Chapter 1

chapter

one

Cooper

This moment will live rent-free in my head forever.

My dream girl shuffles across the room in gold sequined hot pants, comically trying to balance a stack of boxes while wearing six-inch heels she has no business wearing.

One day, our grandchildren will ask how our story began and…well, I don't know her name yet.

I don't know her occupation, how old she is, or her favorite movie or color. I don't know what her type of guy is, or whether she even wants children in the first place.

But if she does, one day, those kids and grandkids will ask about us, and I'll say this: she was lost in the wrong place at the right time. I took one look at her big eyes and her crazy outfit, and I just knew.

Or maybe I'll let her tell her version of the story. I do tend to talk too much.

"I don't know how I let you talk me into these things."

Carter is at it again, whining about having to leave the house. Poor baby.

I don't know how he expected Gold Hill Investments to see any growth if we don't put ourselves out there and make new contacts.

Carter's salty because he has no social skills.

What he doesn't realize while he's bitching and moaning is that the woman I'm going to marry has just struck me dumb.

Her ridiculous outfit—gold hot pants over black tights, and a matching gold bustier under a long black blazer—looks like she's trying to hide her curves. She may be unintentionally accenting every delicious, fleshy bit of her, which I find insanely sexy.

Her outfit more or less matches that of her much more boisterous sister, who's barreling through the crowd with an ice chest.

They'll figure out soon enough they went to the wrong convention.

My chest tightens. I have to make contact before those women realize their mistake and leave, potentially shredding my whole future.

"Summer!"my dream girl shrieks as the woman ahead of her stops short.

I lunge forward.

"Here, let me help you." Before the one in the blazer can reply, I snatch the bags and boxes from her arms.

"That's not necessary," she says, looking surprised and mystified that a stranger would step in to help.

I completely abandon Carter to help the women with their things.

"So, where are you ladies from?" I ask, focusing on the one in the blazer and tights with golden eyes I could lose myself in.

"No time for small talk," the one called Summer declares as we wind our way through the crowd. She's babbling something about cocktail hour, but I'm waiting for the one in the blazer to say more.

"Table ten, there it is!" Summer shouts.

"So, you're not lost?"

My dream girl looks at me askance.

"No," she says, snatching back the bags I carry in my hands, then ignores me as she confers with her partner.

I watch them set up their booth like they're trying to beat the clock.

What the heck is going on here?

Are they exhibiting, or serving drinks?

I wait and watch, and then I notice many other people are watching and waiting too.

A crowd of overgrown man-boys gathers, keenly interested in the two pairs of gold hot pants bent over a giant ice chest.

I don't like this vibe. I don't like this at all.

I move around the table, trying to simultaneously block the view of the overheated pervs while helping the ladies unpack and set up whatever it is they're setting up.

I feel like a buffalo on roller skates around these two as they shout out directions and move around me.

I'll do whatever I can to discourage those idiots from ogling them.

"Put me to work, ladies."

The loud one gestures toward a box, suggesting I start opening packages of spoons and cups.

The ladies fill the cups faster than I can unpack them, and soon I'm given the new task of handling the merch. Basically, the bonehead job.

I'm so glad I paid for a degree in marketing so I can fan out brochures and stickers. But I do a good job, and I hope this earns me a sample of whatever that delicious, booze-scented ice cream is they're serving.

When I finish that task, I stand watch—part bodyguard, part hypnotized dumb-dumb. The girls sweep around me, generally putting up with my presence until they complete their set-up.

Before long, I hear, "Take some free dessert or don't, but if you keep staring at me like that I'm going to call upon my black belt skills."

"Huh?"

My five-foot-two dream girl looks up at me with an expression reminding me of a teacher scolding me. The sexy teacher vibe does nothing to diminish the growing stiffy inside my trousers. In fact, she's making it worse by being annoyed with me.

I beam down at her scowling face.

"Well?"

My dream girl holds out a cup filled with something decadent and sweet looking, accompanied by a little red spoon.

It's all over for me. She may as well be proposing marriage to me, using whatever is in that cup.

"Uh, thanks," I mutter, taking the cup from her and trying to stay cool.

I taste it as I stare at her, while Summer hobbles.

Cutting my eyes to the other one, I ask if she's alright.

"Fine," Summer says, plastering on a smile. "I'll ice my ankle when I get home."

I turn my attention back to…shit, I still don't know her name, do I?

This is where my personality usually kicks in, and I say something funny or cute to put a person at ease.

But my future wife has turned everything upside down. Those deep, golden eyes and curious gaze have me begging for mercy.

"So…any feedback, or are you just going to stand there and stare at me like a serial killer mug shot?"

"Serial killer?"

She waves her hands around in a "wrap-it-up" gesture.

What the hell is wrong with me?

"Oh. Right. Feedback," I say. Finally recovering my brain cells, I answer, "This is the best tasting ice cream I've ever had."

Her shoulders sag. "It's frozen yogurt, not ice cream."

"What is this flavor? It's like sugar and custard…like a Boston creme but better!"

The woman explains. "It's golden rum-infused vanilla frozen yogurt, topped with creme br?lée donut pieces."

"It's fucking fantastic is what it is."

People tend to beam at me with a sense of pride when I give them a compliment.

This one squints at me suspiciously.

"Sorry for cussing?" I say, inflecting it as a question because this woman has me questioning my entire existence with that stare.

Can I skip this mess and simply follow her home like a stray dog? Please?

"I don't care about the cussing," she says. "You're very…enthusiastic."

Summer pipes up, "She can't handle compliments!"

"Zip it, you," my dream girl hisses.

Still don't know her name. I hate this. I've studied Franklin Covey and Dale Carnegie forward and backward, yet I have no idea how to act in this woman's presence.

"I'm serious," I say to her. "You've locked me down."

Her face gives no sign that she picked up on the real meaning behind what I said.

"Do you have a card?"

I produce a business card from the inside breast pocket of my suit, and hand it over.

She takes it in her latex-gloved hand and looks at it. "Gold Hill Investments…Cooper MacKenzie."

She eyes me, and I notice the tiny beauty freckle next to the outside of her left eye. My chest aches as I can only think about kissing that adorable spot.

"I'm Harmony."

Finally!

I smile. "Like the matchmaking site."

She frowns.

Okay, no jokes about her name. Got it.

"Nice to meet you, Harmony. Sign me up, I want in."

Harmony blinks at me, her tight face relaxing. "You do?"

She glances to her left, where her sister is fully involved in a conversation with none other than my brother, Carter, and his crooked necktie. Where did he come from?

"One hundred percent. Who's your distributor?" I ask.

Harmony's brow furrows. "Distributor?"

"Yeah. Where can I buy your ice cream? Kroger? Where?"

She bristles. "It's not ice cream, it's?—"

Shit, I'm fucking this all up. "Frozen yogurt. Got it. Where do I buy it?"

"We don't have a distributor. We're opening our own shop."

I try not to wince visibly. Their own brick-and-mortar store?

Think of the rent, I want to say. The upkeep! The overhead! This is a terrible idea.

I'm not the numbers guy, but I am a marketing guy, and I know for a fact that places like this are lucky if they don't close within a year. The health inspections for a single small business are a bigger hassle when dealing with a public store front. But if they contract with a factory with processes in place…so much simpler. The electricity bills alone…

All these thoughts scramble into meaninglessness when I look in her eyes and see her. Really see her.

Harmony's my girl. It's a foregone conclusion. I mean, she hasn't come to that conclusion yet…obviously.

I may not be her dream guy, but Harmony has a dream. I can see her vision of it in the intensity of her gaze.

So now, I have a job to do. She will have a brick-and-mortar shop if it bankrupts all four of us.