Page 3 of The Romance Adventure

And there I thought this was going to be one of those movie moments when he’d tenderly wipe the smoothie off my cheek and we’d gaze longingly into each other’s eyes before moving closer and... Instead, I dab it, continuing to apologize profusely.

“Still there,” he says, pointing.

I pat the spot. “It’s not strawberry shortcake smoothie, it’s paint.” I’m about to explain how I did the mural here and at Gina’s shop when he scans the three of us women, probably decides we’re far more chaos than we’re worth, and strides out of the Smoothery.

“Wait. I owe you a shirt. What’s your name? Your number?” But the door closes behind the guy’s back.

And I feel anything but smooth.

Royal

CHAPTER 2

After leaving the smoothie shop, I stop in an upscale clothing store to buy a replacement for the T-shirt that Strawberry Shortcake ruined. She was cute, petite, and after her not-so-smooth move, covered in strawberry juice.

Me too.

The retail clerk’s lips pucker and his eyes widen, as if I’m a vagabond off the street who needs to wear a bib. He says, “Sir, we don’t allow food or beverages in the store.”

Having already drank my coffee and eaten my blueberry muffin, I hold up my hands and say, “I don’t have food or beverages.”

He looks pointedly at my shirt.

My eldest brother would put my ego in check, but he’s not here, so I gesture to the display of casual linens, cottons, and resort-style clothing. “I’ll take one of each in a large. My tailor can make any necessary alterations.”

The clerk swallows thickly at my command. Then, as if just to be sure that I’m not a hobo who got sick all over himself, he asks, “And how will you be paying?”

“Amex. The Black Card.” I draw it from my wallet just to drive home the point. I don’t flaunt my wealth, but I’m not going to have some kid in a men’s clothing boutique question whether I belong in his store. I’ve worked too hard to be made to feel small.

He scuttles around, gathering the requested garments.

Standing tall, I wait by the register. When he folds everything neatly, I take one of the shirts, tear off the tag, and dispose of the one covered in the smoothie.

“Do I dare ask what happened?” the kid behind the counter asks.

Strawberry Shortcake barges into my mind with her long brown hair streaked blonde by the sun, striking blue eyes, a permanent tan, and a megawatt smile.

She wasn’t so much a klutz, more like an absolute menace. Flirting with her tempted me, but I’m leaving tonight, so there’s no point.

Not that there ever is.

My twin, Ryan, would’ve laughed it off, gotten her number, and would be smooth-talking her by sunset.

“You have some dangerous people in your town,” I say, answering the clerk’s question about my shirt.

“I take it you’re not from around here.”

“Based in New York. Traveling for business.” My office is in lower Manhattan. Wall Street adjacent. And that’s where the big bucks are these days. They say the city is saturated, but there are still a few diamonds in the rough, and I’m polishing them to a shine.

He bags up the clothing and I send my assistant a message to have the items delivered to my hotel room. I won’t be parading down the street, laden with bags like a tourist. Flicking my card at the kid, I tell him someone will be by to collect my purchases.

I don’t know how Angela does it and I don’t care, except that it gets done. The woman is a saint disguised as a middle-aged executive assistant with a sharp eye and the kind of efficiency my rivals dream about.

Yeah, I know I’m surly and I don’t care about that either. My methods don’t matter so much as the results, and they speak for themselves.

Clean shirt on, I march out of the clothing store and my phone beeps with a message. Angela confirms my requests and then asks me to call when I’m available.

This means one of two things. One, she’s requesting time off—not happening. This is a busy time of year with multiple accounts, litigation, and a lead that I can’t pass up. I require her help with the legwork.