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Standing in front of my closet, I frowned at the rows of clothes. What the hell do you wear to pick up a money manager? I settled on a dark forest green silk blouse, pairing it with a modest black pencil skirt. Professional, but with just enough edge to remind this Fury guy that he was entering my world.
I slipped on a pair of three-inch heels, checking my reflection in the full-length mirror. The outfit hugged my curves without being too provocative. Perfect for representing Club Privé.
The drive to JFK was a nightmare, as usual. Stuck in traffic, I pulled up Fury’s profile on my phone, curious about the man who’d thrown my day into chaos.
“Well, well,” I murmured, scrolling through his impressive resume. Stanford grad, co-founder of a successful marketing and investment firm, now expanding to New York. But how did he know Gavin?
By the time I reached the airport, I’d worked myself into a state of nervous irritation. I stood in the arrivals area, holding a sign with “F. Gracen” written in my neat script, feeling like a damn chauffeur.
And then I saw him. He looked even hotter than in his online picture.
Fury Gracen was, well, fury personified. Tall, with a build that screamed ‘I work out but I’m not a meathead about it.’ His bronze hair was artfully tousled, like he’d just rolled out of bed, yet looking like a model. But it was his eyes that caught me off guard – dark brown, intense, with a hint of something dangerous lurking beneath the surface.
I straightened my spine, plastering on my best professional smile as he approached. “Mr. Gracen? I’m Sienna Marquez from Club Privé. Welcome to New York.”
He looked me up and down, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t expect Gavin to send one of his entertainers to pick me up.”
And just like that, my irritation flared back to life. I kept my smile firmly in place, but I knew my eyes had gone frosty. “I’m the talent coordinator for Club Privé, Mr. Gracen. Not your ‘entertainer’.”
To his credit, Fury had the decency to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend?—”
“No offense taken,” I cut him off, my tone making it clear that offense had very much been taken. “Shall we get your bags?”
As we made our way to baggage claim, Fury tried to salvage the conversation. “So, talent coordinator? That sounds like an interesting job.”
“It has its moments,” I replied, my eyes scanning the carousel for his luggage. “What brings you to New York, Mr. Gracen? Besides the obvious allure of our charming traffic and overpriced real estate?”
He chuckled, a warm sound that I refused to find attractive. “Expanding our business, actually. Gavin mentioned he could use someone with my financial expertise.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Did he now? And what exactly does a high-flying investment guru know about running a club?”
“About as much as I know about coordinating talent, I’d imagine,” Fury shot back, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “But I’m a quick study.”
I bit back a smirk. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t completely insufferable. “You’re ready?”
“Lead the way, Ms. Marquez,” Fury said, grabbing a sleek black suitcase from the carousel. “I’m eager to find out what all the fuss is about.”
As we walked to the parking garage, I felt Fury’s eyes on me. It wasn’t the usual leering I was used to from men—this felt more... assessing. Like he was trying to figure me out.
“So,” he said as we reached my car, “how long have you worked for Gavin?”
I popped the trunk, gesturing for him to load his bag. “Five years. Started as a dancer, worked my way up.”
Fury nodded, looking impressed. “That’s quite a climb. Gavin must think highly of you.”
“Gavin knows talent when he sees it,” I replied, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Just like he seems to think you’re some kind of financial messiah.”
Fury laughed as he buckled up. “Hardly. But I do know my way around a balance sheet. And I’m always up for a new challenge.”
I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white as we inched forward in the gridlock. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, glaring at the sea of red brake lights stretching out before us.
Fury shifted in the passenger seat, his long legs cramped in the confines of my modest car. “I thought California had bad traffic, but this is something else.”
I snorted. “Welcome to New York, honey. Where dreams come to die in a traffic jam.”
He chuckled, and I felt a little surge of pride at making him laugh. Wait, what? No. Focus, Sienna.
“Any idea what’s causing this?” Fury asked, craning his neck to see ahead.
