by JC Harroway
‘How are you?’ she asks, taking her drink in both gloved hands and blowing across the steaming surface.
‘I’m doing okay. I still miss Grandma every day, miss picking up the phone and checking in with her, even just for one of her tongue lashings.’
She nods, that trademark compassion in her eyes. ‘It will get easier with time, I promise.’
My throat tightens. I shift in my seat, inching closer because I’m as drawn to her now as I was on the beach, that first day. She’s a beacon on a dark night.
‘Grace—’
‘Ryan—
We smile and I indicate she speak first.
‘I need to apologise for the way I behaved at the hospital that night,’ she says. ‘You needed a friend and I wasn’t there for you. I was scared I’d lose myself, because I need to be brave one last time. To tell you something I know you won’t want to hear, but—’
I press my fingers to her cold lips. ‘Shh... Please let me say this first.’
She nods, her eyes wide.
I take a deep breath. ‘I should never have let you go that day in Fiji. The timing sucked, but I should have told you my feelings when I had the chance. I should have been as brave as you are. As honest. Because the feelings were there. I just hid them, denied them. Lied to myself and to you.’
She leans away from my touch, a half-smile emerging from behind my fingers. ‘That’s an awful lot of shoulds.’ The amber in her eyes sparkles. ‘Why don’t you just do what you want?’
Warmth sings through my blood. ‘I love you, Grace. A part of me loved you that first day, when you worried about my grazed ankle.’ I take her gloved hands. ‘It’s not grief talking, or loneliness, or fear. I love you because you’re dauntless. Your heart is the size of Big Ben and you see things others don’t see. You cared and you cared and you cared until you infected my blood, made me care too. You’re perfect as you are, but you’re still trying to improve, to be the best version of yourself, and you give me hope. That one day, if I embrace just a fraction of your bravery, I can be worthy of you.’
Moisture shines in her eyes. I cup her frozen cheeks, bring her face closer, my lips on fire to taste her once more. ‘I can’t promise to be everything you deserve, but you need to know that you make me want things. The same things you want. Us. Commitment. Marriage. I’m scared to promise for ever, but I’ll try. Every day I’ll try. Because you were right. I can’t live without love. Without your love.’
She laughs, tears spilling over onto my thumbs and then she’s out of her seat, her mouth on mine while her arms hold me so tightly, the air whooshes from my chest.
She pulls back. ‘I love you too. I wanted to tell you that in Fiji and again at the hospital. I’ve been carrying the words around every day, stopping myself from texting them. I love you, Ryan.’
I drag her into the space between my spread thighs, kiss her until my heart, thundering behind my ribs, settles.
She grips my wrists, her eyes searching mine. ‘Don’t say you’re not worthy. You’re as worthy of love as the next person. And I’m going to prove that to you. Every day.’
When we surface from kissing, I wrap my open coat around her and clutch her to my chest, the reassuring beat of her heart against mine sweeping away every doubt I’ve had these past three weeks.
‘There’s one other thing to address,’ I say, keeping my tone serious.
She looks up.
‘You said we fix things with sex. I want to convince you that’s not true, so I propose we don’t have any for the first year of our relationship. I want you to feel secure that I’m serious about wanting more. Wanting it all.’
She yanks free of my arms. ‘What? No sex for a year? Are you insane?’
I hide my smile. My forthright Grace was never going to take this lying down. ‘I think we’re up for the challenge.’
‘I think you’re deluded. I won’t last a day. An hour.’ She presses her mouth to mine with a delicious little moan.
My grin twitches my lips. ‘Ah, my Grace, so honest about her desires.’
‘Too right,’ she says, snuggling back inside my coat. ‘Now take me home or we run the risk of public indecency charges. I don’t care how cold it is.’
I press my lips to her forehead, that place in my chest that she unearthed filled with this incredible woman. ‘Whatever you say, my love. Whatever you want.’
EPILOGUE
Grace
MY BARE TOES curl into the warm sand, every step forcing my pulse higher with delirious anticipation. But also taking me one step closer to the man I love.
He’s so handsome. So brave waiting for me alone under an archway of scented tropical flowers, back lit by the setting sun. Just a few more steps and I’ll be able to hold his hand. To whisper, ‘I love you,’ and see my feelings reflected back at me in his eyes.
I pass our tiny gathering of guests—my parents, Brooke and Neve and their plus ones, and a handful of friends we’ve acquired as a couple over the past year. A year filled with highs and lows, compromise and laughter, as all real relationships are.
‘You look so beautiful,’ Ryan says as I arrive before him at the altar. ‘You’re the best risk I ever took.’
‘I feel the same way.’ I kiss him, ignoring wedding etiquette, and smooth one hand over the white linen shirt that covers his deeply bronzed torso. Ryan in board shorts turns out to be my favourite thing about Fiji. All I have to do is suggest a paddleboard and I get to watch all his tanned, toned body in action.
We’re supposed to face our local celebrant for the vows, but neither of us drops the other’s hand as we stand and stare, wearing matching sappy smiles. It’s our day, we can do what we want.
It’s only much later, after the vows and the cake and speeches, when I’m in his arms as we slow dance under the stars near the water’s edge, that it hits me I have a husband. I press my mouth to his, a distraction from counting the minutes until we can abandon our guests, and I can get him alone in Lailai’s best honeymoon bungalow.
‘I would have been happy to keep on living together,’ I say. Turns out happily ever after comes in all forms, once you meet the right person.
His smile is knowing, indulgent. ‘I wouldn’t, Mrs Dempsey.’ He lifts my left hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss over the wedding ring he placed there only hours ago. ‘I’m never letting you go. Best to make it official.’
I laugh because, in the end, he was the one adamant we tie the knot. The one to set the date. The one to make all the plans. ‘You mean Dr Dempsey.’
He picks me up, swirls me around and then kisses me.
‘Are you glad you didn’t change the place to singles only? We could hardly have come here for our wedding otherwise.’ I slide my hands under the hem of his shirt, caress the warm skin of his back.
‘Of course I’m glad. As a very smart and beautiful woman once told me, romance is good for business.’
I laugh and then press my mouth to his. As we move towards our guests, snag ourselves two glasses of champagne, I catch a glimpse of Brooke and Neve dancing with their dates under the palm trees.
‘Yes, it is. Cheers to that.’
‘And to us,’ says my husband.
We clink glasses.
* * *
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CHAPTER ONE
Khloe
“THERE’S THE DOOR. Feel free to use it.”
Stomach in knots, I stare wide-eyed at my boss, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. Then again, is it really so inconceivable that he’s canning my ass? Disobedience comes with a price, and like all other men in power, Benjamin R. Murray, owner of Starlight Magazine, can do what he wants and say what he likes. Privileged men like him think the world is theirs for the taking and will walk on, or over, anyone who gets in their way.
“You’re really firing me?” I ask, as Manhattan’s midday sun shines in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the blood zinging through my veins and stirring the nausea in my stomach. My skin begins to moisten, but no way will I let this man see me sweat. I don’t want him to think he holds all the cards. Even though he does. But I’m not a girl to go down without a fight.
“That depends.” Benjamin drops the chicken leg he’s been gnawing on and wipes greasy, sausage-thick fingers on the stack of paper napkins before him. His chair groans under his impressive weight as he pushes away from his desk and stands to square off against me. The situation is clearly dire if he’s abandoning his beloved bucket of chicken. “Are you going to do the exposé on Will Carson or not?” he asks. His deep voice is hard and unwavering, letting me know my future at the magazine depends on what I say next.
Though I can’t afford to lose this job, I refuse to dig up dirt on Will Carson, a brilliant software developer—aka, the Millionaire Rocket Scientist of Wall Street. Partly because the exposé done on him a few years back by one of Starlight’s reporters ruined his life and partly because my father used to work for Will’s grandfather, James Carson.
James isn’t like other powerful men—he treats those who work for him fairly, respectfully. He was always generous and kind to my late father, going above and beyond to make sure a single father and his daughter were looked after. I have no doubt those care boxes containing food and clothes came from him—he knew my love for M&M’s and somehow my size—even though he vehemently denied his involvement.
The man owns half of Manhattan, and after I graduated with a journalism degree, he offered me a job at the Grub, a magazine that reviews restaurants. I politely declined, since I live off frozen food and know nothing about fine dining. Although it might have been a better jumping-off point than Starlight.
I want to write meaningful articles, to earn my place in the cutthroat news business and to get there on my own merit. From watching my father, I learned to work hard and to never take handouts—he didn’t like it when those care boxes materialized on our doorstep. And I won’t abandon my principles by twisting information for a headline like I’m some damn bottom-feeder.
Then why are you working at Starlight?
Because I can’t get hired at a reputable magazine without experience, and I can’t get experience without getting hired. So, Starlight it is. Or was...
“Well, are you?” he asks again, pulling my focus back to the matter at hand.
I cross my arms and plant my feet. “No,” I say through gritted teeth. It’s not a smart answer, considering rent is due next week, and my groceries consist of a single sleeve of stale crackers and a half-eaten box of pizza pockets.
“It’s my way or the highway, Khloe,” he says, his beady blue eyes arctic cold.
“Why me, Benjamin?” He doesn’t tolerate anyone saying no to him, but what do I care? He can’t fire me twice. “Why take me off sensationalized crime stories and put me on celebrity gossip, especially when you know I have a connection to the Carson family?”
His grin is sardonic. “That’s your answer right there. You have an in, and any good journalist would use that connection to get information.”
“You already ruined Will’s life. Why twist the knife?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Money. That’s the answer to everything in a rich man’s world.
“The public is interested in the famous Carson family. It’s time we told them what Will has been up to since his fiancée left him.”
Starlight’s front-page spread on Will had never sat well with me. I’ve never met him, but from the stories James told, Will didn’t seem like someone who’d get drunk and jump into bed with another woman at his bachelor party.
The pictures splashed across the front cover, however, painted a different story. Money and power. They mess with people. In the end, Will proved to be no different from any man with millions and authority—and because of the spread, he lost his supermodel fiancée. But I still refused to do the exposé. My father would turn over in his grave if I suddenly sank to slimeball level.
“I guess this is goodbye, then.” I turn and see a flurry of activity in the hall. Great, my colleagues were eavesdropping. At least they’ll have something to talk about at the watercooler. “I’ll clear my desk.”
“If you change your mind...”
“I won’t,” I say. Heads duck and eyes are averted as I walk down the hall. Despite the storm going on in my stomach, I straighten my back and calmly walk to my four-by-four pod.
I reach my desk and stare at the papers strewn across it. Nothing truly belongs to me, but I spitefully shove the stapler into my purse. I’m about to walk away but can’t. Dammit, I’m not a thief. I put the stapler back and go still when a pair of heels tap rapidly on the floor, growing louder as they approach.
Breathless, Steph skids to a stop. “I just heard.” My only real friend at the magazine—all the others would slice and dice anyone who got in their way—Steph takes my hand. Thick painted lashes blink rapidly over caramel eyes. “What happened?”
I lower my voice and explain, even though I’m sure everyone knows—around here, rumors spread faster than a Sean Mendes You Tube video.
“He’s such a worm,” she says.
“Hey, don’t insult worms. They have their purpose.”
“Wait, I got it.” Hope fills her eyes. “Just say you couldn’t find anything on Will. I mean, he might be a grade A asshole—”
“Will’s an asshole?”
“Yeah, that’s what every reporter who tried to get a story on him says.”
“They do?”
“Oh, yeah.” She holds
her hand out and starts tapping one finger after another as she says, “Opinionated, arrogant, bossy, patronizing.”
“What you’re saying is he’s no different from any other Wall Street millionaire.”
She nods. “I also heard he doesn’t keep any of his assistants around for long. They’re fired for the smallest of mistakes.”
“I guess I haven’t been paying close enough attention to the Carson family drama.”
“Well, anyway, he’s become a bit of a recluse, taking privacy to the extreme. You could just say you didn’t find anything.”
I give her a look that suggests she’s insane. “Steph, come on. If I don’t bring the story Benjamin wants or twist it to his liking, I’ll be fired anyway.”
“But I don’t want you to go.” She pouts. “You can’t leave me here with all the two-faced piranhas.”
“You have that interview with the Cut next week, right?” While it’s Steph’s dream to write about trends and designs, I’m more interested in politics and current events. My ultimate dream is to write for the New Yorker magazine, and in my spare time, pen a novel.
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. You got this. And something will come my way,” I say. I hike my purse up higher and lift my chin, showcasing confidence I don’t currently feel.
Steph steps to the side to let me pass. “If he offers it to me, I’ll tell him to shove it up his—”
“Thanks, Steph, but I don’t want you to lose your job, too.”
“The Cut, remember.” She jabs her thumb into her chest. “It’s mine.”
“Good girl,” I say, and give her a hug. “I’ll text you later.”
“Wait, Khloe.” Her gaze moves over my face. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine.”
Her eyes narrow. “You need some sun.”
I run my tongue over one of my molars. “A piece of filling chipped off this morning.” There had been something strangely hard in the sausage on the leftover pizza I had for breakfast. “Maybe if I put it under my pillow, the tooth fairy will leave enough money for us both to go on a vacation.”