by Nicole Deese
© 2021 by Nicole Deese
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-2992-9
Scripture quotations are from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Emojis are from the open-source library OpenMoji (https://openmoji.org/) under the Creative Commons license CC BY-SA 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/legalcode)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Represented by Kirkland Media Management
For Mandy
Your unapologetic love for all things beautiful
is as inspiring as your unwavering support
for your chosen tribe.
I’m blessed to be counted among them.
I adore you.
Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.
PHILIPPIANS 2:3–4
1
Molly
I used to marvel at the way my Great Mimi’s arthritic fingers would pinch her eyeliner pencil and trace a perfect stroke of midnight black along her upper lash line. The way her tired, nearly translucent skin would transform into a picture of regal elegance with only a few pats and swipes of color. For an eleven-year-old girl whose mother had never owned a single tube of mascara, it was a magical experience.
I’d watch my Mimi’s routine with my elbows propped onto a gold-leaf vanity and eyebrows disappearing behind poorly cut bangs. My mouth would form an opera-worthy O as she became a living, breathing masterpiece, her best features showcased and enhanced, her flaws minimized and concealed.
And in those final few seconds before she closed her makeup drawer and blotted her ruby red lips, she’d hand me her blush brush and say with a wink, “Molly, when you feel good in your own skin, it’s easy to help someone else feel good in theirs.”
I’d tap the remaining rouge onto the apples of my pale cheeks and smile at the stringy-haired girl in the mirror, promising myself that one day I would do just that: I would help someone else feel the way my Mimi had always made me feel. And now, sixteen years and 606,000 Instagram followers later, I’d kept my promise to that often misunderstood little girl, one emboldened cat-eye and sheer lip tutorial at a time.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
I snapped the compact of my recently reviewed translucent face powder closed—four-out-of-five lip smacks, dinged for a shorter wear life than advertised—and primped my hair one last time in the mirror before following the sound of my oven’s cry.
“See, Ethan? I told you I could finish getting ready before the oven preheated. That took what, five minutes? Hey, maybe that could be an idea for a future post series. ‘How to Get Date-Ready in Five Minutes or Less.’ Or wait—‘How to Get Date-Ready in Five Minutes and Five Products or Less’ is even better. Then I can feature that new Hollywood Nights collection that just came in. I’ll have Val add it to the schedule.” I rounded the corner into the kitchen, expecting to see my boyfriend on the recliner in my living room. Only he wasn’t there.
“Ethan?” I slid the glass pan of chicken marsala into the oven and lifted the charcuterie board I’d spent nearly an hour preparing. There was something strangely satisfying about arranging cheeses, meats, nuts, figs, and olives.
“The chicken will take about forty minutes to bake, but our appetizers will go great with that wine you bought last month. I’ve been saving it.” I wove around the island, gathering the glasses and balancing the cheese board on my palm like the trained waitress I was not. If my twin brother were here, this would be his cue to crack a joke about my propensity to drop plates of food, even though that had only happened one time. Granted, it had been on Thanksgiving Day, and granted, I had been carrying our twenty-five-pound stuffed turkey, but still, there should be a statute of limitations on bad family jokes.
I continued my balancing act into the living room. “I’m sure your appetite is still on East Coast time, but—” I stopped abruptly at the sight of my boyfriend stretched out on my sofa, eyes closed.
“Ethan?” I set both the appetizers and stemware on the coffee table and tiptoed over to him—quite a feat in four-inch cork-wedge heels. I approached him as if he were a wind-up toy ready to spring into action at any moment, which was perhaps the most fitting description of Ethan Carrington.
But there was no springing.
Apparently it didn’t matter how much time a woman spent creating the perfect cat-eye if the man she wanted to impress was unconscious. I crouched low and waved a hand over his face before he released a snore that had me cupping a hand over my own mouth to stifle a laugh. This had to be the most anticlimactic start to a date ever.
I covered him with a vegan angora throw from a boutique in Canada I’d promoted last autumn, then decided to capitalize on the rare moment. After all, Ethan’s favorite marketing motto was Never miss an opportunity to relate to your audience.
I whipped out my phone and proceeded to take a ten-second story, featuring my adorable sleeping boyfriend, a tray of untouched appetizers, and one pouty-lipped me. I captioned a post with Jet lag is the thief of romance.
Not even eight seconds later, my phone began to vibrate with notifications—likes, comments, emojis. An immediate endorphin boost. The temptation to scroll through them proved too much. After all, my manager-turned-boyfriend showed no signs of waking any time soon, and truth was, even if he had woken up, he’d tell me to reply to at least the first twenty or so commenters. Something to do with increased visibility and reach.
You’re so
cute, Molly! And so is your boy toy! Hubba hubba . . .
Ah, sorry girl! But at least that maxi dress is ADORBS on you! Link please???
Good hair days like that should never be wasted tho. Wake him up already!
I liked a few dozen comments, replying in kind to their emoji strings and creative hashtags, then scrolled through the rest of my feed, hovering over the latest post by Felicity Fashion Fix, the snotty diva and ex-client of Ethan’s who once stole an entire vlog series idea from me two days before mine went live. I breathed out my nose the way Val always encouraged me to and tried to let go of the negative static in my chest . . . but not before glancing at Felicity’s latest follower count. 415,687. What? How on earth did she get such a big jump in followers so quickly? What is she doing? Besides stealing other people’s ideas, of course.
When Ethan finally began to stir, it took a hefty force of will to silence my phone and shove it in the crack of the chair cushion. Yet I did it with a smile, because that was what committed couples did for each other. At least, that was what I’d read from a popular blogger I followed: “Healthy couples ignore the pressures of social media to be socially present in their relationship.” I’d saved the pretty graphic to my photo reel just two days ago. Ethan and I didn’t get much face-to-face time since he traveled for business roughly three weeks out of the month, but perhaps the strain of a long-distance relationship would dissipate if we practiced being more socially present with the time we did have together.
“Hey there, sleepyhead,” I crooned from the recliner, where I’d kicked off my shoes and tucked my frozen feet under the skirt of my dress. Most days, springtime in northeast Washington was just a less snowy version of winter. “Welcome back.”
He jolted at the sound of my voice and blinked. “Molly?”
“Happy date night.”
Ethan rubbed at his eyes again. “What time is it?”
I glanced at the wall clock, surprised at how much time had passed while I’d been scrolling my feed. “A little after six.”
He pushed himself up to a seated position. “You should have woken me. I don’t even remember dozing off.”
“No way, you looked way too peaceful to disturb.” And it was nice to see him without a screen on his lap or in his hand. Ethan wasn’t the greatest at leaving his work behind. Then again, neither was I. “Besides, you’ve been up since two in the morning Pacific time. Dozing off for a few minutes seems perfectly acceptable—even for someone as immune to naps as you are.”
He ran a hand through his thick butterscotch-colored locks, and my breath actually hitched in my chest at the sight. In no way did he look like a man who’d spent his entire day traveling on an airplane. He smiled at me with those same midnight blue eyes that had won him many a client—myself included.
“Well, I hope you don’t hold it against me, because I’ve been looking forward to tonight. To being with you.” His expression cleared, then sharpened on my face. “There’s actually something big we need to discuss. I wanted to tell you in person.”
The professional tone made my palms grow damp. “Something to do with the agency?” There’d been a lot of changes happening within the Cobalt Group recently. Most had been great—bigger sponsors to partner with their contracted influencers, which, of course, meant bigger paychecks, bigger referrals, and a bigger bottom line. But nobody was immune to the volatile nature of our industry. There was always somebody waiting to rise to the top. Somebody willing to do more at whatever cost.
“Wait,” I said, remembering the chicken. “Before you answer that, I need to check on our dinner first.”
As if on cue, the oven timer buzzed as I scrambled to my feet to make for the kitchen. But Ethan’s hand reached out for mine, and he tugged me toward him. He held out my arm to turn me this way and that. “You look really good, babe. That dress is on point. Did your fans choose it?”
“You’d know if you stopped by my pages more than every couple of weeks,” I teased as I swiveled my hips to show the flare of the skirt as it swept over my bare toes. Once again, my online poll had proven itself accurate. This particular maxi dress had won over three other options categorized under “Best Home Date Dress” by nearly seven thousand votes.
I pecked his cheek and unhooked my hand from his. “I’ve got to get that chicken out or we’ll be eating charcoal for dinner.” I made my way from the sofa to the kitchen. “Oh, and don’t think I forgot about your promise to take pictures for me while you were at Fashion Week.”
He chuckled and slid out his phone from his back pocket. “I managed to take a few, but I doubt they’ll meet your queenly standards. Not all of us can be top-trending influencers.”
Ethan’s hyperspeed mode usually left little time for snapping quality pictures of anything. Over the last nine months of our dating life, I’d received many a blurred selfie—Ethan in front of the Golden Gate Bridge for a triathlon, Ethan wearing his scuba gear on the coast of Fiji, Ethan jumping out of an airplane. There was never much context to his photos, other than his signature cheekbones and jewel-toned eyes, but even in the chaos of his shots, his zest for taking all that life could give him was palpable.
Ethan’s all-gas-little-brake personality had found me at the perfect time.
After so many years of playing the role of outsider in a family who strived after intangible things, someone finally understood me—believed in me, even.
Allowing the pan of chicken to cool on top of the stove, I made him up a plate of smoked gouda and dry salami from the charcuterie board, arranging several crackers around the edges, and then poured him a glass of red wine. I placed both on the table and sat next to him. He didn’t touch either offering.
Instead, he perched on the edge of my couch as if ready to sprint. “Babe, I had a meeting with Mr. Greggorio yesterday. About you.”
About me? Mr. Greggorio was Ethan’s partner at Cobalt, only he had about thirty years on Ethan in life and in running a successful marketing agency. His name always sparked a flurry of nerves. Maybe because Ethan had never once referred to him by a name other than Mr. Greggorio. Then again, perhaps wealthy, yacht-owning Italian men who agented all kinds of entertainment, talent, and business professionals didn’t have first names? “But my numbers are on the rise. I just passed the six hundred thousand mark.”
Ethan turned on the magnetism he was known for. “Oh, he knows. He’s been keeping tabs on you himself. In fact, he’s been doing a lot more than that.”
I had no response for this. None. Mr. Greggorio didn’t deal with influencer riffraff like me. He handled Cobalt’s VIP clientele only—partnering with product lines associated with sponsors and companies that ranked in the top brands and corporations worldwide. I wasn’t even certain he’d remembered me after our first meeting last year when I signed on as an influencer with them—a low-level one at that. My numbers had barely brushed the one hundred thousand mark, and my brand had been anything but focused. But Ethan had believed in my talent, in what I could do for the fashion and beauty industry as a whole, and he’d signed me on the spot.
We went on our first date just two months later. He’d flown me to dinner at the Space Needle—just under an hour flight from Spokane, Washington.
He stood now and paced my living room floor, his new flat-front chinos flexing with each step without a single winkle in sight—a fashion miracle considering his earlier state of hibernation. He stopped without warning and turned on the heel of his loafer. “He says you have the It Factor. The special quality that separates the fakes from the real thing.” His grin revealed freshly whitened teeth. “Do you have any idea how many clients Mr. Greggorio has worked with in his lifetime?”
If I was stunned before, then I was practically catatonic now. I gave the tiniest shake of my head.
“Thousands.” He laughed. “Thousands, Molly!” A wild spark ignited his gaze. “And I’m not the only one he told that to, either. He pitched you to the media moguls at Netflix. They’re looking to recruit fresh talent
for a new feel-good series slated for next year. And their response to him was, ‘Molly McKenzie is already on our radar.’”
“What?” I leapt off the sofa, unsure of what to do with my body other than gawk and flail my arms like a flightless bird. “No. No way. You’re lying to me. This can’t be real. Tell me you’re lying.” A scratchy, unrecognizable whisper escaped my throat. “Are you lying?”
He laughed. “Not even I could tell a lie that good.”
I flung myself at him, and he caught my waist and spun me around. “Oh my goodness! I know you said it would happen someday, that you’d take my brand places I couldn’t even begin to imagine, but I . . . I just can’t believe it’s actually happening!”
Ethan lowered me to the ground and cupped my face in his hands. “As long as you stay focused on the goals ahead, I will work to make your wildest dreams come true.” He smiled as if to let his words soak in. “But before I can submit your official audition to the producers this summer, we need to eliminate every potential weak spot in your résumé to edge out your competitors.”
“Sure, of course.” Whatever cloud-like euphoria had inflated my entire being only moments ago had sprung a leak. Ethan reached for his briefcase, and just like that, Manager Ethan had shown Boyfriend Ethan to the door.
“I wrote some key targets down for you on my last flight. I know how much you like to visualize your goals.”
“Right. Thanks.” My gaze dropped to his briefcase as he popped open the lock. “Whatever I need to do, I’ll do it.”
A slight curve lifted the corner of Ethan’s mouth. “That’s exactly what I told Mr. Greggorio you’d say.”
He scooted the appetizer board and wine glasses to a separate side table.
“So you’re wanting to go over all this right now, then?” I asked, glancing back at our cooling dinner.
“Waiting time is wasted time.” An Ethan quotable if ever there was one. Ethan was not someone who believed patience was a virtue.
“Right.” I took the bullet point list from his hand, and my gaze immediately snagged on the first objective listed.
1 million subscribers
“A million subscribers? By the end of August?”