The Terrible Personal Shopper (Surprised by Love Book 1) Read online

  And I haven’t had so much as a cold since 1999.

  Yep, I have a lot to be thankful for. And I should be happy.

  So why do I have this constant ache in my stomach that no amount of tequila or comfort food can dull?

  I’m sitting across from Harry Jackson, my executive producer, at our private table in Perrier Francé’s. I swirl my drink in its crystal cut glass. Warm, ambient lights sparkle in the liquid. Maybe my next sip will ease the suffering.

  Harry clears his throat, sets his drink down, and studies me with a set of piercing eyes. “You okay, big guy? You’re looking rather glum.”

  Normal guys wave a hand with a sigh and brush the question off with a shrug. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Heaven forbid a male share his true feelings and say he’s not fine.

  But me? Call me The Oversharer.

  I’m more than happy to lay it all out on the table and let people take me as I am.

  “I don’t know, man. I should be on top of the world with all the success. But lately, I’ve just been feeling like I’m missing something in my life.”

  “Something? Or someone?” Harry raises a thick brow.

  I smirk. “I’ve got my fair share of female attention. I’m sure it’s not that.”

  I’m shocked the kind of beautiful women I meet want anything to do with a man like me. I’m so tall, I have to duck under doorways. And I’m built like a house, too.

  Growing up, other guys found characters like Rocky relatable.

  Not me.

  I’ve always felt more connected to the Beast from that movie, Beauty and the Beast.

  Since my teenage years, I’ve had a strict workout regime at the gym. These days, I can bench press 300 pounds on a good day.

  I could probably take on Tyson, easy. And the media likes to believe I’m best pals with people like Dwayne Johnson and Jason Momoa. As if being big and strong gets you into an exclusive club where all of us, beasts, know each other.

  Harry chuckles.

  He’s got a more classic look to him. With his slender build, he looks right at home in a suit. Plus, he’s got the British accent ladies love so much. The inside joke all his friends know is that he’s from Idaho and he picked up the accent from his wife.

  “I don’t mean female attention,” he says, taking a swig of his drink. “I mean a partner to share your life with.”

  I rub my stubbled chin with a deep, rumbling hum as I consider it.

  We’re just about to leave for a three-week press tour across the world. Up until now, I’ve always considered myself a lone wolf. I stand strong and confident on my own two feet with no one on my arm. The only exceptions are an actress looking to raise her profile or a fan getting a selfie.

  But do I long for a woman in my life...?

  I guess she’d have to be pretty special.

  Someone who can make me laugh and join me on adventures.

  Someone who will come on press tours, travel to exotic locations, explore jungles, swim with sharks, and walk the streets of Cologne with me.

  She’d have to be someone who can talk to me about the meaning of life. Someone with a deep love of family and a desire to raise one of her own.

  Does a woman like that even exist?

  Harry seems to be following my train of thought. He pulls out a card from his jacket pocket and hands it over like it’s Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.

  “You need a matchmaker,” he says.

  Before I can remember to be polite about it, my face twists with repulsion and I shake my head with a growl. “No thanks. I can find my own woman.”

  Harry’s expression sours but he recovers himself fast. I wonder if I imagined the look of displeasure that just crossed his face. “I would never have met Julie if it wasn’t for Emily Marks. She’s got a knack for this kind of thing.”

  I lean against the back of my chair and cross my bulky arms across my chest.

  I know all about the formidable Emily Marks.

  She’s either loved or hated. There’s no in-between. But she and her husband David are the ultimate power couple.

  Her matchmaking business is booming. Harry met Julie, a dressmaker, through Emily, and the two of them have been together ever since. Julie Jackson is a world class fashion designer now. The two of them have their own island where they’re raising a couple of kids.

  Harry holds up his phone to me and starts swiping through endless pics of family photos and vacations with his picture-perfect family.

  “I’m telling you, Blaze, the thing you’re missing is a family, and Emily is the best in the business.”

  I hold up my palm. “Maybe. But no, thank you. I don’t need any help in the love department.”

  Harry reluctantly places the card back in his pocket with a shrug. “Prove it.”

  Now it’s my turn to chuckle. “Prove what?”

  “We’re going on a press tour. London, Tokyo, Paris, and LA. If you’re not in a serious relationship by the time you’re home, I’m calling Emily.”

  I lean forward. “You know how these tours go. We barely get any time to sleep, let alone meet the locals. How am I supposed to do that?”

  Harry gives me a look to say exactly but he doesn’t actually say the word.

  Now I know what he means. How can I find a woman to date, when I’m constantly on the road or working on location?

  But a competitive guy like me can’t pass up a challenge.

  I force a grin. “Fine.”

  We shake on it and Harry’s face lights up. Then my phone vibrates.

  I take the call as Harry finishes his drink.

  It’s my doorman.

  “Sir, there’s a woman here who says you she has an appointment with you.” Muttering under my breath, I down the last of my drink and slam a couple of Benjamin Franklins on the table. “Tell her I’ll be right there.” I end the call and look at Harry as I slide my chair back. “Sorry man, I’ve gotta go. I’m late.”

  Harry smirks. “You always are.”

  Chapter 3

  Leila

  I try not to fidget as I perch on the edge of a black leather couch in the empty lobby. The clock above the reception counter seems to be moving in slow motion. Why does time stand still in these situations?

  Josie only gave me an address and a name: Hopkins.

  I don’t know if I’m meeting a wealthy aristocrat, or a spoiled New York housewife.

  I just repeat my instructions like a chant under my breath. “Get in. Take measurements. Ask what they like. Get out.”

  I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress, wishing I didn’t have to change out of my black pants and shirt. I’d have been able to blend in with the couch right now.

  My red A-line dress is sticking out like a sore thumb.

  I remember Chessy telling me red communicates confidence and wealth. According to her, red makes me look like I’ve done this a million times before and I’m successful at what I do.

  But I can’t help hearing that little voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Lucy, reminding me of all the little ways I could mess this up.

  First of all, I’m wearing high heels. That alone ups my chances of falling over by five thousand percent.

  Secondly, I’m covered in this nervous sweat like I’ve been running laps around a football field in ninety-degree heat. Red shows sweat patches, right? I make a mental note to keep my arms clamped to my sides.

  I swallow hard, shut my eyes, and focus on the ice cold breeze blasting from an AC vent above my head.

  Relax, Leila. You’ve got this.

  “Hi there. Leila Scott, right? Sorry I’m late...”

  With a jolt, I open my eyes and blink up at the beast of a man towering over me.

  My eyes scan up past a pair of stocky legs planted firmly on the shiny marble floor, big, veiny hands on narrow hips, a broad chest, bulging arms, and a strong jaw. I finally arrive at hazel pupils flecked with yellow. His face, complete with a chin dimple, looks like it was chiseled by Michelangel
o. A mop of dark, shaggy hair frames his face.

  He gives me a lop-sided smile and a flash of pearly whites almost blinds me.

  Almost.

  I rise to my feet but my knees shake and I grip the couch to stop myself from falling over with shock.

  Blaze Hopkins.

  The sexiest man on the planet. My Hollywood crush.

  Josie knows this. Is this a set up? Some practical joke?

  I’m going to kill her.

  “Are you…?” I begin to ask, but my mouth goes so dry I can’t finish the question.

  Blaze takes a step forward and reaches out to shake my hand, but mine is now stuck to the leather of the couch. How long am I going to be glued to it? Probably forever.

  I swallow again to recover the moisture in my mouth.

  “I’m Blaze. You must be the personal shopper,” he says. His voice is like a growl, and his hand is still hovering in the space between us. I open and close my mouth several times and eye his hand like it’s the forbidden fruit. I want to jump and yell “Yabba-dabba-doo!” while running around the lobby.

  I peel myself from the couch instead and settle for just taking his hand.

  He shakes my hand with a beaming smile. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, come on up.” Blaze leads me to an elevator and I follow with a nervous giggle, wondering where my voice has gone.

  It’s just the two of us in the elevator and we stand in silence, listening to the cheesy music as it takes us up to his penthouse suite. I shoot him a shy sideways glance. His shoulders are squared and he’s holding his hands out in front of him. I want to ask him a million questions, but at the same time I can’t seem to think of any.

  I’m sure when I get home, they’ll come rushing back, and I’ll kick myself for being such an idiot. Chessy would totally get it, though. She’d swoon and sigh and start playing with her hair.

  Lucy would be completely unfazed. Her only questions would be if Blaze is a Tolkien fan and where the nearest restroom is.

  The elevator rocks and my stomach jiggles like Jell-O. I can’t decide whether to strike up a friendly conversation or keep silent as I give Blaze a sideways glance. He’s the personification of calm. Apparently, he’s totally comfortable listening to cheesy elevator music. I keep a smile fixed and stare at my reflection in the steel doors.

  Then the elevator stops with a ping and the doors roll back. We walk out into a beautiful studio apartment with sparkling floors, shimmering chandeliers, and a stretch of glass across the length of one wall. The whole of New York City is on show. It’s all too perfect. Half of me expects the walls will topple and I’ll find myself onstage in front of a crowd of two thousand spectators. Then some gameshow host will peel the Blaze face mask off and shout, “You’ve been pranked!”

  “Can I get you a drink...?” Blaze asks, walking in with a swagger. The mental picture dissolves and I wander over to the counter. My lips are so dry they’ll end up with deeper cracks than the Grand Canyon if I don’t hydrate.

  There’s a glass on the counter. Without a word, I pick up the glass and - before my brain can register Blaze’s look of horror - knock back the drink like it’s my last.

  My face twists as the taste of bitter pine explodes in my mouth. I cough into my fist. “Whoa, how long has that water been sitting there?”

  Blaze rubs the back of his neck with a chortle, and the bottom of his shirt lifts just enough for me to get a glimpse of one beautifully defined ab.

  My mouth is even drier.

  “You weren’t supposed to drink that.” It’s either the horrible liquid I just downed or his rumbling laugh doing something funny to my insides. “It’s mine. You’ve never tried straight gin?” he asks.

  I open and close my mouth in shock as he pulls out a jug of water from the fridge and fills a new glass for me. When he offers me a fresh glass, I snatch it and take greedy gulps, trying to suppress a groan at the mortifying revelation. I drank Blaze Hopkins’ drink.

  Oh, my goodness. Ground, please open up and swallow me whole.

  To my total disappointment, the polished floors stay firmly intact and I’m forced to stand under Blaze’s amused stare.

  “No, I’m not much of a drinker. Just soda is enough to make me jittery.” I place the empty glass on the counter and straighten out my dress in a haphazard way. The alcohol has gone straight to my head.

  Of course it has. It’s evening and all I’ve eaten today is a bite of a fudge square in Elle’s Bakery, and even that feels like a lifetime ago.

  I’ve got to get out of here fast. But I have to make sure I don’t let Josie down. I came to help her out and I’m not leaving until I’ve done my job. Besides, I’ve got three hundred dollars and my dignity riding on this.

  Blaze blinks slowly. There’s a Cheshire cat grin permanently fixed on his gorgeous face as he swirls the drink in his hand. The hairs on my arms stand on end despite the perspiration collecting on my temples. Am I getting sick? Was it really gin I just drank, or was it rat poison?

  Oh no. The Lucy side of my mind is on high alert now. Random worst case scenario projections start racing through my mind at the speed of a train heading for a collision. For some reason, all of them end in me leaving here in a body bag.

  Calm down, Leila. Take a deep breath.

  As Blaze sips his drink, apparently enjoying my silent freak out moment, I inhale through my nose and breathe out through my mouth.

  Come on, Leila. You’ve got this, the Chessy in my head barks at me.

  I picture my two sisters like little people sitting on each of my shoulders. Lucy is dressed in black leggings and a Lord of the Rings T-Shirt. Her hair is in a messy bun atop her head. Chessy is dressed as a cheerleader.

  Accidentally consuming an alcoholic beverage that has been out for an unknown period of time presents some worrying concerns.

  Did Blaze take a sip already? Are there Blaze germs in my mouth right now, wreaking havoc in my body?

  But Chessy the cheerleader swoons. “Ooh, imagine that, Leila. This will be a hilarious story for the grandkids.”

  No. No, it would not. And that’s assuming I live long enough to have grandkids. For all I know, I’m going to collapse from a gin overdose and never wake up again.

  A cough snaps me out of the crazy back and forth in my head and I shake myself, allowing the imaginary sisters on my shoulders to disappear.

  Blaze’s chocolate brown eyes take up primary focus in my line of sight. My eyes follow as he gestures to the seating area across the room.

  “Right. Shall we get started?” I ask, taking the cue. We sit and I pull out a notebook and pen from my purse, clicking the pen with so much energy, it prompts Blaze to quirk an eyebrow. Like a gentleman, he doesn’t comment.

  I guess he’s used to women acting strange around him. He is Blaze Hopkins after all. The hottest actor in Hollywood right now. He’s been in everything: Mountain Man, Space Wars, Planet of the Beasts. Not to mention that dreamy rom-com, 10 Things I’d Like to Do with You.

  Just thinking about it my insides turn to goo and I can’t stop myself from grinning.

  “Sorry, ah. Where were we?” I click the pen one more time and stare at the blank lined paper on my knee. Maybe if I focus on this boring notebook for long enough, I’ll forget about the Hollywood hunk sitting across from me.

  But dang it. Sight is merely one sense. Not looking at him only sharpens my other senses. Now I’m in tune with his heavy breathing. He has a presence about him too: like the air is charged and everything tingles.

  Not to mention his expensive-smelling cologne.

  How do I know it’s expensive? It doesn’t have that heavy, musky smell that comes with a grocery store cologne. This one has warm notes of spice and sandalwood. If I close my eyes and just take in the scent, I’m sure it’ll conjure up images of this man shirtless on a ranch. His tanned, glistening muscles on show, and an axe above his head as he throws it back, then sweeps it down to split a mighty log in two like it’s a slab of butter.<
br />
  Uh oh. I’m getting lost in my head again. Get a grip, Leila!

  I open my eyes, force away my smile, and blink at the lined paper again.

  “So, you like clothes?” I ask the paper, trying to keep my voice steady.

  I glance up when I hear a chuckle and I catch a glimpse of Blaze’s broad shoulders shaking before I stare down at my notebook again. “Yes,” Blaze says. “They’re very useful. Without them, I would be arrested every time I go out.”

  There’s a beat of silence, and I chew the inside of my cheek, thinking of a way to make this conversation less awkward.

  Asking better questions will help, my inner Chessy jibes, and for once, my inner Lucy agrees.

  Do you like clothes? Really? What about asking him what events he needs to attend?

  “Good idea,” I mutter.

  “What?” Blaze asks. I look up at him again and brush the question away with the wave of a hand. “Nothing, I was just having a silent conversation with myself. Do you ever do that?”

  Blaze squints at me as though he’s trying to figure me out. Then he leans forward, laces his fingers together and rests his forearms on his knees. “I guess I do.”

  “Right. Well. What events have you got coming up? I’m guessing that’s what you want a personal shopper for?”

  “I guess so…”

  Blaze leans back with a sigh, and it takes all of my resolve to keep eye contact and not take the opportunity to check him out. He looks out the window at the cityscape, and his expression becomes thoughtful. “My manager made the recommendation. We’re going on a press tour to promote my new movie…”

  “Demolition Beast, I know,” I blurt. Blaze looks at me again, and now his smile is warm like the sunset. “Yes. So, I need to have some outfits to wear for these appearances, and I’m terrible at picking out clothes. If it were up to me, I’d lounge around in a pair of basketball shorts all day.”

  It’s only when he finishes his sentence that I realize I’m staring at his lips and sucking on my pen with my eyes half closed.

  I lower the pen, shut my mouth, and sit up. “So, I’m going to go out on a whim and say you like to be comfortable. You’re looking for clothes that are… roomy. Not tight and too fitted.”