S U N N Y M O N R O E
Sunny
I slid my Cavalli Veriscite shades onto my face, grabbed my laptop bag and purse, then stepped out of my early birthday gift.
A Maybach.
Absolutely ridiculous.
Absolutely beautiful.
I hit the fob and crossed the street.
I was feeling a little whimsical today, so I’d pulled out a pair of sheer, flowing wide-leg pants I’d been dying to wear.
Alex wouldn’t be particularly happy about them.
He wouldn’t be mad either.
There was lining.
Granted, the lining was also a bit sheer, but that was neither here nor there.
I giggled inwardly while keeping my face perfectly composed.
He’d survive.
Riverside was buzzing today.
The end of summer had always been this way.
The waterfront was alive with people moving between boutiques and cafés, restaurant patios crowded despite the heat, boats cutting lazily through the water beyond the promenade. Music drifted from somewhere farther down the block, mixing with conversation and traffic.
God, I’d missed this.
Not Riverside specifically.
Home.
I crossed at the light and looked up at my building.
My building.
Well.
Technically, the man who owned it would probably object to that description.
But the entire third floor was mine, so semantics.
The gold lettering had gone up yesterday.
S U N N Y M O N R O E
Nothing underneath it.
No Events.
No Luxury Experiences.
No Consulting.
I’d gone back and forth about that for weeks before deciding I didn’t want to explain myself on the door.
People who needed to know what I did already knew.
And people who didn’t?
Eventually, they would.
I pushed through the glass doors.
“Good morning, Ms. Monroe.”
“Good morning.”
The security guard smiled.
“Car’s pretty.”
I stopped.
Looked back through the glass at it.
Then sighed.
“It’s obnoxious.”
He laughed.
“I wasn’t gonna say it.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Little bit.”
“Blame Alexander.”
“I figured.”
Of course he did.
Everybody blamed Alexander.
I stepped into the elevator and pressed three.
My phone rang before the doors closed.
I glanced at the screen.
Unknown number.
Normally, I would’ve let it go.
Something told me not to.
“Sunny’Monroe.”
“Ms. Monroe?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Donovan Ellis. Celeste Van Buren gave me your number.”
I straightened slightly.
Celeste.
Interesting.
“She said you might be able to help me with something.”
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped onto my floor.
“What do you need?”
He hesitated.
That usually meant it was either expensive, impossible, or both.
“My wife turns fifty next month.”
“Congratulations.”
“She doesn’t want a party.”
“Then don’t give her one.”
Silence.
Then he laughed.
“Celeste said I’d like you.”
I smiled, walking toward my office.
“What does your wife want?”
“She mentioned Florence.”
“When?”
“October.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
Another pause.
Then:
“About fifteen years ago.”
I stopped walking.
Now we were getting somewhere.
“What did she say?”
“That she’d always wanted to have dinner overlooking the Arno.”
I unlocked my office.
“And?”
“And what?”
“What else?”
“She loves opera.”
I set my bags down.
“Favorite?”
“Puccini.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
I walked toward the windows and looked out over Riverside.
“Mr. Ellis, I don’t think your wife wants a birthday party.”
“No?”
“No.”
I smiled.
“I think she wants Florence.”
Silence.
“How difficult would that be?”
There it was.
The question people always asked me.
Not how much?
How difficult?
I took off my sunglasses.
“For you?”
I looked at the enormous abstract painting spanning the wall across from me.
Finally mounted.
Perfect.
“Very.”
I smiled.
“For me?”
I opened my laptop.
“Give me forty-eight hours.”
