Aria Lane was late.
Not fashionably late. Not "oops, I overslept" late. She was full-blown, career-threatening, worth-writing-an-apology-email late. And of course, on the one day she had to present her campaign pitch to the company's biggest client, the universe had conspired against her.
She bolted into the glass lobby of Cole & Crane Advertising, her heels clicking furiously against the marble floor. The air smelled of fresh coffee, printer ink, and ambition—the official perfume of every overworked executive in New York.
"Good morning, Aria," chirped Gwen, the receptionist, with a smile that was a little too knowing.
"Don't start," Aria huffed, flipping her long chestnut hair over one shoulder. "Is the client here yet?"
"Upstairs in Conference Room B."
Of course. The one with the worst lighting for PowerPoint.
Aria charged toward the elevator, her latte clutched tightly in one hand and laptop bag slung over her shoulder. She hit the button and waited, bouncing on her toes, muttering a silent prayer to the gods of corporate mercy.
And then—he appeared.
Ethan Cole.
Tall, annoyingly handsome, with messy dark hair that looked like he styled it by running his fingers through it and a loosened tie that probably cost more than her rent. He sauntered toward the elevator, coffee in hand, the picture of smug, effortless charm.
"Lane," he greeted with a smirk. "Oversleep again?"
Aria narrowed her eyes. "Cole."
They'd been at each other's throats since the day he transferred into the New York office six months ago. While Aria prided herself on her meticulous, everything-color-coded work style, Ethan was a reckless creative genius with a talent for winging it and somehow always landing on his feet.
And now, rumor had it, their boss had paired them for the Sutton Hotel account pitch.
Aria's personal hell.
"I see you're trying the 'frazzled chic' look today," Ethan quipped, eyeing her wind-blown hair and the coffee stain on her blouse.
She gritted her teeth. "Better than 'lazy trust fund playboy,' as always."
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open. Aria stepped inside, deliberately hitting the "Close Door" button. Ethan slid his arm through the gap with infuriating ease.
"Trying to ditch me already?" he teased.
"I wouldn't dream of it. I'm saving that for after we win this pitch."
The ride up to the tenth floor was silent, save for the hum of fluorescent lights and the quiet clinking of ice in Ethan's cup.
Then, disaster struck.
As the elevator jolted to a sudden halt, Aria's latte leapt from her hand, the lid popping off mid-air. Time slowed. She watched, horrified, as the caramel-colored liquid splashed directly onto Ethan's crisp white shirt.
There was a long, terrible pause.
"Well," Ethan said, eyeing the spreading stain on his chest. "Guess you really wanted to make your mark."
Aria clamped a hand over her mouth, both mortified and slightly thrilled. "Oops."
"You owe me dry cleaning."
"You owe me five minutes of my life I'll never get back."
The elevator jolted again and resumed its ascent.
By the time the doors opened on the tenth floor, both of them were seething.
"Let's just get through this pitch," Aria snapped, striding toward the conference room.
"Oh, I plan to," Ethan called after her, a wicked grin on his face. "Better keep up, Lane."
As she pushed open the door to face the client, Aria promised herself one thing:
This was war.
And she was going to win....