“Okay,” I answered, sliding my eyes closed. I wanted at least a couple more hours of sleep before rolling into the office. Alistair and I hadn’t spent much of last night, or the past couple days, really, sleeping. We pretty much only slept when Nicolas was around. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable with the sounds of his sister … you know. Nicolas had already acted weird enough when he had come home early Saturday and found Alistair, barefoot and in his underwear with scratches down his back, in the kitchen brewing coffee.
That was a fun conversation, Alistair had told me when he came back to the room with the illicit coffee. I’d been sheepishly avoiding Nicolas since that meeting, which wasn’t really that hard considering he had picked up extra shifts due to a sick coworker.
Now Alistair was moving around my room, rustling his clothes, and then a door shut and the sound of running water came on. I was just about to sink into REM when I felt lips upon mine. I kissed back, then popped my eyes open.
I broke away, grinning. “Good thing that was you. Otherwise that would have been embarrassing.”
Alistair smirked, pulling his face away so he could see me fully. “You kiss anything that comes into contact with your mouth?”
“Just you.” I pecked him on his cheek. “And food.”
“So when will I see you next?” We had been nigh inseparable, just like old times. We had spent every night together since that amazing Tuesday after we’d left his office.
I liked the way he looked in my space, in my world. It was comfortable and easy to have him around, as if he belonged.
“Aren’t your three weeks over?”
“I can extend it to four,” I said with a saucy grin, shimmying my shoulders.
“Not bored watching me read?”
“Never.” I propped myself on an arm and reached for him. “I already sent in the article, but I can say I’m just hanging around the offices, working on ‘edits.’” I made air quotes.
“Ms. Reynolds, have I become a distraction?”
“The best sort of distraction.” I could enjoy myself for a week or so, allowing myself this pleasure, this crack in my defenses. At least, that was what I told myself as I stroked up and down Alistair’s pant leg, thinking back to last night.
I grinned.
“What are you smiling about?”
“Oh, you know. Dirty stuff.”
Alistair laughed and sat on the side of the bed, stroking my hair. I nestled myself up to him and gave a satisfied sigh while winding my arms around his waist.
Alistair combed my bangs back with his fingers. It was deliciously soothing. “After I finish with Solomon’s crap, let’s take the day off tomorrow. We can go to Central Park together. How about it?”
I peeked up to him. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“I’d really like that.”
“I’d really like that, too.”
“So how long is Solomon’s thing going to take?”
“A day, maybe two tops. I just have to do some damage control since there was talk that we were partnering up with him on the building. Rumors don’t get updated as quickly, so people still may think we’re involved.”
“Poor Cassandra.” It wasn’t some sick sense of schadenfreude going on; I genuinely pitied her. Must really suck to have your husband’s mistakes so resoundingly ruin a carefully controlled glass house of security.
“They’ll be fine. If anything, it’ll be a great test of loyalty.”
“We’ll see how that plays out.” I paused. “But really, will he be okay?”
Alistair stood up, zipping up his jacket and frowning. “Depends on how deep he got with the owners. Best-case scenario would be if he hadn’t signed the contract yet. Worst-case would be if he’d put all his assets on the line for this.”
He leaned and gave me a chaste kiss on the lips. “Go back to sleep. I’ll call you.”
“Good luck.” I rolled my face back into the pillow. “Bye,” came my muffled response.
Alistair petted me one last time on the head, brushing my hair off my cheek, then I heard him walk to the door and leave.
* * *
My alarm went off, startling me. My arms flailed, fighting to locate my clock radio atop my nightstand. I smacked the snooze button, then squinted at the time.
8:25 a.m.
Ugh. The back of my head flopped back and I stared at the ceiling. Alistair and I really had to stop staying up so late. We’d probably only had an hour or two of sleep before he’d left.
I grinned to myself at the memory, then shook my head, chastising myself for those perverted thoughts.
But it was okay. I guessed Tracy was right—we were boyfriend and girlfriend now. I was allowed now; it wasn’t taboo anymore. I could want him, I could kiss him, I could … well, I probably still couldn’t tell anyone about us, but after the article printed and enough time passed, then it would be okay.
That’d be nice. No more secrets, no more hiding, just possibilities. I still didn’t want to consider the future, but at the very least there was the inkling of a future now, and not just a past.
And if it was just the physical and the nostalgic, maybe we’d get it out of our systems and reevaluate things.
I swept the backs of my knuckles across my eyes, sitting up and throwing my legs over the edge of the mattress. I didn’t want to think too much about him and us; I had been doing it so much for so long that just acting purely on instinct was refreshing. I didn’t want to give that up.
I rinsed off in the shower, waking up under the cold stream. As I toweled off, I noticed Alistair’s toothbrush sitting next to mine, and despite myself, I smiled faintly. I had busted a pack open after his first night here, and the look he had given me at my offering was so adorable, he was like a kid again.
By the time I was dressed and walking into the kitchen, the time was closer to 8:45. I turned on the coffeepot and glanced out the window. A springtime shower had started and thin raindrops lashed against the glass.
I reached for my phone, which was charging along the bar, hidden amongst the picture frames.
My phone vibrated in my hand as soon as I picked it up, and I frowned.
1207 notifications.
I stared at the lock screen. There was the time, and the date, and underneath it a long list of text messages and e-mails spilled before me. The list updated as soon as the screen turned on, scrolling violently fast in front of my eyes, so quickly I couldn’t properly register what the messages said. Shock filled me with an oddly sick sense of dread.
My phone vibrated again, this time incessantly signaling a video call coming in. I frowned; no one ever video-called me.
Tracy Washington.
I hesitated, then tapped accept. I settled into the barstool and the call connected. Tracy’s disheveled appearance appeared before me.
“Florence!” she cried, fear and anxiety in her voice.
“Tracy, is everything okay? Are you okay?” Her eyes were panicked and she appeared scared.
“I can’t get up to your apartment!” Tracy said, and she thrust her fingers into her wild mane of hair. “I can’t get up!”
“Um.” I hesitated, utterly confused. “I’m leaving for work soon. I’ll just see you in the office.”
“No!” The background shifted behind Tracy. She had jumped up and was pacing around, the video bobbing up and down with her movements. “Don’t go to the offices, don’t go out!”
Okay, now I was really confused. I scratched my cheek, wondering if Tracy was having a meltdown of some sort. “What do you mean? I have to get to work …”
Tracy made a frustrated sound at the bottom of her throat. “Did you just wake up?”
“Uh … yes?”
“Listen, Florence! There’s a huge crowd of reporters at the entrance of the Journal and at your apartment building. Holy shit, you’re on the cover of the Post!”
“What?” I immediately bolted out of my seat. “What are you talking about?”
“What is this about?”
Tracy had stopped walking and was now just shifting nervously on her feet, the video bouncing in time with her movements. “Go online, read the article, they have it on the front page …”
“Tracy! What is the article on?” I began scrambling around the apartment, trying to find my laptop. I quickly located it on the dining room table and fumbled clumsily to open the lid. It jammed, and I wrestled with it while my chest thudded with anxiety.
“Florence … Florence … it’s about you and … you and Alistair.”
I attempted to sound light and carefree. “I mean, it can’t be that bad, right? They just found out we’re dating or something … it can’t be that bad. I mean, it was bound to happen or something.”
Silence greeted me at the other end, and my heart sunk.
I brought the phone up in front of my face again so I could see her clearly.
“What is it?”
Her features were unhappy, and if I was honest with myself, there was a touch of pity there. “He lied to you, Florence,” she said slowly.
“What are you talking about?”
“Dammit,” Tracy mumbled to herself, and I heard a deep voice next to her.
“Nicolas! Nic! Is that Nic?” I yelled out as my laptop booted up. I silently cursed for it to go faster.
“You talk to her, I don’t know what to say,” Tracy murmured in the background. The video shifted to the ceiling, sounds shuffling and crackling from the phone. Then Nicolas’s familiar face and voice came on.
“Florence?”
“I’m here! Someone, please, tell me what’s going on!”
Nicolas’s expression, in contrast, was stoic and firm. “Florence, go to the Post website and read the article. I’m trying to locate Alistair, but he’s not picking up. Just take it with a grain of salt before you freak out.”
“What the hell is going on?” I screamed, freaking out.
“Alistair bought the Journal months ago. They say he’s planning on making you editor. Did you know about this?”
* * *
My fingers trembled as they fought with the keyboard to spell out the Post’s site address. The taste of bile threatened and Nicolas’s words ran in a loop in my head.
—bought the Journal
—months ago
I fought for control. I had to confirm this with my own eyes. Until then, I couldn’t freak out. Don’t freak out, don’t overreact.
There it was. Despite my fruitless prayers that everyone was mistaken and none of it was true, that Tracy and Nicolas and all thousand-plus of my texts and e-mails and apparently the hordes of press crowding the sidewalk outside were just deliriously and hilariously wrong, there it was.
The front page was split. On one side was a picture of Alistair, and on the other side was me, my professional profile photo taken off the Journal’s website. I was smiling wide like an idiot, young and wearing a light gray suit with my hair down. It was an earlier photo, straight out of college.
REAL ESTATE MOGUL BUYS NEW YORK JOURNAL INSTITUTION FOR GIRLFRIEND screamed the headlines in blood-red ink, right below the pair of us.
My heart plummeted and my stomach seized into knots. My eyes flickered back to the address. Maybe I had typed the web address wrong. No. It was the right address.
There was me, all innocence and cluelessness.
There was Alistair, all contrasts in comparison. They had used a grainy paparazzi photo, one of his side profile, walking out of a nondescript high-rise. He was fierce and intense, eyes narrowed in irritation and trained towards the distance. There were harsh shadows thrown against his face, the indentations underneath his sharp cheekbones even more apparent in the low quality of the photo, especially compared to the glossy, sterile quality of mine.
I bit my lip and slowly scrolled down to read the article.
Alistair Blair of Blair Properties recently added two more crowning achievements to his infamous portfolio: the New York Journal and its senior staff profile writer, Florence Reynolds, 29. Documents filed in December of last year and only recently discovered by the Post reveal that Blair purchased the NY Journal for a reported $75 million in cash. The sale of the NY Journal had been shrouded in mystery and unknown to even to most well-connected members of the industry, trading hands with few in the know.
Anonymous sources close to the sale detailed the private, confidential nature of the transaction, which explains why information has only emerged six months later. Blair purchased the paper under a dummy corporation, New York Periodicals and Journalism Corporation (NYPJ), that seems to have been founded solely for this purpose. NYPJ also purchased the historical New York Journal building in which the newspaper offices are housed, as part of an additional sale rumored to be worth north of $200 million.
Blair, 31, has risen from his rumored beginnings as an orphan on a Michigan farm to the high-stakes role of newcomer in the New York real estate game. His ruthless and cold nature has proven to be successful and alienating, as well as his aversion to media appearances and all the flash typically associated with businessmen of his stature.
An anonymous source claims, “Blair was very curious about the movement of our overseas correspondents, including one in particular, Florence Reynolds. Once the sale was final, he made a personal request to have all overseas correspondents sent back to New York. She was one of them. And when she returned, she was immediately assigned a very coveted profile piece on him, and there have been lots of rumors around the office about their relationship. It eventually came out that he bought the newspaper for her, that they’d known each other for years since back in Michigan and they were planning on making her editor-in-chief once his ownership became public. The backdoor scheming and blatant favoritism is as clear as day. This is a huge blow to the integrity and confidence in the newsroom.”
When reached for a comment, the New York Journal’s current editor, Gordon Jones, 54, shoved the reporter and said, “Fu—CLICK FOR MORE
My eyes frantically combed over the screen.
No. No. No.
Grainy shots of us peppered the article. A shot of us dancing at the fundraising gala. Us kissing in the mirrored elevator. Another of us in his car. There were small photos of us in our youth, a local newspaper photo from when I won Queen Blueberry Festival and another of Alistair in the U of M school newspaper when he’d received a distinguished undergraduate award. I couldn’t bear to click the link to read the whole article.
Everyone thought I had plotted this, that I had asked Alistair to purchase the Journal. That I wanted to be editor, that I was going to put people out of jobs, had jumped the career hierarchy for my own gain.
Tears dotted my vision, the photos of us swimming in my vision. I buried my face in my hands.
He lied to me.
He lied to me.
He lied to me.
Chapter 30
Someone was pounding at my door, yelling my name at the top of their lungs. I ignored it as I rushed around the apartment, only stopping to grab items that were absolutely necessary.
I was in my bedroom, quickly flinging shirts and jeans onto my bed, when voices emerged from the hallway. Several heavy footsteps followed, accompanied by a deep voice coupled with a higher-pitched one, a voice with a slight European accent …
The doorknob to my bedroom jiggled, and Gertrude burst into the room.
I couldn’t say I was surprised to see her.
“I bet Alistair has a key to this apartment, huh?” I asked wryly. “Probably owns the damn building. The entire block?”
She didn’t refute my accusation. I continued to pack while saying, “You are literally the last person I want to see now.” I paused, a wad of socks in one hand. “Second to last,” I corrected.
If I saw Alistair, he’d better not be standing near any wind
ows because I’d knock him right through.
“Ms. Reynolds,” Gertrude started, but stopped in her tracks when I threw a withering glare in her direction. I was done being polite and putting up with everyone’s own little prejudices and judgments.
“Where are you going?” Gertrude asked, taking in my upturned closet and half-filled duffel bag.
“Home,” I answered roughly. The only emotion left in me was anger. After I had sat in shock for much of the morning, I was galvanized into action. I needed to get out of New York; I needed to get away from Alistair and from the oncoming media deluge coming my way.
“You can’t leave. Everything will be okay!”
If I wasn’t so upset and hurt, I would have found this all hilarious. Gertrude trying to comfort me, placate me? Alistair had sent the wrong messenger. He just seemed to be making all sorts of poor judgment calls recently. “Don’t waste your time. Get out of my apartment.”
Gertrude began making desperate motions with her arms, as if swinging them about while talking loudly would change my mind or calm me. Neither was true.
She sputtered out her rebuttal. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes!” Gertrude was indignant about my anger. She pointed an accusatory finger at me. “Mr. Blair did all that for you. He spent two hundred million dollars on a building, another ghastly sum purchasing your paper. He did it all for you!”
“What?” I reeled back in shock, not trusting what I heard.
I couldn’t believe it: a twenty-first-century woman, thinking Alistair’s actions were romantic. My head was spinning—with the news of the morning, with the conversation of the moment, with the bitter and dense disappointment that had become so real.
“Gertrude, you have to be joking. He trapped me. That’s what he did. He didn’t give me any option. I have to quit my job because I can’t work at the Journal anymore, not under him. He played me and lied to me throughout the entire time I was chasing this profile. His actions resulted in this situation being splayed out in the media, and now my reputation is gone. I can’t ever work in this town again, not for any reputable publication, anyway.”
The Beginning of Always Page 41