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It’s officially October, making it one of my favorite days of the year. Fall colors, cooler temperatures, and pumpkin everything. What’s not to love? I’ve got a new burnt-orange cashmere sweater on—I’d wear the color year-round if I could get away with it—paired with a simple black pencil skirt, a black tweed jacket, and a Parisian cap that falls sideways on my head.
I feel like I belong at Jolie today, and with my pumpkin spice latte—which I did not make—I know this month is going to be mine.
The countdown is on for the masquerade ball. We’ve got four weeks to prepare, and today Cynthia and I are heading to the venue to review everything from the food to drinks to the décor and color scheme. Then I will work with the event planner to make all of Cynthia’s wishes come true.
Nothing can spoil my mood.
Not even the sight of Jay sitting next to the only unoccupied seat in the train car. I raise a brow, wondering whether he hired people to sit in every other seat just so he could be close enough to annoy me. I know that’s dramatic. Why he bothers going through all the trouble to interact withmeis a mystery. But the man clearly cannot take a hint. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why.
I sigh as I settle in the seat next to him. “Morning,” I mumble, because he’s my boss and Mia’s friend, despite that I find him intolerable.
Without a word, he holds out a hand, those blue eyes pulling me in.
I stare at him in confusion, and when he doesn’t speak, I say, “Yes?”
“You didn’t bring me a coffee?” he asks.
I laugh as I take another sip and settle into the seat for the trip. Doing my best to ignore him, I bend at the waist and rummage through my bag until I find my iPod. Then I survey him, refusing to look away as I place one earbud in my ear, then the other, a cheeky smirk on my face.
You want to chat, buddy? You can talk to yourself.
He’s just another player, and he’s only interested in me because I didn’t fall at his feet and simper like a fool the first time we met. Despite all the energy he’s put into getting my attention, he looks at me like I’m nothing more than a piece on his chessboard. He assumes that, like everyone else in his life, I can be moved around as he sees fit.
I’m not saying I’m the queen, but I’m no one’s pawn. I’m not on the board, period.
My focus is fixed, and will remain that way, on school and my job. No man—or woman—will distract me. I angle my knees and torso toward him as I hit play and hold his cold blue stare.
After a second or two, Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” blares in my ears. I shake my head—that song is not on my playlist—and hover a finger over the skip button. But when the music starts again, it’s the same damn song.What the…?I hit pause and gape at the device, dumbfounded.
Jay huffs a laugh, drawing my attention to where he rests his head lazily on the headrest. “Something wrong?” The bastard smirks, holding me hostage with those piercing eyes.
“Youdid this,” I say with a huff, setting my coffee cup in my cupholder so I can navigate out of the ridiculous playlist he created and get back to my usual morning music.
He tips forward, resting his elbow on the armrest closest to mine, his chin in his hand. “Is there a problem, Kitten? Happy to help.”
I scoff. “Sure you are.” I exit the playlist, catching sight of the title.Kitten’s Songs. I roll my eyes. “You are so insane,” I hiss.
He smiles, completely unbothered by my tantrum.
Doing my best to ignore him and his cocky attitude, I focus my attention on my iPod again and attempt to maneuver to another list, but when I try, nothing happens. The screen doesn’t change.Thisis the only playlist. And it only has one song.
“What did you do with my music?” I screech.
Jay looks far too delighted by my outburst. He only smiles at me stupidly, not bothered in the slightest by the attention we’re drawing from the other passengers.
“Say something,” I demand through gritted teeth.
“You’re even more beautiful when you’re angry, Kitten.” He’s relaxed as he regards me unabashedly. He denies nothing, and he’s not even attempting to avoid the figurative daggers I’m shooting at him.
My tirade comes to an abrupt halt when the angry words swirling in my mind all disappear in apoof. He didn’t sayyou look beautiful when you’re angry. That would be qualifying the beautiful statement.
He said I’meven morebeautiful.
Naturally, the man who drives me absolutely nuts would be the first person to ever tell me I’m beautiful.
I slump back in my seat and cross my arms, afraid to react and unsure of how I even would.
Keeping my face turned away from him, I inspect the aisle. The scuffed floor, the lights illuminating each side, any detail I can find. And then, because I can’t help it, I peek in his direction again. He’s settled himself back against the seat, completely at ease.
