“What?” I mumbled into the receiver, still mostly asleep.

“Were you sleeping?” Heath’s amused voice came over the line.

“Mm. Late shift last night, this morning.”

“Ah, okay. Well…get up and brew yourself a pot of coffee because I have your winner and he wants to meet you this afternoon.”

I groaned. “He can wait. I’m half dead, Heath. Can’t we do this tomorrow? It’s my day off and I need some warning—I haven’t done laundry for—”

“No can do, doll. He has to fly to the east coast on business first thing tomorrow. He won’t be back until the end of the week.”

“Heath…”

“Come on. I’ve reserved a private conference room at the Westin South Coast Plaza.”

I remembered my one serious skirt—a crisp business pencil skirt—was at the bottom of the clean laundry basket, wrinkled beyond recognition. And my iron was broken.

“I have to iron my skirt.”

“I’ll bring my iron when I pick you up.”

“I don’t have a board, either.”

“Then use the table, for chrissakes. Listen, I’m not here to solve your first-world, heterosexual female problems. Get up, get your makeup on and get with the program.”

I sighed and hung up, my heart racing. It occurred to me that he didn’t tell me whom he’d selected.

I followed his instructions, got up, showered, styled my hair and, surrendering to the inevitable, pulled it back into a ponytail because it wasn’t cooperating. My makeup went on satisfactorily and I was in my blouse—white, tailored button-down—and skivvies when Heath showed up. He didn’t have his iron.

“What the hell, Heath?”

“I couldn’t find it. I think that stupid little twerp swiped it when he packed his crap and left.” He referred to the recent demise of his two-year relationship. It had not been a good breakup and Heath was still nursing the broken heart from it.

I shot him a puzzled look. “Who steals an iron?”

“Spoiled little brats like Brian, that’s who.”

I sighed and glanced at my pathetic excuse for a skirt.

“Why don’t you hang it up in the shower and run the hot water?” he asked.

“Give my skirt a shower?”

“The steam will take some of the wrinkles out. A dryer works, too.”

“Well I don’t have a dryer, so I guess steam is going to have to do. Do you think it will work?”

“Hell no, but might as well try.”

I ran the shower until the hot water ran cold—which didn’t take long in my little studio. Since living here, I’d become the queen of the snappy shower. When I pulled the skirt off the hanger and tried to smooth out the damp cloth, it failed to cooperate.

Once dressed, I left the bathroom. Heath made a face and twirled his finger, signaling that I should turn around.

I complied. “That bad?”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t take a fashion expert to see that that thing is a hot mess—literally.”

I blew out a breath. “How much time do we have? Maybe swing by the mall to pick up a loaner?”

He pulled out his cell phone, glanced at it and shook his head. “You’re going like that. Besides, he’s not paying the big bucks to sleep with your skirt, fortunately for you.”

I glared at him. “Sometimes you annoy the shit out of me.”

“I know.” He shrugged and jerked his shoulder toward the door and walked out. I followed him into a gorgeous spring afternoon.

Once in his blue Jeep Wrangler, Heath maneuvered his way to the nearest freeway entrance down sleepy residential streets cloaked in bright purple jacaranda and whispering pepper trees. Out on the wider boulevard, towering palms—ubiquitous in Southern California—shivered in the cool ocean breeze.

“So who is this guy?” I asked him as we zipped down the 55 freeway.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Name’s Drake.” He shot me a glance like I should know who that was. “Adam Drake.”

“And which rich dude is he?”

“The one from out here. Lives in Newport Beach, of course. Don’t they all?”

I snorted. “And you said he’s young?”

“A bit older than we are. Twenty-six.”

“So how’d he get so rich? Trust fund? Daddy’s company?”

“Nope, he’s completely self-made, actually.”

That bit of info blew me away. “How is that possible at his age?”