href="#ubfe42ef0-f13f-5c82-b0f0-5ec6fd805f9e">Dedication
The click of high heels against the hardwood floors prompted Wesley Adams to look up from his magazine.
A mature, attractive blonde extended her hand, her coral lips pressed into a wide smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Adams. I’m Miranda Hopkins, executive director of Westbrook Charitable Foundation.”
“The pleasure is mine.” Wes stood and shook her hand. “But please, call me Wes.”
“Wes, I’m sorry to tell you Liam won’t be joining us for today’s meeting.” Miranda frowned. “One of the girls isn’t feeling well, so he stayed home with her.”
“No, I wasn’t aware.” Wes was surprised his best friend hadn’t called him. After all, Liam had hounded him for more than a month to fly in from London for this meeting in Pleasure Cove. The woman looked worried he’d bolt, so Wes forced a smile. “But I’m confident he left me in good hands.”
“You’ve managed some impressive events in the UK,” Miranda said in her heavy, Southern drawl as she guided him toward a carpeted hallway. “We’re so excited that you’re considering taking on our project.”
Wes nodded and thanked her, glad his friend had clearly gotten the point. He was here to assess the project and decide whether it was a good fit. Nothing was written in stone.
As they approached an open door of a glass-walled conference room, he heard the voices of two women. One of them was oddly familiar.
“Wes, this is our events manager, Lisa Chastain.” He reached out to shake Lisa’s hand. Then Miranda drew his attention to the other woman. “And this is Olympic champion and international beach-volleyball star Brianna Evans. Bree, this is Wesley—”
“Adams. We’ve met.” Her expression soured, as if she smelled a rotting corpse. It sure as hell wasn’t her glad-to-see-you-again-Wes face.
Bloody hell.
He hadn’t seen Bree since the night they met at that little club in London’s West End more than a year ago.
Liam, I’m going to strangle you.
He’d tell his friend what he thought of his matchmaking attempt later. For now, he’d play it cool. After all, he hadn’t done anything wrong. But Bree, whose lips were pursed as she stared at him through narrow slits, obviously disagreed.
Wes widened the smile he’d honed while attending boarding school with kids whose parents made more in a month than his parents made all year. He extended his hand to Bree, despite the look on her face that dared him to touch her.
Bree shoved a limp hand into his, then withdrew it quickly, as if her palm was on fire.
What did, or didn’t, happen between he and Bree was personal. This was business.
“I believe Miss Evans has a bone to pick with me.” Wes pulled out Brianna’s chair and gestured for her to have a seat.
She narrowed her gaze at him, then took her seat. As she turned toward the two women, who exchanged worried glances, Bree forced a laugh. “Wes predicted my alma mater wouldn’t make it back to the Sweet Sixteen, and he was right. I’m convinced he jinxed us.”
Nicely
