And naturally, during my inner panic is when Brad walks in … no, struts in is more like it. Not a hair out of place. His suit tailored impeccably to project his normal look of perfection and his whole air of arrogant affluence. Of course, when he walks up to the receptionist, she smiles and bats her thick lashes and—gag—giggles. They look like Barbie and Ken up there. Permanent faces of perfect happiness etched in their expressions.
“Excuse me, but could you stop your pathetic flirting with my man?”
My jaw drops at the voice that interrupts my musings. Probably dropped to the same place my heart just landed.
At my feet.
I’m going to vomit.
There isn’t a thing I can do but sit here like an idiot and gape as my sister walks to Brad’s side, swaying her thin, narrow hips seductively. She threads her arm around his waist before placing one perfectly manicured hand on his chest. The sight of them together holds my gaze hostage as she looks around his body. If looks could kill, I would be dead the second her eyes connected with mine.
I’m going to be sick. It’s official.
I hear the receptionist say something. I assume she’s talking to Brad because, with a nod, he turns and walks to the other side of the room, pulling my sister with him. Her eyes never leave mine, but he completely ignores me.
No shocker there.
It’s been years since Brad has been able to stand to look at me.
After ten terribly nauseating minutes of studying my hands to avoid looking at Brad and Ivy, our attorneys step out. Mine, the first Buchanan in Buchanan and Buchanan, walks over with a sympathetic smile and offers his hand. Randy was an old college friend of my mother’s, so when I needed an attorney in a rush, I didn’t falter in contacting him, even if I can just barely afford his rates. But, true to my unlucky nature, his brother just so happens to have connections with Brad’s family and didn’t have any issues being his counsel, even if family law isn’t his focus.
Rushing to stand, I fumble with my heavy purse, but in my haste to keep my eyes away from the duo of doom, I gravely miscalculate every inch in my rush to stand. Mutely, I watch in horror as the strap to my purse snaps. The heavy bag drops in an embarrassingly slow-motion display, and with a slap against the marble floor, every content inside my overstuffed bag spills and scatters around me.
Lip gloss, pens, notepad, cell phone, wallet, probably every spare coin ever made and—oh, God—tampons and maxi pads. Because, naturally, it’s completely normal for someone to be a walking dispenser for any menstrual issue needs.
“Oh, God,” I gasp and twist to bend so that I can collect all my spilled crap. But before I even have a chance to blink, I’m flat on my back when my ankle gives out and twists on whatever I manage to hook on my stupid granny heel.
This day couldn’t get any worse than right here at this moment as I lay sprawled out on the floor with my personal belongings scattered around me. What did I say? Just like checkers, the final piece—me—has finally fallen.
I can’t breathe, and it has nothing to do with the fact I’m pretty sure all air I had in my lungs just got knocked straight out of my body with the force of my landing. This would have been embarrassing enough without anyone to witness it, but knowing the two people who would love nothing more than to see me stoned got a front row seat.
Yeah, I’m going to vomit.
“What a mess, Brad. Aren’t you thrilled you’re finally going to be rid of … well, that?” My sister’s hurtful words bring a heated blush to my face and my nose pricks with tears. Tears that I’m determined not to shed while they can see me. Tonight, alone in my small apartment, I’ll drown in them, but here … no.
“Willow? Are you okay?” I hear at the same time as the receptionist calls out my attorney’s name and frantically waves at the phone.
“It’s Mr. Logan with the Logan Agency. He says it’s imperative he speaks to you before your meeting with the Tates.”
“Kill me now,” I wheeze when I hear my father’s name. Rolling to my side, I make the always-awkward attempt to climb to my feet. It feels like every eye in the room is watching me. Judging me.
“I’m sorry, Willow. I have to take this,” Randy explains and moves to help me stand.
“Allow me,” I hear spoken from my other side, stopping me before I can move from my position seated on my bottom with my hands ready to push off the ground. The smooth rasp of his voice wraps around me. Those two words were said low, but with sympathy, and cause me to snap my eyes from the horrified ones of Mr. Buchanan and over to where that sinfully deep voice came from.
I hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room, let alone someone who must have been sitting just a few chairs down from where I had been before my crash to rock bottom. Literally. He moves to stand before I can see his face, but his denim-clad legs hit my vision. All I can see is two muscular thighs molded in dark-wash denim as if they were made for the man. As he moves closer to my body, I feel something like electricity lightly zapping my skin.
If his face matches what I can see, I can only imagine how good looking he is. God, I really am surrounded by perfect people. Even Randy Buchanan at his ripe age of sixty-two has a body I’m sure he spends hours a day in the gym to keep looking that way. I don’t even need to see this stranger’s face; with a body like that, he could be a troll and still be closer to perfection than I’ll ever see in myself. Is it too much to ask to see someone, anyone, who doesn’t look like they were made from a mold?
Great, just what I need; another witness to this repulsive scene my checkers of a day fated to suck created.
“It’s all right, Mr. Masters. I have it. Won’t take but a second, right, Willow?” Mr. Buchanan asks, bending to assist me from the floor. Where I still haven’t moved.
“That might be, Rand, but it looks like you're needed elsewhere,” the man, Mr. Masters, continues. He raises one hand from the side of his body and points over toward where the receptionist is still trying to get my attorney’s attention and then bends at the waist to offer me his hand.
I get my first glimpse of the man behind that voice.
The foreign feeling of pure lust coils so tightly that it steals the breath straight from my lungs.
My cheeks flame once again as goosebumps fire across my skin when I realize just who has been witness to my living nightmare. Oh. My. God. Mr. Masters?! The one and only, Mr. Kane Masters. Sexiest Man Alive, most wanted actor around, the object of lust for maybe every woman in the whole entire WORLD! Good God! It can’t be. There’s no way that … no … oh, crap. I was wrong; this day could and did get worse.