I haven't seen Martin in about a week actually but that wasn't always surprising. He was a pretty busy and important man and we always figured that he was away on business trips when he wouldn't show up for several days. I looked forward to sitting with him this morning and letting him try the salted caramel éclair I left inside the restaurant cooler earlier. "Hey, Mart—" I stopped cold, my eyes narrowing at the man sitting in the booth, impatiently tapping his fingers on the laminate countertop. A face filed away in my memory a long time ago surged to the surface, and I barely stopped myself from sucking in a deep, surprised breath in front of him. I forced my heart to return to beating. Well, who have we got here. "You are not Mr. Maxfield," I blurted out, accusation in my voice. The man's thick, dark brow rose at my statement and I got the full effect of his arrogance before his mouth even opened. "Excuse me?" he demanded. Crossing my arms, I pursed my lips and studied him. He had thick, dark brown hair that curled softly around his ears and the nape of his neck, a prominent, perfectly straight and narrow nose, a strong jaw, and a pair of dark hazel eyes that were currently flickering with disdain as he returned my inspection. He was definitely an attractive man—the dark coloring of his hair and eyes were seductive while the condescending tilt of his full, wide mouth was a little maddening. My memory of him and all the sources that built it didn't do the man much justice and did nothing to prepare me for this moment I've been half-dreaming, half-dreading for a while now. Easy, Charlotte. You don't really know him all that well despite what you think. I especially didn't know that he would be reeking of self-importance, with him looking like he knew he could be somewhere else doing something a lot more pleasant than sitting there and being scrutinized by a waitress at Marlow's. "Macy said Mr. Maxfield specifically asked for me," I explained impatiently. "I'm looking at you and you're definitely not him." A frown started between his brows and never left. "I am definitely Mr. Maxfield—Brandon Christopher Maxfield, to be precise." Based on the tailoring and materials of his dark blue sports jacket and white shirt, he was definitely rich and showed it well—nothing less than I expected of him. But there was nothing about him at all that reminded me of Martin who had silver hair, happy blue eyes and a kind smile—maybe except for the stubborn chin which he tipped up at me rudely in indignation. I have a suspicion that today will be the day I stop scribbling his name with flowers and hearts in my journal. Nothing like meeting the person in reality to ruin your dream version of him. I mentally shook my dreamy, distracted thoughts of him away and focused on his hazel eyes which were gleaming with obvious distaste. I rolled my eyes and sighed. "Ah, yes. The younger, more ambitious, less charming Mr. Maxfield. Nice to meet you." Oh yes, I knew of Brandon Maxfield, alright. He was splattered all over the media since he was the heir apparent to Maxfield Industries and its current president. He was ruthless in business, well in demand at social functions, and easy on the eye to top it all off. Since I was friends with Martin, I've heard enough about him—both good and bad—but he just always seemed like a character in a book that I've read over and over again and who always stayed confined to the pages. Okay, so he was a little more than just a character—he was the prince who loved Charlotte, I mean, Cinderella—but these were fantasies I had when I was sixteen, when Martin started telling me about him and I started paying attention to everything about him that the media dished out. In the last year or so, I haven't had the time or the heart to fantasize about my own fairy tales again. I've grown jaded enough to know that I probably never will. He looked at the hand I extended, as if it were a snake about to spring forward and coil around his neck, before he briefly shook it.