by Lila Monroe
“That may be,” his father says calmly, “but we’re not in the newspaper business, Justin. We’re in the moneymaking business, and that means a third of the staff needs to go. I want the list of the employees you’re laying off on my desk first thing tomorrow, and then I want them out of the building by noon. Understand?”
Holy crap.
I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but I’m rooted to my spot, hanging back in the shadows so Justin won’t notice me lurking. For a moment it looks like he’s going to tell his father where to shove it, but in the end he just kind of sags. “Sure, Dad,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Whatever you say.”
Is he serious?
I stand there for a moment once he hangs up, shock and impotent rage flooding through me. A third of the staff! Then I straighten my spine. Enough. What was it that Pearl said about not waiting around for the axe to fall?
Let Justin go ahead and fire me, if that’s what he and his evil troll of a father are so set on doing. But there’s no way I’m letting them take everyone else down without a fight.
“All right, listen,” I announce, barging into Justin’s office without bothering to knock. “I know that as far as you’re concerned I’m just some assistant who’s hanging onto her job by her fingernails, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know right from wrong. And what you’re about to do here? It’s completely and totally unforgiveable.”
Justin looks at me across his office, startled. “I—” he begins, but I cut him off.
“I mean, this isn’t just some two-bit media startup you’re talking about,” I tell him. “The Gazette has been around over a hundred years. It’s a New York City institution. We’ve broken stories about corruption at the highest levels. Gone undercover in prisons. This newsroom won a freakin’ Pulitzer not five years ago!”
“Natalie—” Justin holds up a hand to try and stop me, but I’m on a roll now.
“What would have happened if the Boston Globe had shut down the Spotlight team?” I demand, my hands on my hips. “We’d still be eating ground-up horsemeat for dinner if Upton Sinclair never wrote The Jungle! And frankly I didn’t spend my entire childhood forcing my brother to play Woodward and Bernstein so that I could lose my dream job to some guy in a fancy suit who only cares about prof—”
“Enough!” Justin roars. This time, he’s loud enough to get my attention. “Can you stop?”
“What?”
“Just— just stop for a second.” Justin shakes his head, looking utterly exhausted. “We’re on the same side.”
“Um.” I blink, my brain taking a moment to process this new information. “We are?”
“Yes, Natalie.” He lets out a sigh. “Ever since the first moment my dad put me in charge of this place, I’ve spent twenty-four hours a day doing literally everything I can think of to keep him from bulldozing it. I’m a New Yorker, OK? I grew up reading this paper, and I’m dying to save it. You think I want to go around handing out a bunch of pink slips? Like, have you ever actually fired anyone?” When I don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows. “Seriously, have you?”
I shake my head.
“Well, I have.” Justin shudders. “And it’s horrible. I hate it. I want this to work—I’m up all night, every night, trying to think of ways to make it happen—but it’s like nobody here even wants to give me a chance.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting that. I look at him for a moment. For the first time it occurs to me that I might have misjudged him. “OK. I’m . . .” I trail off, embarrassed at myself—for jumping to conclusions, for not giving him the benefit of the doubt. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he says, sitting back in his chair and rubbing his hands over his face. He looks totally ravaged, like he hasn’t slept a full night in weeks—and from the sound of things, he hasn’t. “I mean, I get it. I know what it looks like, me waltzing in here. And the truth is I don’t know what I’m doing a hundred percent of the time. But I’m trying. And that’s more than anyone else my father sent here would do.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing, either,” I confess, leaning against the doorjamb and thinking of the horoscope column—I wrote another one this afternoon, crossing my fingers and praying to the stars for guidance. And for me not to get totally busted as a celestial imposter. “A lot of time it feels like I’m just faking it.”
Justin shakes his head. “Don’t say that. I’ve read your clips, you know.”
That surprises me. “You have?”
He nods. “Of course I have. You’re really talented.”
“I’m tenacious,” I allow, though in fact I’m glowing like a hot stone with the compliment. I can’t deny the fact that I like the idea of it—him taking in the words I strung together so carefully, finding value there. And I can’t deny the pull I still feel in his direction, even though I know nothing can ever happen between us.
“I see that,” he says with a smile. “Did you really used to make your brother play Woodward and Bernstein?”
“I did,” I recall, a little sheepishly. “My mom was Deep Throat.”
That makes him laugh, his dark head tipped back to expose the long column of his neck, and I do my best not to imagine my mouth there, my tongue slicking over his pulse point.
“You should take off,” he says finally, righting himself again. “It’s late.”
“You should too,” I point out, glancing at my watch. “Or are you going to hang out here, burn the midnight oil?”
Justin shakes his head. “I’ve actually got to get going,” he tells me, glancing down at his watch with a grimace. “I’ve got tickets to a charity gala at the Met.”
“Oh!” Right, of course, a charity gala at the Met. Just a low-key Tuesday night. “Well, have fun.”
Justin considers me for a minute. “Actually,” he says, “I’ve got an extra ticket, if you’re interested.”
For a second I’m one hundred percent sure I’ve misheard him, but Justin just looks at me curiously, dark eyebrows slightly raised like he’s waiting for an answer. “I’m sorry,” I say finally. “What?”
He shrugs, like he’s offering me an extra pass to a movie at the second-run theater and not a black-tie fundraiser. “My date canceled,” he says easily. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Well, that’s a lie, it’ll probably be stuffy and sort of endless, but I can promise you champagne and all the crab puffs you can eat.”
A night out with Justin Rockford at my very favorite museum—even a stuffy, sort of endless night out—is achingly tempting. Still, I shake my head. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
Justin isn’t buying it. “You look great to me.”
He keeps his gaze on mine as he says it, and I can’t deny that the words send a flush all the way down my body. Then I look down at my jeans and plaid shirt and let out an incredulous laugh. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it, “but there’s no way I’m going to a gala at the Met dressed as a lumberjack.”
Justin shrugs again, unruffled. “So we’ll pick something up on the way,” he says, shutting his computer down and stuffing some papers into his messenger bag. “Come on, go grab your bag.”
I gaze at him for a moment, mentally cataloguing all the reasons why this is a truly terrible idea—why I should go home to Brooklyn and put on my coziest sweatpants, maybe queue up the episodes of Chopped I’ve been saving for a special occasion.
Then all at once I remember the horoscope I wrote for myself this morning, back when I thought the biggest chance I was going to take today was going to be pitching my real estate article:
Be bold, Gemini! Step out of your comfort zone, take the leap. The universe will catch you if you fall.
Who knows? Maybe there’s something to this astrology stuff after all.
“Meet you by the elevators in five minutes?” I ask him. Justin grins.
“See you there.”
7
Natalie
Justin is a lot of things, but I’m not expecting “up on women’s fashion” to be
one of them, which is why I’m surprised when he has his driver stop in front of what’s easily the hippest—not to mention the most expensive—boutique in Manhattan. It doesn’t even have a name, just a squiggle of a logo over the door. Not that I’ve ever shopped here. I’m not even fit to buy a single hairpin from a place like this, but you can bet I’ve seen the fashion spreads, with all the hottest starlets dressed up to the nines in amazing outfits.
“Justin,” I start, looking from the windows to him and back again. “I can’t—” Afford this. Believe this is happening. Stop thinking about kissing you. “Let you do this,” I settle on. “I mean, the whole Pretty Woman thing is like, thirty years out of date!”
“I’ve never seen that movie,” Justin replies, and I stop, momentarily distracted.
“Wait, seriously?”
He gives a shrug. “He’s a john, and she’s a sex worker? That doesn’t sound romantic to me. How are they ever going to have an equal relationship if he feels like he bought her?”
“That’s what I always say!” I exclaim, thrilled. “I don’t understand why people swoon over it! Like he won’t just throw it in her face every time they fight for the next ten years, until he leaves her for a younger model.” Then I shake my head. Focus. “Which is why this whole dressing me up thing is just . . . weird.”
Justin bursts out laughing. “You think . . . this is some kind of ploy to buy you?” he asks in disbelief. “Natalie, we’re just problem-solving here. I need a date to save me from gouging my own eyes out with boredom, you need a dress. Voila, the solution.”
“J. Crew would be a solution too,” I can’t help but mutter.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but J. Crew won’t cut it tonight,” Justin replies. “I have my reputation to think of,” he adds, with a teasing grin to let me know he doesn’t take himself so seriously.
“Well, if we’re here to protect the great Rockford name . . .” I smirk back, feeling better. “I might just be able to grin and bear it.”
A moment later the door is opened and we’re faced with the designer herself, whom I recognize from her feature in last month’s Vogue. Suze Delavigne. Her blonde hair is cut into a short, asymmetrical bob, and she’s wearing a simple black tunic that would probably fit like a potato sack on anyone else but on her looks like it cost a million bucks—which, let’s face it, it probably did. A diamond stud winks in her nose.
“Thanks for bailing us out, Suze,” Justin says, flashing her a charming grin. “This is Natalie. Natalie, Suze.”
“It’s great to meet you,” Suze says, extending one delicate hand. “I hope you don’t mind—Justin said you were in a hurry, so I pulled some pieces for you to try.”
“Um, that sounds amazing,” I say, trying not to sound as taken aback as I am by the idea of Suze freaking Delavigne as my personal stylist.
She leads us inside, flipping on the lights as she goes. Rack after rack of gorgeous clothing is lit up beneath the uber-trendy neon strip lights. I grab Justin’s arm. “How exactly are you on a first-name basis with the owner of Neue?” I whisper-hiss.
Justin smiles. “I took sailing lessons with her wife, back in the day. And her brother’s best friend’s cousin hosted a benefit for the Rockford Foundation last year.”
Well, that explains it.
Justin makes himself comfortable on a leather couch, scrolling on his phone while Suze shows me to a dressing room—which, to be clear, is more luxurious than a five-star hotel—and brings me an armload of gala-worthy dresses: silk and lace in brilliant jewel tones, all of them more beautiful and delicate than anything I’ve ever owned. I try them on as quickly as possible, not wanting to be an inconvenience, but Suze doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. “That color is fabulous on you,” she says, tilting her head approvingly as I slip into a long, wine-colored number. “Do you want to show Justin?”
“Oh, no,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm. “We’re not—” I break off, trying to figure out exactly what we are. Friends? Colleagues who made out once and now occasionally buy each other expensive ballgowns? “It’s a work thing,” I explain finally.
I try on a couple more of Suze’s selections before finally settling on a little black dress that costs less—but barely—than my share of this month’s rent. It feels more than a little weird, picking out fancy clothes when by all accounts the Gazette’s finances are circling the drain, but I figure this is Justin’s personal credit card on the line here, and hell, he can afford it. In fact, he doesn’t even glance at the total on the register. He’s too busy staring at me, I can’t help but notice.
And enjoy.
“Those are pretty,” he says, when he catches me gazing lustfully at a pair of Louboutin stilettos. They have signs of the zodiac decorated on them in crystals, and the effect is bling-to-the-max, but weirdly fitting for tonight, I can’t help thinking. “Suze, let’s do the shoes, too, OK?”
“Justin!” I protest. “No, it’s too much.”
“Are you saying that because you really think it is too much, or because you think you should think so?” he asks with a knowing smile.
I blink. “Huh?”
“We’re taking the shoes,” he says decisively.
And I let him. Maybe it makes me a terrible person, but they’re so pretty! Besides, the heavens have gotten me this far, maybe they’ll be my good luck charm.
“OK, real talk,” I say, turning to look at him as she rings him up. “Do you just pull this Cinderella routine with a different random girl every week, or . . . ?”
Justin laughs. “That makes me the fairy godmother in this scenario? I prefer that to Richard Gere.”
“Sorry, dude, but you’re no Richard Gere,” I tell him with a laugh.
He hands me the shoes, and I brace myself on his shoulder while I slip them on, trying not to notice how warm and solid his shoulder feels underneath the starchy fabric of his dress shirt. He’s still your boss, Natalie, I remind myself firmly. Off limits.
We say our thank yous to Suze and head out into the cool city night, Justin stopping to steady me as I wobble in my brand new heels. “Sorry,” I say, blushing a bit. “I’m more of a jeans and sneakers girl, normally.”
“Me too,” Justin says immediately. “You should see me trying to walk in my Jimmy Choos.”
I snort. “So, this date who canceled on you,” I can’t help but ask, keeping hold of his arm as we make our way down the sidewalk. “Would she care that you brought your assistant instead?”
“He,” Justin corrects absently. Then, off what I can only assume is the totally gobsmacked expression on my face: “My cousin Charlie.”
“Ah.” I nod.
“He mostly stays away from Rockford stuff,” Justin explains. “Which shows just how much smarter he is than the rest of us.”
“Just what am I getting myself in to?” I ask, noticing something in his expression.
“It’s . . . complicated,” he says, in a voice like possibly that’s an understatement. “My family can be kind of a mixed blessing. I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he adds quickly. “I know exactly how lucky I am. The Rockford name means something, and most people don’t get the kind of opportunities I’ve been fortunate enough to have. I’m definitely not complaining. They’re just . . . tricky sometimes, that’s all.”
“I’ll consider myself warned,” I tell him, and slip my arm through his. Purely for the balance, of course, but I can’t help noticing I like the way it feels.
* * *
When we arrive at the gala, I have to say: Justin was right. There’s no way J. Crew would cut it in this crowd. The magnificent space is glittering with Manhattan’s elite, all decked out in their finest, sipping champagne and circulating under the glowing spotlights.
And tonight, I guess I pass as one of them.
The theme for the evening is Casino Night, with poker tables and a roulette wheel set up around the perimeter of the Temple of Dendur while a jazz singer in elbow-length gloves croons Ella Fitzgerald songs in on
e corner. “It’s all for the children’s hospital,” Justin explains, guiding me through the crowd and snagging a couple of flutes of champagne. “It’s a big cause of my dad’s, but he’s traveling for work right now, so he asked me to come instead. And when my dad asks for something . . .”
“It’s not really a request?” I ask, mentally adding the Rockford Pediatric Cancer Unit to Poppy’s list of Justin’s family’s notable landmarks.
“Exactly.”
I watch as Justin works the room for a while, noticing the way he’s perfectly at home among New York’s glitterati—asking after their trips to Dubai and their newest movies, the startups they’ve acquired this quarter. He always makes a point to introduce me, which I appreciate, but the truth is I’m feeling more than a little bit out of my depth—usually a fancy night out for me means club-hopping with Poppy and April, and only at bars running a two-for-one drink special.
Justin must be able to tell, because he ducks his head and whispers in my ear:
“See the guy at the craps table?” he asks, his breath tickling the side of my neck. “The one with the super unfortunate toupee?”
I follow his gaze across the museum, trying to ignore my shiver at his touch. “With the mean-looking wife?” I ask.
“Uh huh,” Justin says with a grin. “She’s in a mood because their priceless collection of art just got seized by the IRS, and he had to explain he’d been siphoning off the funds to pay for his mistress’s place in St. Tropez.”
I snort with laughter. “That’s like the dictionary definition of rich people problems!” I grin. “What else?”
“Hmmm . . .” He grabs us a plate of hors d’oeuvres and fills me in on our fellow gala-goers: who’s breaking up and who’s secretly dating, who’s actually millions of dollars in the hole. “And then she got caught in a compromising position with him in the tennis club dressing room,” he says, pointing out two people who are definitely not married to each other. “Working on their backhands.”