Lisa Fox - Her Perfect Lips - HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance

“Stacy Saunders!” Ron said, his jovial voice breaking into her melancholy thoughts.

Stacy’s heart leapt to her throat and she blinked as she looked around the table, a little disconcerted by all the eyes upon her. Obviously something had happened—something good from the way people were smiling and clapping. She plastered a toothy grin on her face and pretended she knew what was going on.

“As you all know, Stacy has recently been promoted to senior marketing manager,” Ron said, addressing the room as a whole.

The staff nodded, some applauded, others shot her smiles.

“What Alan and I didn’t tell her,” Ron went on, beaming over at her, “was that because of her dedication and hard work, we’re also sending her to New Orleans to attend the Advanced Marketing and New Business Innovation Conference.”

Stacy’s mouth fell open. Surely she had not heard him right. A chance to attend the ultimate rock star conference of the marketing world?

“Come on up here,” Ron said, motioning for her to join him at the head of the table.

Stacy rose on trembling legs. She was glad she hadn’t worn super high heels today. She might not have made it to the front of the room unscathed. Her heart swelled when the applause started again, and she held her head up high as she made her shaky way to Ron’s side.

Ron stood up when she arrived and held out his hand to her. “We know you’ll do great things.”

She took Ron’s hand, stupefied, speechless. She looked at him, at everyone gathered around the table, and she had to bite down on her lower lip to keep from screaming with joy. This was exactly what she had been working toward since the day she took the marketing specialist position with Ron and Alan a few years ago. She had just achieved one of her major professional goals a full two years before she anticipated it would happen. The success felt really good. “Thank you,” she said, shaking Ron’s hand firmly. “I won’t let you down.”

With the trip approaching, her first order of business was to hire two new marketing associates to join her team. She needed to get that done before she left. It was a difficult, time-consuming task, and she loved every minute of it. There were hundreds of résumés to review, and she found twelve solid candidates to put through the rounds of interviews. The whole process took longer than she’d hoped, spanning the entire month before the conference, but the new staff were in place when it was time for her to leave for New Orleans.

The journey itself was uneventful, filled with the usual disgruntled travelers and sour security agents, but the minute she stepped out of the airport, and the thick, swampy air coated her skin, her pulse quickened. Some of her favorite memories were of New Orleans and the year she’d spent waiting tables on Bourbon Street after graduating from Loyola. Those had been the best times, a time to be young and free and totally wild. Five years had passed since she landed her first real job and left the French Quarter behind, but being back felt a lot like coming home.

“Welcome to New Orleans,” the shuttle driver said as he hoisted her luggage into the back of the van.

Stacy gave him a huge smile in return. “It’s great to be here.”

The conference hotel was on Canal, on the Quarter side of the street. Check-in took forever, the slow pace of New Orleans never giving way to the impatience of the new arrivals. A water foundation bubbled serenely in the center of the lobby. The Muzak version of “Separate Ways” drifted over from the adjacent bar, accompanied by the clink of glassware and the low, constant hiss of air conditioning. People sighed and shifted their weight, checked their watches, murmured into phones.

After an eternity, she had her key card. She sent her bags off with a bellman and went to go wait on another line for her registration packet. This one moved a tad faster, so after only a single century, she had her badge and materials.

She took the elevator up to the twentieth floor, high above the restaurants and bars and cottages of the Vieux Carre. The room was pretty standard—beige walls, king-sized bed, Degas reproduction, desk, minibar, dresser, nightstand, but it offered a spectacular view of the river. She pressed her fingers to the glass and traced the curve of the mighty, muddy Mississippi until it disappeared into the distance. Stories and stories below her people were drinking and carousing, singing and stripping, making love in the sultry afternoon. Business as usual for the French Quarter.

She dragged herself from the window, sat down on the bed, and opened her packet. Inside were a few sponsor ads, a trade magazine, her credentials, and a hard copy of the agenda she had already downloaded onto her tablet before she’d left New York. She scanned the itinerary again, just in case she’d missed something. She was definitely going to the Brand Growth and Strategy Workshop, and she liked the look of the Global Trends talk. There was nothing on the schedule for tonight though, and the official Welcome and Opening Remarks Reception wasn’t happening until ten o’clock the next morning.

She put the packet aside with a grin. Nothing on the schedule tonight and nothing until late tomorrow morning—that only meant one thing. “Cocktail time!” she announced to the empty room.

Day or night, it was always happy hour somewhere in New Orleans, and the hotel bar was no exception. She arrived on the first floor and found it filled with people, some very obviously for the convention, others just in town for a long vacation weekend. A few attendees even wore their nametags, already advertising themselves and their positions. She wished she’d thought to grab hers. The point of being here was to get her name out there as much as possible.

She spun on her heel, ready to go back upstairs for it, but as she turned, she made eye contact with an average height, darkly blond man across the room. He stood to the left of a group of by the bar, holding a pint of beer. They exchanged a long glance and then a smile. He was probably just a little older than she was, maybe right around thirty, trim enough body, expensive, though not custom-tailored suit. Not bad at all. Maybe her badge wasn’t totally necessary right now.

She walked toward the bar, wondering if he’d meet her there, hoping that he would. The purpose of this conference was to meet people after all. A friendly discussion with an attractive colleague seemed like a good way to begin. She gave him another glance over her shoulder and then chose a space where there were a couple of empty stools, a subtle hint and an open invitation.

The bartender took her order for a Cosmo, and Stacy smiled inwardly when she sensed her new friend hovering by her side. She turned to meet his gaze and was pleased to discover that he was as attractive close up as he had been from a distance.

“Hi,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “I’m Peter Walker.”

He had a deep, if not resonate voice, and no discernable accent. “Hi,” she replied and took his hand. “Stacy Saunders.”

“Where are you from, Stacy?” he asked, taking the empty seat beside her.

Yes, come into my lair , she thought with giddy delight. I have cookies . He met her gaze and she flashed him a wide smile, trying to cover up her urge to giggle. “I live in New York. I’m the senior marketing manager at a boutique web design firm called Sharpe Designs.” Just saying her new title out loud gave her a wonderful little thrill. “Where are you from?”

“Boston,” he said, leaning against the bar to signal the bartender. “This conference was part of my promotion package. I’m the vice president of Customer Insights at DataX Ltd.”

Stacy waited as the bartender took Peter’s order, poured him an Abita Amber, and then hurried off to serve the ever-increasing crowd. “Congratulations,” she said, holding out her glass to him. “Promotions make all those long hours worthwhile.”