Chapter 6

Iwas working on finalizing menus when Dash arrived. He strode into my office wearing another expensive charcoal suit and a light blue button-down underneath. His hair was swept away from his handsome face, neatly styled, and his jaw was once again shaven smooth.

My door had been open, but usually, people at least paused until I looked up before they came in. Or they knocked to get my attention. Dash didn't do either of those things. He walked in like he owned the place, his honey-colored eyes focused on the view behind my desk.

"Let's make this quick," he said, his tone clipped. "I need to get back to work."

I'd been so absorbed in my own work that I had to blink a few times in order to yank myself out of the zone. "Hello to you too."

Instead of responding politely, he rolled his eyes and took a seat across from my desk—without being invited to do so—and slid open the buttons on his jacket. His eyes finally came to mine. "What are our options for food?"

Oh, boy. Today is not going to go well.I could already tell that it was going to be another ‘whatever-you-can-do, I-can-do-better' kind of conversation, but I tried to remain upbeat. Earlier today, while I'd been preparing myself for this meeting, I'd decided to take his attitude as a compliment.

If it was a matter of him thinking he could do everything better, then it meant I was doing well enough to threaten him. To make him think like that.

Holding his gaze intently, I pushed the various menu options across the desk. "Those are examples of our most popular menus. We can mix and match with any of the items available on any of the menus, and of course, if there's something in particular that you'd like, our chef will be happy to sit down with you."

Without even glancing at the menus, he narrowed his eyes on mine. "Any chef worth his salt would've worked out a menu, perhaps two, of dishes that complement one another."

I didn't back down. "My chef is excellent. He's classically trained, and if you want an eight or nine course sit-down dinner with dishes selected by him that complement one another, then we can do that for you. I can get him up here right now."

"If that's the case, why isn't he already here?"

"Because most people like to look at the menus first. And your mother specifically told Julie that she didn't want dinner to be an overly formal, uptight affair. If you're telling me she's changed her mind, I'll give the chef a quick call."

"She hasn't changed her mind, but this isn't a backyard hootenanny. Food is an important part of every wedding. You should know that, given your position. It's the cornerstone of the reception."

"Sure, but?—"

"No," he said firmly, pushing the menus back across to me. "I don't need examples of your most popular menus. Clearly, the clientele you're used to serving are happy with whatever items they feel like smacking together into one meal, but that won't work for us."

I drew in a deep breath, trying my best not to let his mood drag me down. "Alright. I'll print lists of all the different meat options we've got. Why don't we start there? If food is the cornerstone, then the meat is the star. We'll choose everything else based on that."

"Have you got any culinary training?" he asked with a haughty tilt of his head. "You and I should not be selecting what goes with what unless you are, in fact, trained to do so. I'm not."

"Are you going to pick apart everything I say, or are we trying to get somewhere with the planning today?"

He leveled me with a serious gaze. "If you're taking any of this as a personal attack rather than me trying to get somewhere with the planning, then I'm going to ask you to send in somebody who knows what they're doing."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Excellent." He leaned forward a little. "Can we please get started then?"

Holy hell. What is his deal? Who pissed in his Lucky Charms this morning?

Getting my hackles up, I shook my head at him. "I could be spending my time with other clients who are high maintenance but not blatantly rude. I agreed to handle the planning of this wedding myself, but if this is how it's going to be, then perhaps I was misguided. I don't have time for pissing contests."

Staring back at me, he slowly arched an eyebrow as a smirk appeared at the corners of his lips. "You know who my mother is. Are you sure you want to blow me off like that? Because if so, go ahead. I'd be happy to plan this whole damn thing myself. The reason you're involved at all is because my mother wants you to be, not because you're somehow misguided."

Ouch.

I wished he was wrong, but he wasn't. As much as I'd have liked to tell him to go suck a lemon, I wouldn't let anyone else handle this wedding on my behalf and I sure as hell wouldn't let him plan it all by himself.

Knowing I'd inadvertently backed myself into a corner, I swallowed my pride. "No, I don't want to blow you off, but I also won't let you walk all over me. You're here as the son of a client and that's all. Now let's do this."

"That's what I'm trying to do," he said evenly. "I've spoken to their personal chef as well as to my chef, and they've suggested classic cuisine. They both know my mother doesn't want it to be too uptight. What they've recommended is prime beef rib-eye on the bone, rack of lamb, salmon, and roast chicken as the meats."

I made a note of what he'd said and pushed the menus back to him. "You'll see that all of those are included, so just take a look, would you?"

Eyes on mine, he placed the tips of his fingers on the papers and pulled them closer. Then he glanced down and snorted almost immediately. "These sides are too pedestrian. Creamed spinach? Roast potatoes? Those are great for a Sunday lunch with your family but certainly not for a wedding like this."

I sighed. "You just said your chefs recommend classic cuisine. Both of those things are as classic as it gets, and it's not like they're slopped onto your plate like they used to be at your grandmother's house."

His brow furrowed. "At my grandmother's house, nothing was ever slopped onto a plate, but those options are still unacceptable. What else have you got?"

"That's it," I said. "I'm printing out all our options."

Turning to my computer, I clicked on a few folders, focusing on weddings where the chef had prepared formal courses, and printed out page after page of just about every side he'd ever made. Dash seemed mostly unimpressed, but he must've found a few things that would be acceptable because he made neat, tiny crosses next to a few items and handed the papers back to me.

While he was busy with that, I took another look at the options for canapes, appetizers, and desserts, and then I realized we were going to be here a while. After what felt like hours—and several calls to his chef—we finally decided on a menu that he was happy with and moved on.

"Okay," I said, relieved that at least that was done. "Next on the agenda, we need to go over all the options we have for other areas. We'll need to decide on a color-scheme, lighting, mus?—"

"You're the star," he said, interrupting me. "I'm sure you can handle all that."

Taken aback, I shook my head at him. "You're right. I am, but this is about your mother, not me. How about we think about what she might want."

For the first time since I'd met him, it seemed I'd said something that hit home for him. He took the papers I'd offered, but we stared at each other for a few charged seconds before he finally nodded. "All I know for sure is that she doesn't want any white flowers. Not one. She seemed to like the idea you had about the yellow, but let me take all this to her and I'll get back to you about specifics."

"Do it, but two months is a short time to plan such a grand wedding. Make sure you get back to me sooner rather than later."

As he looked defiantly back at me, sexual tension sparked between us. It had been there since he'd walked in, but it was practically buzzing in the air now, charging it so intensely that my nipples peaked under my bra. Thank God, it's padded.

"Let me show you some swatches of fabric we've got," I said abruptly. "That way, you'll be able to guide her on the colors as they are and not as they're described."

He nodded, pushing to his feet without saying anything, and we walked to the conference table where I'd laid out the swatches while I'd been preparing for the meeting. I'd been hoping this would distract me, but it turned out to have the complete opposite effect.

Instead of being across the desk, he was now right next to me. As we looked over the different fabrics, we kept accidentally brushing against each other. Our sudden close proximity did not do me any favors, and despite him being so incredibly rude, I found myself wondering what my hands would feel like on his chest.

By the time he left, hardly even saying goodbye, my body felt like it was on high alert and my nerves were tightly strung.

Julie strode into my office once he was gone, smiling as she sat down. "How did it go? Was he any better today?"

"No," I said immediately, glad to have the opportunity to vent. "He's insufferable. I swear, he's the rudest, most inconsiderate, snobbiest snob of all the snobs. He's mean, and dismissive, and he clearly doesn't think I can do my job."

"Are you sure it's not just the boy thing?" she asked after thinking it over for a minute.

I frowned. "What boy thing?"

"You know. That thing they do on the playground when they like someone," she said. "The ponytail tugging and being annoying. I'd have thought we were too old for that, but it sounds like he's doing the grownup version of the same thing."

"Don't be ridiculous." I scoffed, but deep down inside, I had to wonder if she was onto something.

The chemistry in the air had been palpable earlier, and sure, I could've been imagining that it was mutual, but maybe I hadn't been. Maybe he was as attracted to me as I was to him. Maybe he couldn't deny it either.

Ahh, shit. Is Julie right? Is it possible there really is something there?