Chapter 2
The screech of the packed subway car jolts me as we pull into the Chambers Street Station. I”m smashed on the seat between a dude with terrible BO and Little Miss Sunshine over here who won”t stop bouncing her leg. Aria gives me a nervous smile, and I squeeze her hand reassuringly.
Don”t get me wrong, I love the girl to death. But Aria is what one might call a boundless ball of energy, especially at seven-thirty in the morning when I can barely keep my eyes open.
“Hey, baby girl, what do you think if we stood up and graced the morning commuters with a few MadeYaLookMaddie moves once we get off the train?”
She scoffs. If nothing else, I made her stop obsessing. The thought of pulling off my signature dance on a tightly packed platform is utterly ludicrous, I give her that. For a good video, a half-empty car on a weekend morning works best.
Aria and I moved to New York to join our sister, Grace, just a few short months ago, and I’m not used to the chaotic rush hour yet. Sue me for not being a morning person. This is one of the reasons I chose the career of a social influencer. It’s stressful, and without benefits, but at least I’m able to sleep in on workdays.
Correction. I was able. But now . . .
We make our way up the stairs and into the chaos of downtown Manhattan. The humidity hits us as soon as we surface from the underground.
Heat is clinging on with its sticky fists this year. Aria shrinks into my side, eyes wide. The morning ride on the subway from our Upper East Side apartment will be an adjustment for her compared to the sleepy mornings in Hackettstown, New Jersey.
Yellow cabs honk as they flit by, and the sidewalks overflow with busy New Yorkers starting their day.
As we walk, I glance over at my sister. “You okay?” I ask as we wait for the light to cross Greenwich Street. Bless her heart, she is trying not to show it, but the poor girl is shaking like a leaf. The towering buildings make her look small and insignificant. Her eyebrows are pinched together like they get when she is anxious. She is gripping the strap of her new backpack between her fingers.
Aria nods, her voice small. “Just nervous. Do you think they will be nice?”
She’s terrified, alright.
My little sister, the child prodigy who got accepted into NYC”s most prestigious public high school. And me, a recent college graduate turned social media influencer, escorting her through the morning Manhattan madness on her first day. We make quite the pair.
I sling an arm around her shoulders, partly for moral support but mostly so she doesn”t get trampled by the suits stampeding to their offices.
“You”ve got this, baby girl. They”re gonna love you,” I assure her with a squeeze. And it”s true. My sister is a freaking ray of sunshine. Anyone would be lucky to bask in her glow.
Except at barely eight in the morning.
That”s just excessive.
The walk is a straight shot from the subway station. Soon the building comes into view—Styvesant High School, the one and only. A historical stone structure wedged between glass office towers.
We pause outside the wrought iron gates. A flood of teenagers in crisp uniforms pour up the front steps.
Aria shrinks back against me. Her body feels terribly fragile.
She wouldn’t be here if our parents were still alive.
Both of us would still be living the sheltered New Jersey life they created for us, with Grace visiting us every weekend, telling us about life in the city, her work-in-progress and her weekly word count.
But alas, we are here now.
“Everyone just seems so smart and serious. This school is intense, Mads. What if I can”t keep up?”
I turn her to face me, my hands firm on her shoulders.
“Aria Emerson. You are, without a doubt, the smartest nerd I know. You have nothing to worry about, you hear me?”
She gives me a timid smile.
“Just take it one step at a time, alright?” I continue. “Look forward. The universe only gives us what we can handle. Remember what Mom used to tell us?”
“Do you think she’s watching us?”
“I’m sure of it, baby girl,” I say reassuringly. “I can feel her with us every day. You’ll be fine.”
The morning bell chimes through the air. Aria takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “Okay. I can do this.”
I pull her in for a quick, tight hug. “I love you. Now go show them what you”re made of.”
With a determined nod, she marches toward the entrance. I watch as she disappears into the crowd. My heart swells with pride and aches with her absence all at once.
I check my watch again.
7:55 a.m.
I turn and make my way down the sidewalk toward a very different first day of my own.
* * *
I stopin my tracks and tilt my head all the way back to see the top of the skyscraper. Whitmore Tech. My new office. Home of the tech geniuses and business big shots.
I tug self-consciously on my blazer. Fitted, professional, blah. My high heels add a few inches to my tall frame and the light makeup a few years to my face.
Hopefully.
I’m an Amazon alright, feeling girl power percolate through me.
The lobby screams money with its sleek marble floors, modern angular furniture, and two—two!—reception desks. The employees give me tight, polite smiles as I pass. But judging from the sideway glances, my tight pencil skirt might be a bit too risqué amid all the power suits.
Oopsie.
Though this outfit seemed like a very good idea when I bought it at the Theory sample sale a few weeks ago.
I step into the polished elevator and punch twenty-five. Butterflies swarm my stomach as the floors tick up. Everything feels stiff and sterile. The total opposite of my Instagram life, which is rainbow decor, piles of fluffy pillows, and tunes always pumping. Now it”s all about corporate policies, international clients, and software I can barely pronounce, let alone understand.
But I plaster on a smile as the doors slide open. Here we go. Watch out, world of business. Maddie Emerson has arrived to turn your outdated PR around.
Well, as soon as I figure out how to walk in these four-inch torture devices.
My phone pings. It’s Grace sending me words of encouragement.
Grace: You got this Mads! I know those corporate suits seem intimidating, but you’ll walk in there and wow them. Keep that pretty head of yours held high.
Me: Aw, I needed that little pep talk. These sky-high heels have me tottering like Bambi on ice. But as long as I don”t faceplant, I suppose it will be ok. Love ya, wish me luck!
Grace: Go get ‘em!
“Maddie! So wonderful to meet you.”A tall woman in her forties wearing a perfectly pressed pantsuit comes clicking down the hall in her stilettos. Just looking at them makes my feet throb.
Oh, wait. They are already throbbing from my own shoes.
“I”m Amanda, head of PR and Marketing,” she introduces herself with an impossibly white smile. Her firm handshake tells me she is all business.
Yikes.
Amanda gestures for me to follow her swift steps. I scramble to keep up as she fills me in on Whitmore Tech’s social media advertising and goals to revamp the brand”s image. My mind spins trying to keep up with all the fancy vocabulary. It”s a foreign language after the world of captions and hashtags I”m used to.
When she finally pauses for breath, I jump in. “I”d love to start by auditing your current platforms. Which ones are you using?”
“We have Facebook and X so far and have been looking into Instagram lately.”
“Ok, I’ll get the lay of the land. Then we can look at what content performs best and where the gaps are before strategizing how to expand our reach.”
I rattle off a few more ideas, gaining steam as I enter my social media wheelhouse. Amanda nods along, spewing more lingo for analytics and metrics that I frantically try to imprint to memory.
A passing woman pops her head in. “Amanda, Mr. Whitmore wants that new hire in the conference room right now.”
The summons makes my stomach drop. Amanda hushes my sputtering worries with a pat on the shoulder meant to reassure me. But it only amplifies the hammering pulse in my temples.
“Mr. Whitmore of Whitmore Tech?” I manage to squeak out, smoothing my blazer with clammy palms. I knew being the young upstart hire would draw attention, but I didn”t expect immediate scrutiny from the top boss himself.
“You”ll do wonderfully. Mr. Whitmore, our CEO, likes to meet all new additions personally. And you’re quite an unusual hire, you know. So young, and with such unique qualifications.”
If she was trying to encourage me, she failed spectacularly. My knees wobble like jelly while I try to keep up with her.
We click-clack rapidly toward the important-sounding Executive Conference Room A. I nervously fiddle with my mother’s pearls around my neck, the string now feeling like it”s strangling me rather than accentuating my chic sample sale outfit. I remind my panicking brain of my earlier pep talk with Grace—chin up, buttercup, and all that jazz.
As much as I try to calm my nerves, a terse corporate environment is galaxies away from my home office in my bedroom headquarters with inspirational quotes on colorful post-it notes. Just this endless sterile hallway with Amanda”s assuring yet distant pats is doing nothing to loosen my panic.
Outside imposing double doors, she turns to me with an encouraging smile. “Just be your bright self. You”ll be brilliant.” Before I can clarify what exactly my true, untested brilliant self in this alien environment should look like, Amanda opens the doors.
I lift my trembling chin and smooth my features into what hopefully resembles rocksteady confidence. Get it together, Maddie! It”s just your average business meeting with average businesspeople. If nothing else, I’m a pro at convincingly playing a role for fleeting TikTok videos. I dance in parks and in subway cars, not caring for what other people think of me. Time to see if that skill will work its magic beyond my phone screen.
I take a deep breath and step in. But the moment I cross the threshold, my eyes lock on the tall drink of water at the head of the table.
Mr. Whitmore?
Oh no.
“Mr. Whitmore, meet Maddie Emerson, our new hire on the marketing team.” Amanda’s voice is faint, just like the faces of others in the room.
Oh no, no, no.
We need no introductions.
Because Mr. Whitmore Jr. and I are already very familiar.
Those broad shoulders I clung to under the stars, that short dark hair I felt under my fingers, and those penetrating green eyes currently staring me down with all the heat of our night together.
There is a flash of recognition in his eyes, then a curtain falls over, impassive and cold.
That’s my mountain man alright. In a suit that costs more than the deposit on our new apartment.
How the hell is the man who refused to take my V-card now my freaking boss?!
And didn’t he say he was a Navy SEAL?
Former Navy SEAL is what he said, I remind myself.
He scans me, his face infuriatingly impassive. As if he is meeting me for the first time.
Calling him gorgeous would be a disservice to the word. He is big, stunning, and chiseled from marble. His jaw is clenched tightly. The green eyes, warm and inviting as he comforted me after the frightening encounter with the bear, are now ice daggers. How can he just forget our night together like it was nothing?
He made me come three times!
It”s like he has mastered some dark art of emotional detachment.
Meanwhile, I”m two seconds away from combusting on the spot.
Well, dammit.
What now?