understanding. Ivy has worked hard to establish herself as one of the leading jewelry designers in the country. She may have had Jax's help financially when she first opened her store, but since then, her talent has catapulted her hand-sculpted designs into some of the most sought after jewelry pieces. She understands my determination to succeed on my own merit.

"I'm going to meet Gabriel later this week to talk about some future projects." I don't want my voice to give weight to all the excitement I'm feeling over that. I'm not the type to count my blessings before they're firmly entrenched in my hand, but this is promising, and I sense that if I handle myself well in that meeting, that I'll walk away from it with more events to plan.

"You'll do great, Tess, "she says it with the same conviction I can see in her expression. "Remember what I told you about staying focused."

Ivy's another one who unabashedly offers unsolicited guidance. That particular piece of advice is met with more than a little skepticism by me. I know Ivy's history. She met Jax when she was only slightly older than I am now and the tumultuous beginnings of their relationship almost sidelined her entire career. She's a success now, but her path to get there was dotted with a failed engagement to another man, a world of drama with Jax and heartbreaking betrayal by her best friend, Liz, thrown in for good measure.

Luckily for me, my newest, and now closest, friend, Lilly Parker, lives a life that is as boring as it gets. She's a tech wizard which comes in handy when I can't get an app on my smartphone to work. She's also the doting mom of a beautiful daughter, Haven. That means I get baby cuddles whenever I want them and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on when I need it. Her husband, Clive, and I haven't spent enough time together to form a relationship that reaches beyond pleasant greetings when we see each other. I hope in time that will change, but I sense that Lilly needs our friendship to be just a girls' thing as much as I do.

"I'm focused," I counter, not wanting to open up a discussion about what pulled me to Milan so unexpectedly. I hadn't told Ivy about the reason I boarded a flight after giving her less an hour notice that I was leaving the country for four days. She'd thrown so many questions at me on the phone that day that I'd wilted emotionally under the weight of them. I'd made up a believable excuse about needing to end the call so I could connect with some work contacts before I got to the airport and she had reluctantly wished me a safe flight with a promise that I'd call her once I landed in Italy. I had sent her a quick text message as soon as the plane touched the ground but that had been all the correspondence I could manage while I was there.

She's only asked me once, since I've been back, about what happened in Milan. I sidestepped the question because I know with Ivy's hurried life and her unending devotion to her family, that my trip will become a memory not worth mentioning before long. Her mind is filled with too many other things to dwell on something in the past.

"You still need a man."

The words catch me so far off guard that I actually pull my gaze from the wall of shoes to my cousin's face. She can't know how completely wrong that statement is. I had a man that I needed and it blew up in my face. "I don't need a man."

"Is the pilot single?"

The fact that she completely ignored my last statement should irk me but it only makes me smile. She's a romantic at heart which explains her teary eyed stories each time someone comes in to her shop to purchase an engagement ring. She loves love and it's what she wants for everyone she cares for, including me.

I'm on a self-imposed romance break at the moment so Landon's dating status shouldn't matter to me. Hearing her ask about it ignites a spark of curiosity within me that I didn't know was even there. "I have no idea, Ivy. I didn't ask."

"I can find out from Rowan." Her hand dips into oversized purse. "I can text her right now and get her to ask Gabriel."

Discretion isn't Ivy's strong suit. Judging by the signals that Landon was tossing in my direction last night, it's not part of his repertoire either.  He was flirting and I didn't respond in kind then. Chasing after details of his life now will only make me look pathetic especially given the fact that he probably heard from Gabriel's mother that I wanted to have my way with him on that airplane.  "If I want to find a man to date, I can do it on my own."

Her hand stills within the depths of her purse. "You don't want me to text Rowan to ask?"

"No." I reach forward to run my hand along the length of a black belt hung on a rack by the entrance to the shop. "I'm not interested in him, Ivy. He's not the man for me."