LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER ONE

      “WHO IS THAT?” Chelsea’s whisper was breathless.

      Bree Evans shot her young assistant an exasperated look. “You’ve got to stop it. We were asked at the briefing not to gawk at the celebrities. It’s part of our agreement to provide sample products and a display for this event. To be strictly professional. No staring. No autographs. No—”

      Chelsea, unaware, or uncaring, that she was jeopardizing Bree’s big break, was not paying the least bit of attention to her boss. Instead she was standing completely frozen, a neatly gift-wrapped box of Kookies for All Occasions’ Love Bites in her hand. Bree followed her gaze, looking toward the outside door that led into the foyer area of the concert hall, where they were setting up.

       Oh, no.

      “Who is that?” Chelsea whispered again.

      Oh, no. Had she said it out loud?

      He was everything Bree remembered, only more. She had not seen him, in person, anyway, for six years. Though it hardly seemed possible, in that time his presence had multiplied. He had lost any hint of boyish slenderness, and the gorgeous lines of his face had settled into maturity. His dark brown hair, which she remembered as untamed, touching his collar and sweeping across his forehead, was now cut short and neatly groomed, as befit his position.

      “It’s Brand Wallace,” Bree said carefully. She positioned herself with her back to the doorway he was coming through. Her heart was beating way too fast. Good grief. Her palms were sweating.

      “Like in Braveheart?” Chelsea gasped.

      “That was Mel Gibson,” Bree explained with what was left of her patience. “Gibson played the part of William Wallace—he wasn’t William Wallace.”

      Still, even though she didn’t want to, Bree understood why Brand would make her young assistant think of brave hearts. There was something about him, and always had been—a way of moving with supreme grace and confidence that suggested a warrior, a man who was certain in his own strength and courage and capabilities.

      Chelsea was still totally distracted. “I have never seen a more stunning example of the male of the species. Never.”

      Despite ordering herself not to, Bree slid another careful look at the doorway. She had to give Chelsea that. Brand Wallace was a stunning example of the male species!

      He’d stopped just inside the double glass doors, his head tilted toward Shelley Grove, organizer of the Stars Come Out at Night, a charity gala to help fund the construction of a new wing for Children’s Hospital.

      Shelley had her hand cozily on his arm and was beaming up at him. He was steel, and women were magnets drawn to him.

      Though the room was beginning to fill with well-known celebrities, many of whom were in Vancouver—“Hollywood North,” as it was sometimes called—filming television series and movies, he stood out from all of them.

      Even surrounded by some of the world’s most dazzling people, there was something about him that was electric. It sizzled in the air around him, sensual and compelling.

      He was in a sports jacket that, by the cut, hang and fit, was obviously designer. It showed the breadth of his shoulders, the power in him. White shirt—no doubt silk—and no tie. The shirt was tucked into dark jeans that clung to the hard lines of his thighs.

      He was as fit and muscular, as outdoorsy-looking, as he had been when he’d worked as a summer student for her dad’s landscaping company.

      Brand made the extremely famous actor, who was standing a short distance away from him, look small and very, very ordinary.

      “I’m sure I know who he is,” Chelsea said, her tone mulling. “I’ve seen him in something. Warriors of the New Age? No, I know all of them. Maybe that new series. You know the one? Where the lady time-travels and the gorgeous guy—”

      “He’s not an actor,” Bree said. “Chelsea, please put the cookies out. We only have twenty minutes until the official start time and I—”

      She had to what? Leave, obviously. Before he saw her.

      “But I know who he is,” Chelsea said. “I’m sure of it.” She unwillingly turned back to emptying the cookie-filled boxes, her body angled sideways so she could keep casting glances his way.

      “You probably saw him on the cover of City magazine,” Bree said. “That’s why you feel as if you know who he is. Could you put a row of Devilishly Decadent at the end of the display?”

      “Brand Wallace,” Chelsea announced, way too loudly. “The billionaire! You’re right! City had him on the cover. I couldn’t turn around without seeing that glorious face on every newsstand! I don’t usually buy it, but I did. He founded an internet start-up company that went insane with success—”

      Bree shot a look to the doorway. Apparently he had heard Chelsea yelling his name like a teenager who had spotted her rock-star idol. He was casting a curious look in their direction.

      Bree did not want him to see her. She particularly did not want him to see her in her Kookies outfit. She and Chelsea were both wearing the uniforms she had designed, and Chelsea had sewn. Until precisely three minutes ago, she had been proud of how she had branded her company.

      Kookies sold deliciously old-fashioned cookies with a twist: unexpected flavors inside them, and each different type claimed to hold its own spells.

      And so the outfits she and Chelsea wore were part sexy witch, part trustworthy grandmother. They both had on granny glasses, berets shaped like giant cookies, and their aprons—over short black skirts and plain white blouses—had photos of her cookies printed on them, quilted to make them look three-dimensional. It was all so darn cute.

      Somehow she did not want the man her father had convinced to escort her to her senior prom to see her as cute. Or kooky. She certainly did not want him to see her with a giant cookie on her head!

      In fact, she did not want Brand Wallace to see her at all. He belonged to another time and another place. A time when she had still believed in magic. A place that had felt as if her world would always be safe.

      She shot another glance at the doorway. He was still looking in their direction—she could see he was trying to extricate himself from the conversation with Shelley.

      “He’s coming this way,” Chelsea sighed. “How’s my hair?”

      Out of the corner of her eye, Bree saw Chelsea flicking her hair. She also saw there was an emergency exit just a little behind and to the left of their table. For some reason, it felt imperative to get out of there. And out of the apron. And the beret. Especially the beret.

      It was trying to remove both at once that proved dangerous. She was twisting the apron over her head and taking off the beret with it, when, too late, she saw the corner of a box of Little Surprise cookies that was jutting out from under her display table. At the last second she tried to get her foot

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