I queue with some other guests at the wardrobe. Nothing can be brought upstairs. Phones, bags, jackets… everything has to be checked in.

I’ve just dropped my clutch when I find myself face to face—more face to chin—with my nemesis: Aurora Vanderbilt.

Aurora’s lips part in an evil smirk as she says, “Blair, good to see you. I didn’t know amateurs were invited.”

We haven’t seen each other since she stole my promotion, so my reply is pure vitriol. “You mean you thought it was a party reserved for toddlers still attached to their mother’s skirts?”

As if on cue, Rebecca Vanderbilt appears at her daughter’s side. “Who’s your friend, dear?” she asks.

Aurora gives me a look of death. “No one,” she says, steering her mother away.

Blood pulsing, I let them go and wait at a distance for the next elevator. Aurora being here isn’t the only reason I’m edgy. Richard is waiting for me upstairs. In the last hour, I’ve met and spoken to a good chunk of the sexiest men alive top-ten chart, but no one gave me goose bumps the way only thinking about Richard does.

If my Belle-goes-to-the-ball dreamy filters weren’t set high enough already, the event being hosted at Disney Hall’s rooftop garden doesn’t help. Talk about enchanting venues. Up here, it’s all blooming trees and winding pathways around a magical rose fountain, all enclosed by sweeping metallic walls. As romantic settings go, it doesn’t get any more suggestive than this space.

I step out of the elevator and walk into this wonderland of fairy lights and whimsical alleys accompanied by Disney-esque classical music playing in the background. To ease the anxiety gnawing at my stomach, I grab a few canapés and wash them down with champagne.

“There you are.”

Richard’s voice makes me jump so high that if my glass were still full, I would’ve splashed us both with bubbly.

“Richard.” I turn, steadying myself.

In the semi-darkness, his sharp features appear even more attractive, aided by flickering shadows and contrast. Maybe it’s just the tux. That must be it. You can so judge a book by its cover. I’m judging right now. More than judging, I’m thinking of ripping the cover off the book entirely.

“Did you have a good time downstairs?”

“Yeah, wonderful. I collected loads of material.” I smile tensely. “Don’t worry, I’ll be able to put together a few amazing editorials.”

“I’m not worried. I’ve complete confidence in your work.”

Someone bumps into him from behind, and Richard stumbles forward, landing with both hands on my bare collarbones. Whoa! I’m being electrocuted. Tingling electric currents spread from my shoulders down my arms and up my neck to my brain where the last few surviving cells are being short-circuited for good.

Richard steadies himself but doesn’t pull away immediately. We stand there, under a tree blossoming with ridiculously pretty red flowers, staring into each other’s eyes. Finally, Richard frowns and takes a step back. Neither of us speaks, and the silence becomes awkward quickly. A server breaks it by offering us a tray of hors d’oeuvre. Richard declines, but I take one and stuff my mouth full before I say something stupid.