Hell on Heels Read online

  I, on the other hand, stood at a very curvy five foot seven, sans heels, with ash blonde hair that was becoming less mine and more salon as the years crept toward my thirtieth birthday, but hey, what doesn’t kill you makes you blonder, right?

  “I’ll see you on Saturday,” Leighton said as we exchanged a quick kiss on the cheek moments before our heels descended in opposite directions of the Burrard Street sidewalk.

  Joining the flow of pedestrians, my longer than average legs moved me quickly up to Robson Street in the direction of the offices for Smith & Co. Productions, my office.

  I guess you could say circumstances led me to become your typical overachiever, the poster child, if you will, for a disheartened workaholic who did so to avoid having to spend too much time alone in the other, less than stellar, areas of her life. That being said, part of me simply chalked it up to my addictive personality and the fault of singledom that brought with it an occasional abundance of free time.

  Truth is, when you got burned, you learned to be strong. You make it out alive, or you don’t. I chose to claw my way up from the gallows and use what I got. My heart was weary, but my mind was strong and my face was pretty; the two combined were somewhat of a lethal combination.

  In my professional life, I was a sniper. In my personal life, I was a mess.

  I graduated top of my class from The University of British Columbia with a bachelor’s degree in Business Management before finally finding my stride at Simon Fraser University, where I garnered a degree in Event Planning. As busy as I remained during the course of my academia, my addiction would still rear it’s ugly head from time to time, and my need to soothe the loneliness inside me would have to be remedied. It was in those such instances I often chose to attempt to develop something with a suitor in my life, thus finding a handsome man to deliver me to heaven and return me to hell.

  I had no delusions of grandeur. I didn’t believe being the recipient of a man’s attention garnered me a better person, but it was where the steel in my spine was forged. Without it, my vulnerability grew through the cracks like weeds on a broken sidewalk.

  In the summer following the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics, on the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday, I founded The Halo Foundation. This charity blossomed from the very core of my heart, where it eventually bled into a well-funded and well-sponsored organization that supported the education of post secondary children on the effects of addiction, as well as the “clean teens” program that aided young users in getting clean and rehabilitating them back into society. It was my heart and soul, my passion project, and yet it paved the way for the development of my company, Smith & Co. Productions, which was formally founded less than a year later.

  We were a small event-planning firm that ran a staff of five people year-round, and we were currently days away from hosting the annual Halo Foundation Gala this Saturday evening.

  Though we weren’t considered a large firm by any means on the scale of local companies, I was sought out frequently for a number of elite events for my expertise in the field, but more than that, my personality. It drew clients in like a mirrored fishing lure. Ironic, isn’t it? On the outside, nearly everyone I met would deem me a people person at first glance. However, my career had grown into yet another life choice that deceptively cloaked my fear of connection. Not that I was by any means insincere, but my job allowed me to masquerade in plain sight and no one was ever the wiser. It was a comforting yet alarming arrangement that had served my staff and me handsomely over the four and a half years since our doors opened. It was also the reason that each year, The Halo Foundation Gala was a masquerade. I considered it an ode to the dark parts of me, but only I knew that.

  Meeting the intersection of Burrard Street and Robson Street, I waited impatiently for the lights to change, when the bass of my ringtone sounded through the leather of the tasseled boho slung over my shoulder. Rummaging through its expansive interior, my fingers finally curled around the vibrating iPhone and brought it to my ear.

  “Charleston,” my tone was an edge above chipper. Always answer the phone with a smile on your face, Mom used to say. They’ll be able to tell if you aren’t.

  “Did they make you harvest the lettuce for that salad yourself?” my assistant, Kevin, snipped into my receiver.

  The man was all sass. From the top of his quaffed salon blowout, to the bottom of his overpriced Testoni dress shoes. He was young, brilliant, gorgeous, and ruthless with numbers. Why was I not dating him? He was also as gay as they came. Sorry, ladies.

  “I’m not entirely sure you harvest lettuce in the first place.” I shook my head at no one in particular as the heel of my boots took on the faded crosswalk.

  There was a scoff on the other end of the line, followed by an unladylike snort. Before you judge, I compared him to a lady, because in every way was the man a queen. More of a goddess than any of the women I knew, and he wore it well—in Brooks Brothers suits, I mean. “Your 1:30 is here.”

  Glancing down at the shine off my watch, my brows furrowed together. “Well, it’s just one. He’s early. Offer him a coffee while he waits.”

  “Do you have any idea how much this man is worth?” His voice was barely a whisper and kind of a whine.

  I knew exactly how much Beau Callaway, politician for the conservative party and our city’s front-runner for mayor, was worth. He came from a long line of old money and politics. I only took the meeting arranged by his assistant, because it seemed he was interested in providing a last minute donation to the foundation in exchange for being mentioned as one of the sponsors at this weekend’s festivities. There was no doubt the meeting was a campaign strategy, and if I was agreeable, a shiny mention of support and involvement in aiding a local charity would look admirable on the lapel of his young politician’s jacket. Regardless, that was neither here nor there in the scheme of things for me.

  I made no qualms on the reasons why someone wished to be a sponsor.

  Sponsors made donations. Donations funded my charity. My charity saved people like Henry.

  “We are not a hotel, Kevin, we do not take early check-ins. I’m a block away, so please give him a beverage should he so wish for one and I’ll be there shortly.”

  “I could bounce a quarter off the man’s ass.” He groaned, ignoring me completely. It was not hard to imagine the image of my assistant with his lips pursed, biting down on a manicured thumbnail while sizing up a potential client.

  Rolling my eyes, I took a left on West Cordova and picked up my pace. “You don’t play for the same team and his tie is worth more than your car. So don’t bounce our change off his backside if you want to keep wearing those shirts you can’t afford.”

  “Someone’s bitchy with a side of rude this afternoon.”

  Sidestepping construction on the sidewalk, I warned him, “Kevin…”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard you. The change will stay in petty cash, scout’s honour.”

  “You weren’t a boy scout.”

  Click.

  Diva.

  Three more blocks in four-inch ankle boots and ten minutes later, I fidgeted during my ascent to the thirteenth floor. I always walked to lunch, and I almost always took the stairs on my return to work. The Smiths weren’t a family that enjoyed traditional means of physical excursion, but my parents loved food, and if the way my hips flared was any indication, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. That being said, I liked the way my ass looked hugged in a pair of jeans, and I wasn’t giving up cake, so in exchange, I took the stairs regularly as penance, though not today.

  Stepping out of the elevator, I glanced at my watch—1:14—and pushed through the double glass doors with Smith & Co Productions etched into the center.

  “Thank God,” Kevin whisper-yelled from the perch he had assumed at the edge of his desk.

  He was, and had always been, a client’s first point of entry into our offices. Situated to the right of the doors was his distressed white desk; the colour expertly complimented
the pale yellow walls, as did the bright arrangement of September flowers Tina, the company’s floral guru, had placed in a teal vase at the corner of his desk.

  Walking by, I motioned for Kevin to follow me while moving my attention to the waiting area in the center of the room. It was feminine, as was the rest of the office, with two grey armchairs parallel to the left wall, a fabulous printed ottoman in the center, and a vintage style white couch against the right wall. Above the seating area was a delicate and brilliant chandelier that was quite possibly my favourite decorative piece in the entire office. Below it, set on a gold tray in the center of the ottoman, was another one of Tina’s floral arrangements, though this one was bigger than the one on Kevin’s desk, almost twice the size, in fact, and equally as stunning.

  The waiting room had floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed a fabulous view of downtown Vancouver, though currently I found it was obstructed by the back of two well dressed suits, one grey and one black.

  The blond hair, which belonged to the man I recognized as Beau Callaway was being toyed with repeatedly as he spoke into the phone at his ear. I knew he was handsome from his campaign commercials and slew of appearances in the magazines, but standing in my pastel enthusiastic office, he seemed larger than I’d expected him to. It also appeared he was unaware of my arrival.

  I noted vaguely that the man flanking his left seemed domineering, even from behind, and was not unaware of the added body in the room. His somewhat long brown hair was pulled into bun at the base of his neck, his posture was rigid, and he towered over the politician in a beastly way.

  I found his presence unsettling.

  Kevin was eagerly on my heels as I nodded a hello to Emma, one of our designers, who was currently on the phone in her office engaged in a heated debate about drapery from what I could tell. I ran a tight ship, though a friendly one, and one of the rules consisted of no gossiping in front of clients, hence Kevin’s eager pursuit of my behind.

  There were two offices on either side of the seating area. To the right were Emma and myself, and to the left were Tina and Tom, as well as a staff room, equipment room, and bathroom.

  My office was the only corner unit, and it was the largest by a margin. Two of the walls consisted of floor-to-ceiling glass, and the other two were heather grey, which were adorned with black and white photos taken at the first annual Halo Foundation gala.

  “I’m ruined.” Kevin pouted, plopping down into one of the two patterned high-back chairs in front of my desk.

  Fishing my cellphone out, I dropped my purse into the bottom drawer of the massive and incredibly overpriced desk, and placed the palms of my hands onto its distressed white surface.

  “He’s so hot,” Kevin continued without delay. “I mean, I follow him on Instagram, but wow-ee! I want little blonde Abercrombie babies with him,” he rattled on, waving his hands in the air. “And Man Bun is like yum with a shot of dangerous, like you just know he’d wake up your neighbours. I’d like to call him Daddy—”

  “Jesus.” I shook my head.

  Kevin stirred, pulling his perfectly crafted eyebrows together. “What’s he doing here anyways? Are we planning one of his parties?”

  Beau Callaway was notoriously known for hosting some of the best campaign parties.

  “No. He’s expressed interest in sponsoring the Gala.”

  Uncrossing his legs, Kevin’s eyes softened as he leaned forward. “The Gala is this Saturday. Can we manage another sponsor this late in the game?”

  The emotions on my face war—they often did this close to the gala—and he noticed. Kevin was as perceptive as he was fabulous.

  “Right then. I’ll make it work.” He stood. “Want me to fetch the dream boat for you, boss?”

  I nodded. “Please.”

  Without another word, he sashayed out the door and my nerves filled up the space he left behind.

  I was nervous. Men in general made me nervous until I knew my way around them, but having someone like Beau in my space and here, regarding the gala no less, made me edgy.

  I didn’t often mix business with pleasure, as I was messy with one and not the other. Though it’d been nearly three months since my last duet with a man and I was jonesing for a high this close to the gala.

  The gala that honoured the memory of Henry.

  My addiction prickled at the back of my neck.

  The temperature in the room seemed to spike with my unease, and the fabric around my throat seemed to suffocate me. I wished momentarily I’d chosen a different outfit. The office was a dress as you pleased atmosphere. As long as my staff looked respectable and came to work prepared to do their jobs, it was dress code at your own discretion. Today, I’d dressed in black skinny jeans that put my hourglass figure on display and a cream loose-fitting turtleneck that was shorter at the hem in the front and longer in the back. The colour of the material and the brown suede of my ankle boots played up what was left from my summer tan, as did the pale pink lipstick I was currently reapplying.

  My thick hair was twisted into a chignon at the crown of my head, and in my ears were a pair of pearl earrings, a token from a time when hope got the better of me and I’d tried for something more and lost.

  “Your 1:30,” Kevin beamed, his pitch a bit above professional from the doorway. Stepping aside and waving his hand out towards my office, I was graced with the head-on vision that was Beau Callaway.

  Kevin was right. He was so hot.

  “Mr. Callaway.” I smiled, rounding my desk expertly and extending a hand.

  “Please, call me Beau,” he corrected, engulfing my hand in his larger one.

  “Of course.”

  He was tall, taller than me, even in my heels. If I had to guess, I’d put him at a little over six feet.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Beau. I’m Charleston Smith.”

  He squeezed my hand, and the air in the room got thicker.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Kevin asked, still gawking at the politician’s backside from his position in the doorway.

  Beau’s eyes never left mine as he spoke. “No, thank you, Kevin. You’ve been incredibly helpful.”

  His voice was deep and kind; even simple sentences came out poised and eloquently.

  I’d vote for him.

  My assistant swooned once more at the sound of his name on Beau’s lips, eventually closing the door to my office behind him.

  Reluctantly pulling my hand from his, I motioned to one of the high-backed chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

  He waited for me to settle into my chair before undoing the buttons of his suit jacket and doing the same.

  “I assume you know why I’m here?” he asked, leaning the expanse of his wide upper body back into the seat that seemed to shrink at his size.

  The more privy I was to an unobstructed view of him, the more I changed my opinion. Beau Callaway wasn’t just so hot; he was beautiful. His blond hair was, I gathered, always in a permanent state of tousled bedhead and just an inch past due for a haircut. That, combined with his tan, made you suddenly crave beaches and salty kisses. His jaw worked when he spoke, the hard lines stubble-free and offset by the soft blue of his eyes. That, encompassed with full lips and a lean body, edged him into a state not unlike that of the boy next door, but the boy next door was all grown up.

  He was a dreamboat, a political dreamboat, and I offhandedly felt a small bout of remorse for those running against him.

  “Your assistant mentioned you were interested in sponsoring the charity gala this Saturday evening.” I reiterated the main points from the e-mail I had received from his office yesterday.

  He nodded. “I understand this is very last minute and likely looks like a publicity grab.”

  “Mr. Callaway, you don’t need to—”

  He cut me off, “Beau.”

  “I’m aware that charities look good on a political roster, Beau. I’m not offended.”

  “Very well.” He seemed satisfied with my answe
r and I saw no need to redirect that. “Some recently acquired campaign funds have become available and I’d like to put them towards something I believe in.” I gestured for him to continue. “I’m not sure if you follow politics much, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Miss Smith,” I corrected his obvious word choice. He smiled and I returned one of my own. “Please, call me Charleston.”

  “Charleston,” Beau repeated after me. “That’s a very pretty name.”

  The tremor in my steel shook loose a blush that crept across my cheeks. “Thank you.”

  I’d never grown accustomed to taking compliments well. They often made me feel out of place in my own skin, though I worked tirelessly not to show that.

  “As I was saying, I’m not sure if you follow politics, Charleston, but I have taken a very public stance with my campaign on providing better education at a district-wide level should I be elected.” I nodded again. This I knew from the articles I’d read in the paper. “I believe that a part of providing children with the opportunity to garner the futures they deserve is by providing them with a better and more rounded education. I think we are losing children, and teenagers especially, to a variety of twenty-first century plagues far more frequently than we should be comfortable with.”

  He was mesmerizing as he spoke, and I was quickly in awe of him.

  “I believe one of those plagues is addiction.”

  My throat burned, the fire in my chest scaling its walls for freedom. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

  “We have to fight for change, and I believe this is a fight your charity has already broke ground on. So, if you’ll have us, we’d like to sponsor The Halo Foundation in that fight.”

  I saw it. It was impossible not to see it. There was a reason he was the city’s front-runner, and it wasn’t because he was good looking, though that didn’t hurt. It was because Beau Callaway was a living, breathing saint and he didn’t even know it.