by Mika Jolie
One of the office security guards finally appears, taking her by the elbow. “Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to leave,” he tells her.
“Oh, sure,” she sneers. “Kick me out just like you always do, isn’t that right?” She glances around at the onlookers, pausing when she catches a glimpse of me. “And some help you are, Charlotte. I’ve been calling you all morning.”
I inwardly wince and wish I responded to her messages, but I’ve been lost in my own conundrum. “Mom, I’m at work.”
“That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?” She struggles to free herself of the security guard’s grip, but his hand looks as immovable as an iron vise. “Why haven’t you come to visit me?” she demands as the guard begins to steer her away from the front desk. “You’re my daughter. You’re supposed to be here for me!”
“I am here for you, Mom,” I protest. “But you’re drunk. Go home. I’ll stop by after work.”
I take a step back so they can move by me, and the look she gives me is positively venomous.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it,” she hisses. “Let me guess. You found a new boy toy to replace me, too, didn’t you? God, you people are all the same.” The security guard summons the elevator, and Mom cranes her neck to stare back at me. “Don’t bother calling, Charlotte. You’re just like him.” And with that, they disappear into the elevator, leaving me to watch them go.
For a beat, I stand in sad silence, powerless and conflicted. It’s been fifteen years since my parents separated. How can a man’s betrayal hurt so much after so many years?
I hate seeing my mother like this. I hate that she allowed a man to have so much power over her that when he left, it shattered her into tiny broken pieces.
Can she ever be whole again?
Is she capable of gluing her scattered pieces together?
“Charlotte.” Dad’s voice startles me back to reality. I turn to him, and for once I see remorse in his gaze. “It’s fine,” he says, holding his hands up to the onlooking employees. “Everything’s under control.” He makes eye contact with me for a moment before turning and heading back to his office, and I’m left standing in the middle of the reception, frozen in place.
It’s only after the other spectators have cleared out that I notice Jagger watching me from over by the windows. My eyes meet his for just a moment, then he looks away without another word.
14
Jagger
They say everyone loves a spectacle.
They’re wrong. I hate spectacles. Especially spectacles involving my boss and his daughter, whom I’ve developed feelings for, against all odds. Yet even as I watch Charlotte’s mom yell at her and Richard, swaying drunkenly on her feet and shouting as if there were no one around, I can’t make myself move. It’s like I’m glued to the spot, watching this all unfold while my coworkers look on in equal amounts of confusion. It’s all I can do to pull my eyes away from Charlotte’s when her gaze meets mine in the aftermath, fighting the heat that threatens to rush into my face. She told me it was bad. But I wasn’t expecting anything quite this bad.
My mind is reeling as I finally get my legs to work, turning stiffly around and lurching back toward my office. I need shelter, somewhere to think. But most of all, I need to be away from her, even if that’s the last thing I want.
We’ve been avoiding each other ever since that night when we kissed, and so far, I’ve been able to worm my way out of interacting with Charlotte by focusing on my other work with the creative team. That’s all coming to an end, however, and from the looks of it, we’re going to have to go back to the drawing board for some parts of the McGowan campaign.
Do I feel even more guilty about how I left things now that I’ve seen what Charlotte’s personal life really looks like? Is that it?
I don’t need to ask myself that question. The answer is yes. For all the fucked-up shit I had to deal with as a kid, at least I was able to rinse my hands of it as soon as I turned eighteen. I can’t imagine having to deal with that kind of dysfunction well into my twenties, let alone having it follow me into work. But doesn’t this just reinforce the fears I’ve been having about getting involved with Charlotte in the first place? Her work life and personal life are inextricably connected, and regardless of the promotion, I don’t know if I can bring myself to complicate that further. It wouldn’t be fair to her.
That said, though, I’m now realizing just how true that adage is about absence making the heart grow fonder. She’s all I think about, day and night, and for all I was hoping that pushing her away would make this easier on both of us, the pull she has on me is inescapable. Even if I do get that job and move on with my career, will I be able to come back from this? I haven’t felt this way about anyone in years. Something inside me is trying to escape, and some part of me wonders if it’s only a matter of time before it finally overcomes me.
“Jagger,” comes Richard’s voice as I walk down the hallway. His office door is open, which is unusual, and I poke my head in.
“Yes, sir?”
“Would you come in here for a minute?” he asks. “This won’t take long. I just have something to go over with you.”
I nod and enter his office, pausing to shut the door behind me before taking a seat across from him at his massive desk. Clearing my throat, I cross my legs and debate saying something about the fiasco I just witnessed, but Richard beats me to it.
“Sorry about that,” he says, nodding in the direction of the reception area. “My ex-wife is…troubled. She has a good heart, but it’s soaked in alcohol. I’ll have to make sure to let security know not to let her in again.”
“I’m just glad it didn’t escalate.”
“You and me both.” His brows furrow as he glances out the window at the skyscrapers that surround the building. Finally, he sighs, turning back to me and shaking his head as if coming out of a memory. “I wanted to talk to you about the McGowan campaign.”
Did Charlotte tell him what happened between us? Is this the part where he fires me, and I can kiss a future in marketing goodbye? I give him a stiff nod.
“How are things coming along with Charlotte?” he asks, putting his hands on the desk. “Are the two of you getting along all right?”
He sounds like a teacher talking to a concerned parent. “Of course.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “I mean, the campaign is shaping up nicely, all things considered. I don’t know if you heard, but McGowan wanted some changes to the Instagram campaign.”
He nods. “Are you still on track to have it done by the deadline?”
“Absolutely,” I reply without missing a beat. “It’s already in good shape. Once we work out the kinks, it will be good to go.”
“Great,” he says with a thoughtful nod. “I’m glad to hear it. And how is your relationship with Charlotte? Have the two of you been working together well?”
Is this a trick question?
What am I supposed to say?
Well, you see, sir, everything’s fine, except for oh you know…she’s got my head messed up and every night I dream about doing unspeakable things with her.
“We’re getting the work done.”
He stares at me for a moment, almost as if he can read my thoughts. A part of me wants to break eye contact—focus my attention on the Reservoir Dogs artwork hanging on the wall behind him, or anything else—not because I find him intimidating, but there’s a good chance my feelings for his daughter are written all over my face.
I hold his stare, dig deep, and maintain my cool.
Finally, he says, “Remember the party that Northside is putting on for us this weekend, up in White Plains?”
“Yeah,” I respond. “It’s kind of an annual thing, right?”
“Right.” He rubs his chin, leaning back in his chair and frowning. “I’ve put your names on the list.”
Names—as in plural. I nearly fall out of my chair in surprise. “I’m sorry?”
He runs a hand through his graying h
air, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, you’ve both done excellent work on this project and at this company in general. I want to see how you both work in this kind of diplomatic setting. But it’s more than that,” he continues. “Some high-level executives from McGowan are going to be at the party, too. They’re going to want to meet the two of you, and it will be up to you to make a good impression.”
“I see.”
His eyes bore into me from across the desk. “Is that going to be a problem for you, Jagger?”
“No,” I reply, setting my jaw. “Not at all.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Richard replies. “As important as the content is, the optics are almost just as important, and the higher up you are in the company, the more crucial it becomes to handle them professionally. This is as much of a test as the work you two have been doing so far. I don’t want to see you sideline it because of your relationship with my daughter.”
Oh, if only you knew. But I don’t say anything, instead giving him a firm nod. “We’ll make sure to make a good impression.”
“Be sure you do,” he says. A thoughtful look appears on his face, and he lets out a long sigh. When he speaks, I can’t be sure if his words are directed more towards me or himself. “Charlotte is a willful girl,” he says slowly. “She’s headstrong, and I’m aware that she can sometimes be…abrasive.”
This feels like a trap, like walking through a minefield. How do I even address this without backing myself into a corner?
“She’s a very professional woman,” I say at last, choosing the most tactful route I can think of. “And she’s incredibly good at what she does. I can understand why you would think she’s cut out for this job.”
“Mm.” He looks out the window again. In the distance, the Brooklyn skyline juts above the East River, and the shape of Governor’s Island breaks up the water even farther out. “She’s a good kid.”
Unable to think of an appropriate way to respond, I nod in agreement. Richard comes back to himself then, rubbing his hands along his thighs. “Well, I’ve taken enough of your time,” he says. “I’ll send you more information about the party as the date gets closer.”
“Looking forward to it.” I stand up and head for the door, relieved to be on my way out. Pausing for a second, I look back to see him lost in his reverie once again, and can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. Maybe it’s best not to know.
15
Charlotte
White Plains has always reminded me a little bit of New York City, if you dialed down the claustrophobia and intensity by half a dozen clicks. But there’s also something unmistakably upstate about it, a sense of modern civility and breathing room that you might find in a place like Denver or Seattle. It’s never really been my cup of tea.
Go big or go home, I’ve always thought. If you want a big city in New York, there’s no reason not to make the one-hour journey south to where the magic really happens. Still, there’s something charming and low-key about it that I can appreciate, and getting out of Manhattan for a day might be just the thing I need in the aftermath of everything that’s happened, first with Jagger and now with my mom. The only problem, of course, is that the very person I could use some time away from is the person I’m being sent here with, and if I had to guess, I’d say it’s going to be equally awkward for him.
Dad, why did you have to drag us into this?
It’s not the first surge of resentment that I’ve felt since he told me we had been invited to the Northside party, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. It’s bad enough that we have to pretend things are normal between us until we finish the McGowan project. The last thing we need is a night spent drinking in close proximity to one another, with a bunch of advertising muckety-mucks watching our every move. But it’s not like we have much choice. If word gets back to McGowan that we turned down an invitation to mingle with their representatives, Dad will find out, and that will throw a wrench into everything we’ve been working for over the past few weeks.
That doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable, though, and as I walk down the steps at the Metro North station and see Jagger waiting for me at the bottom, I feel a twinge in my chest and a tightening in my throat. Yes, I’m embarrassed that he saw the spat with my mom a few days ago—it made me feel weak, exposed in a way that I haven’t felt since… Well, since the kiss. But it’s more than that. In spite of the way we left things, and although by all rights, I shouldn’t be thinking about him any more than I’m thinking about, say, Garrett, I’m still attached.
I hate being attached.
On top of that, after the office fiasco, I had to confront my mother before leaving town. The conversation wasn’t pretty, but in the end, she enrolled in a top rehab center in upstate New York. We spoke before I left for this trip, and for once I’m hoping she will come out in control.
I straighten and slow down as I reach the landing, pulling my bag higher up on my shoulder and brushing some stray hair out of my face as I stop in front of my coworker. The late afternoon sun is gleaming off his hair, lighting it up like strands of pure gold, and it’s a struggle not to stare at him. It’s been a while since we’ve said more than a few words to each other, most of our communications taking place via email or curt conversations that only cover what’s absolutely necessary.
I clear my throat. “You didn’t have to meet me here, you know.”
“I know,” Jagger replies. “But it makes more sense to head over to the hotel together. We could walk, but I figured you wouldn’t want to lug your crap all that way...” He trails off, as if forcing himself to stop.
I wrinkle my nose. “Well, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”
“You haven’t,” he replies, shaking his head. “My train got in half an hour ago.”
“Well, that’s…not bad.” There’s an awkward pause as each of us struggles to find a way to fill the silence, leaving plenty of things unsaid and hanging in the air. It quickly becomes too much for me, and I sidestep him. “Let’s go then.”
He nods wordlessly and falls into step beside me as we make our way down the sidewalk and out to the parking lot. It’s not terribly busy right now, and that somehow makes it worse. The uncomfortableness of this situation is overwhelming me with an almost unbearable pressure.
God, why do I feel this way? He left me in the lurch, for god’s sake. Screw what Katharine said, he should be dead to me by now. I wonder if I’m going to give myself an ulcer?
We come to a stop just outside the station and I hang back, chewing my lip while he calls us an Uber. I can’t stop thinking about the feeling of his hands on me that night at the office, the feeling of his body pressed up against mine. A shiver passes through me when he looks at me, and for one crazy moment I wonder if he’s thinking about the same thing.
Don’t be an idiot, Charlotte.
Yeah, well…too late for that.
We wait in silence until the car arrives, and the driver emerges to open the trunk for us. He gives us a curious look as Jagger takes my bag from me, and I swallow hard before climbing into the backseat. Jagger follows suit, sliding in beside me, and it’s cramped enough that his knee brushes up against mine. I look up at him, meeting his inhumanly blue eyes, and there’s a dangerous moment when my mouth falls open, and I feel like I’m on the verge of saying something I won’t be able to take back. But then the driver climbs inside, slamming his door closed, and the moment passes.
“The Ritz-Carlton, right?” he asks, glancing at us in the rearview mirror.
Jagger clears his throat. “That’s right. Renaissance Square.”
“Got it,” says the driver, and pulls out of the parking lot. “Fancy place,” he remarks after a moment. “You two honeymooning there or something?”
My face grows hot, and I stare at the seat back in front of me. “No,” I reply, a little too hastily. “We’re just coworkers. We’ve got a business event.” I don’t know why I suddenly feel the need to explain myself to this guy, but th
en again, nothing I’ve been doing lately has made a whole lot of sense.
“Oh, okay.” The driver purses his lips. “My mistake.”
I force myself to look out the window at the passing scenery—parks, fountains, and a few glistening skyscrapers—but I can feel Jagger’s eyes on me as we go. Part of me wants to say something, anything, to break the tension, but another part knows that would be a mistake. God knows I would end up blurting something out about how we left things that night, how I haven’t been able to get him out of my head for more than a few minutes, and how I’m wondering whether he feels the same. That’s not a bridge I can cross right now. Maybe ever.
Just get through the rest of this campaign, I remind myself, not for the first time. Then you never have to see him again.
Yeah, sure. But is that even something I want?
If our Uber driver picks up on the vibe, he doesn’t say anything, and the city passes us by in a hurry now that rush hour is behind us. Mercifully, the train station isn’t far from the hotel, and we’re pulling up outside within ten minutes. Jagger thanks the driver and moves to get our luggage out of the trunk, passing me my bag and stepping up onto the curb. The car pulls away, and we’re left to take in the sight of the hotel.
It’s a sleek, glass-paneled building with a backlit fountain in front—perfect for a business event. I remind myself that I should be excited. This is the first time I’ve been to a party with these sorts of movers and shakers, and as early as a month or two ago, it would have been the highlight of my year. I’m moving up in the world, in my career, and I need to keep my eyes on the prize.
Except that’s hard to do when the prize is being blocked by one Jagger Crane.
We go inside, working our way around the decorative sculptures and plush armchairs before approaching the reception desk, where an impeccably dressed woman greets us with a radiant smile. “Welcome to the Ritz,” she says.