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As soon as I settle into my seat next to the blonde, she strikes up a mostly one-sided conversation. Although I keep my head turned in her direction, my focus never fully strays from Cat. Her irritation and her curiosity are palpable. And I know precisely when she finally gives in and picks up her iPod. She lets out a loud sigh and then a laugh when Pit Bull’s “I know You Want Me” begins to play.
13
BOSTON BY AUGUSTANA
CAT
Friday, I arrive at the train station expecting to see Jay. Secretly, I’m excited to see what song he has planned for today. I found myself laughing more than once at work on Wednesday when, out of habit, I would go to turn on my iPod, only to remember that only Pit Bull currently occupied my playlist. I listened to it more times than I’d like to admit, remembering his cocky smirk and his attentive eyes. Then, over and over, my mind wandered to the blonde who occupied the seat next to him.
Serves me right. I chose to sit next to a middle-aged man rather than Jay, only to have a supermodel sit beside him. The girl talked for the entire forty-minute commute, and when we reached our stop, he followed her off without another glance in my direction.
Even if something came of it, it shouldn’t bother me. I wanted him to leave me alone.
So why, then, am I looking forward to seeing him this morning?
I walk onto the train and scan its occupants, but the dreamy blue-eyed boy that has been occupying far too many of my thoughts isn’t among them. When I don’t spot him, I remind myself that this is exactly what I wanted. The meeting I had scheduled with Cynthia on Monday was canceled—something about the venue needing a new date—so today we’re heading there, and I can use the distraction-free commute to focus on my actual job and leave thoughts of the cocky asshole behind.
For once, I get a row to myself and stretch out. I take a sip of my pumpkin spice coffee, my mind immediately drifting to the way Jay sipped from my cup. Like it was an everyday occurrence—something comfortable and easy.
Shit. Why can’t I stop thinking about this guy?
I pick up my iPod and sigh when Pitbull’s song is still the only one loaded on it. He clearly has access to my iTunes account and could change it if he was so inclined. It seems he’s stopped thinking about me right when I can’t seem to get him off my mind.
* * *
Cynthia,Rose, and I exit the town car, and I stare up at the Beacon Hotel. The place is ornate and absolutely immaculate. It’s one of my favorite places to stay in Boston.
“Don’t embarrass us,” Rose hisses under her breath as she follows after Cynthia.
I tilt my head and offer my best smile. “Of course not.”
Rose is wearing all black. Nothing new there. Her long raven hair hangs down her back, and there isn’t a curve to be found on her body. But her makeup is flawless, and she exudes money and fashion in a way young girls would kill for, with a Chanel necklace and stiletto heels that make her impossibly long legs somehowmore.
I hate her.
I blow out a cleansing breath to center myself. I grew up in Chanel. I belong here just as much as she does. In fact, I’ve stayed here many times throughout my life. With a deep inhale, I remind myself that I’m just as qualified as Rose is. I have every right to walk beside her with my head high, despite the way she looks at me—like I’m a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
Cynthia’s blond bob doesn’t move as she walks. It’s like even her hair knows not to fuck with the queen. I don’t just adore her; I want tobeher.
And not because of the way she does her makeup or the clothes she wears; I want to be feared, respected, and revered the way she is. I want balls to shrivel when I walk into a room. I want power. Not because of money. Not because of status. And not because of my family name. But because of who I am on my own.
“Ms. Caldwell,” a thin man with a mustache says as he greets us in the lobby. “They’re waiting for you in the tearoom. Is there anything special we can have sent up?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sure what you have planned will be fine. Thank you.” She lifts an arm, and like Rose can read her mind, she’s on the move before the woman can motion toward the elevator. When it’s just the two of us, we make our way after Rose, heels clicking on the marble floor. “I wasn’t sure until this morning, but it appears that Mr. Hanson will be able to join us today. I trust that’s not a problem,” she says, eyeing me with a raised brow that implies that no matter how I really feel, my answer will, of course, be that it’s not a problem at all.
What is with her and the Hansons?
“I’ve never met any of them. I’d appreciate you keeping my relation to the James family to yourself, though.”
She smiles. “Perfectly fine with me. I didn’t know whether he’d recognize you and blow your cover.”
I laugh. “It’s not a cover. I choose to use my mother’s maiden name out of respect for her.”
Cynthia sobers, and her air of superiority is momentarily replaced with genuine appreciation. “I remember her. She always had impeccable taste.You seem to have inherited that,” she says.
At her comment, I find myself standing taller. My mother was beautiful. Classically beautiful.
As we exit the elevator and enter the ballroom, there isn’t a thing in the world that could bring me down. Not even Rose and her snarky attitude.
