Chapter Five
A fter I call my parents to let them know that I’ve arrived safely, I immediately text Molly.
Me: Belinda screwed up and booked us ONE room. And there is only one bed.
Molly: Us who?
Me: Rafe!
Molly: OMG. Where are you sleeping?
Me: He’s taking the couch.
Molly: Try not to kill him, okay? I can’t bail you out from Chicago.
Me: I promise nothing.
Molly: I’ll come visit when you’re in prison. At least orange is hot on you.
Me: Thanks, you’re a good friend.
Molly: Go have fun! Remember, you’re finding someone gorgeous to have a vacation fling with.
Me: It’s not a vacation.
Molly: You know what I mean.
I click away from our text thread and into the Official WMC Purcell Leadership Retreat app. An entire app seems a little excessive, but at least the schedule for the next three weeks is very conveniently laid at my fingertips. I can look forward to a mixture of rah-rah inspirational talks and workshops, team-building exercises, and the requisite “downtime” to prove WMC is all about that work-life balance.
I swipe through a few screens and discover that tonight is the welcome mixer at the Oceanside Bar.
Me: Fine. There’s a party tonight. I gotta get ready.
Molly: Message me tomorrow. I want every detail.
Me: Love you.
Molly: Love you, too.
With an hour to prepare before the party, I unpack my clothes, hang them in the closet, and attempt to smooth out the wrinkles in my dresses with my travel steamer.
A click of the suite’s front door catches my attention. I tiptoe over and peek my head out to discover Rafe has left. I breathe out a sigh of relief. We can do this. We’ll just stay away from each other. He wants to be as far from me as I want to be from him.
I shoot off an email to Belinda demanding she fix this mess. I’ve always suspected she hated me, and this only confirms my theory. The honeymoon suite.
Either Belinda has a better sense of humor than I’ve given her credit for, or she’s still mad about that time I accidentally spilled an entire glass of red wine on her during an office mixer. Someone knocked into me, and it wasn’t my fault, but she was wearing cream linen, and it was a massacre.
A short while later, I’m dressed in a sleeveless pink dress with a bordering-on-daring neckline and a ruffled skirt that stops mid-thigh, all paired with my shiny gold sandals. I untie my ponytail and let my black hair settle around my shoulders. The barely there waves have absorbed the humidity, turning my tresses into a waterfall of thick curls.
I massage the bridge of my nose as I feel the stirrings of a mild headache. Feels like a level 2 or 3. Sometimes, I can push through one of this intensity, but I don’t want anything ruining my evening. Digging into my tote, I take out my supply of painkillers and pop a couple into my mouth. After swallowing them with a gulp of water, I stuff my lipstick, phone, pill case, and key card into a little gold handbag and sling it across my body.
I head downstairs and back through the sprawling lobby to locate the Oceanside Bar.
The space is filled with pale wooden tables and chairs, with one wall entirely open to a swath of beach and the crashing sea beyond. The sun is setting over the water, painting the surface in glittering streaks of pink and orange. I inhale a deep breath of fresh, salty air.
This is pretty much heaven.
Rafe sits on a bench just beyond the entrance with his phone pressed to one ear. He runs a hand through his hair, rumpling it to annoying perfection. He’s changed into a pair of white shorts and a pale blue T-shirt that stretches over the bunched muscles of his shoulders and back like a second skin.
“Hannah,” I hear him say in a tone bleeding with exasperation.
I go still at the sound of her name.
“We’ve already talked about this,” Rafe sighs with obvious frustration, and I really should keep walking, but at this moment, it feels like it’s now my sworn duty to gather intelligence.
Molly and I were sure they’d broken up, but they’re clearly still talking. (Though he doesn’t sound that happy about it.)
What’s going on?
I don’t care. I just want to know.
He’s distracted and doesn’t notice as I pull out my phone, pretending to check something on the screen. I’m an espionage pro. He sits back and leans on the wall, his head falling against it. His eyes drift shut as if begging for strength.
“Look, I have to go. There’s a thing.” A pause. “Fine. Goodbye.”
He disconnects the call and stares at his screen for several long seconds, a muscle feathering in his jaw. He’s shaved since I last saw him, clearing away the day’s five o’clock shadow to leave behind smooth, lightly tanned skin.
“Trouble in paradise?” I ask, unable to help myself.
He looks over at me, his evil stare burning straight through the center of my soul.
“No,” he says, pushing up and disappearing through the crowd.
Okay, I deserved that. Obviously, he’s upset. I weave through the throng and spot him with his elbows propped on the bar. The bartender sets down a glass of scotch, which Rafe snatches up before taking a long sip.
“Sorry,” I say. “That was none of my business.”
He peers down at me from his impressive height. I hate that he can probably see the top of my head. I should have worn heels. Hannah is nearly six feet tall, and kissing someone close to your size is probably nice and mitigates the chance of neck cramps.
Not that I’m short—I’m average—but he’s Thor, and I really need to stop thinking about kissing.
“You want to talk about it?” I ask.
I understand that’s what I’m supposed to say as a caring member of humanity, though the last thing I want to discuss is Rafe and Hannah’s relationship problems.
His nostrils flare as he takes another sip of his drink.
“No, I don’t.”
Then he burns me with another scathing look before he walks away. He rolls his neck and shakes his shoulders like he’s the star quarterback giving himself a pep talk before the big game. A moment later, someone approaches, and he holds out a hand, giving it a firm shake. I watch as the storm clouds dissipate over his head to reveal his neon smile.
“Fine,” I mutter under my breath and order myself a mocktail so bright pink it’s bordering on obnoxious.
“Hi,” comes a voice next to me. An East Asian woman about my age with chin-length, wavy black hair and dark brown eyes gives me a friendly smile. She wears a simple red A-line dress and a pair of black ballet flats.
“I thought I’d come and introduce myself. I’m Lan.”
“Trishara,” I say, giving her a bright smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Which office are you from?”
“Chicago. You?”
“Seattle,” she says while scanning the room. “I’m glad there are at least a few other women in this sea of men.”
WMC has fifty-three offices across the country, making our numbers here a cozy one hundred and six. I’d estimate that at least ninety percent of them are men. Most of them white.
“Did they pick you to fill your branch’s diversity quota too?” I ask, and Lan snorts, covering her face with the back of her hand and nearly choking on her wine.
“I wouldn’t put it past them. Though we held a contest, and I won.”
“You did? What kind of contest?”
“We had to build a fully functioning remote control car and race it,” she says. “I won by two point six seconds.”
“Well done,” I say, honestly impressed. I wouldn’t have any idea where to start building a car, remote-controlled or otherwise.
“How did you get chosen?” she asks as the bartender delivers my drink, placing it on top of a coaster. I take a tentative sip from the bright green straw and press my lips together. It tastes as loud as it looks. Even for me, this is sweet.
“Well, for one, the boss chose his son,” I answer, and Lan wrinkles her nose. “And second, WMC has apparently realized they’re living in the past? So they sent me here to prove they aren’t.” I wave a hand around the room. “Not sure how well that’s working.”
Lan’s eyes grow wide, and she covers her mouth as she snorts again. “What a bunch of assholes.”
“It’s not all bad. I managed to extract a few perks.”
She breaks into a grin. “I think we’re going to get along quite well, Trishara.”
I laugh and take another sip of my mouth-puckering drink. Giving up, I place it back on the bar and ask for a glass of sparkling water with lime.
“Call me Tris,” I tell Lan. At least this trip won’t be a total bust if I make one new friend out of it.
The bartender brings me a fresh drink, and we clink glasses as we drift into the middle of the room, where everyone is chatting and introducing themselves. I recognize some faces from past events and meetings, but most are new to me.
As we mingle, I glimpse Rafe outside on the beach. I’m surprised to see him alone at a table, sipping his scotch and staring at the water as if it personally wronged him.
For the briefest of seconds, I consider walking over to check if he’s okay. But then I recall how he dismissed me earlier and decide to keep my distance.
Someone is speaking into a microphone, anyway.
An elegant woman stands at the front of the room wearing a crisp green sheath dress. Her blond hair is stylishly cut above her shoulders, and she wears a thick gold necklace that oozes money. Diane Hart. She’s tough as nails, a total legend, and the author of The Glass Ceiling , a bestselling book about climbing the corporate ladder as a woman in a male-dominated field.
She became my beacon of hope when I joined WMC, and I’ve read her book at least four times.
My dormant sense of ambition stirs in my chest. Her presence reminds me of the person I wanted to be before first Leo and then WMC squished all sense of hope under their heels.
She stands with the six other heads of WMC Purcell—all white men wearing various hues of beige and cream, including Rafe’s father, David Gallagher. With her classically beautiful features, Diane is a sparkling emerald nestled among colorless rocks.
She holds the mic and pauses with her focused attention sweeping over the room. Slowly, everyone silences under the weight of the queen’s stare.
“Welcome to WMC Purcell’s first annual Rising Stars Leadership Retreat,” she says in a voice that is both cool and commanding. “We’re thrilled to have you here and hope this will be a chance for you to get to know your peers from across the country while learning some new skills and tactics to help inspire greatness in those around you. We’re honored to welcome you as our inaugural class, and I’m sure the time you spend here will see you all on your way to the brightest of futures at WMC.
“Of course, this will also be an opportunity for our executive team to get to know you all and identify the best of WMC. At the end of our time together, we’ll select five people to join our one-year executive training program at our New York office. All expenses paid, including your Manhattan apartment, spending allowance, gym membership, and the best training and mentorship money can buy.”
A collective murmur circles around the room at Diane’s announcement, reminding everyone of why these places are so coveted. Sure, the retreat is a nice perk, but securing a spot will set the recipients on a diamond-encrusted merry-go-round for life.
Lan crosses her arms and cocks a hip. “I’m winning one of those, so help me,” she says, laser-focused on Diane like she’s trying to send her brain signals from across the room.
“How many times have you read The Glass Ceiling ?” I ask.
“At least six,” she replies, and I grin as we share a conspiring look.
Bruce Woodward, the CEO of WMC, steps forward. Diane hands him the mic with a glare, her lips pursed in distaste. Part of me wonders if they made her conduct the intro as the only woman on the executive team.
As Bruce speaks, I study the faces in this room. A small, anxious part of me wonders if I stand even the barest chance of securing one of those spots.
My gaze drifts to the beach, where Rafe is still sitting alone, facing out to the water. When I turn back, I see David notice his son, and the depth of his dark glare makes Rafe’s look like child’s play.
I remember Rafe’s body language when he refused my suggestion to stay with his dad. It must say something about their relationship if Rafe chose me as a roommate over David.
Each member of the executive team then graces us with their piece about upholding company values and the importance of our presence. The presentation ends, and we disperse into small groups to speculate about the internship and discuss the upcoming events. Tomorrow, the first workshops begin and so, too, will the real test.
The reality of the training program sparks a fire I haven’t felt in years, stirring up a competitive spirit that has never really died—it just took a break. This is the kind of thing I used to excel at. The kind of thing I would stop at nothing to win.
Rafe has abandoned his solitary position and is now moving through the room, smiling and shaking hands. He’s a lion finding his pride—a natural-born leader. My stomach twists as he bestows his bright smile on a group of people, who all turn his way. Why do I care that he’s that person for everyone else?
Then he finds me in the crowd, his gaze burning into me. I hold my ground as our eyes lock across the room, his pupils dilating into bottomless pits. He’s the King of Hearts, demanding my head. My stomach drops, and my skin breaks out in a sheen of sweat that has nothing to do with the humidity.
“Who’s that?” Lan asks, sucking on the end of her straw. “Does he belong here? He’s gorgeous.”
A low growl rumbles in my throat. “That would be the aforementioned son of David Gallagher and my mortal enemy.”
Lan’s eyebrows rise as she hits the bottom of her drink, making a loud noise with her straw that feels like a slurp of judgment.
“What?” I ask.
With her fingers still pinching her straw, she looks up with an innocent expression. “Enemy?”
I run my hand down my face and adjust my neckline as Rafe turns away, displaying the broad expanse of his back. “We’ve been working together for years, and let’s just say we don’t really get along.”
Lan digs through her ice cubes, searching out the last dregs of her cocktail, avoiding my gaze like she knows something.
“What? Why do you keep making that face?” I ask.
She looks up with a devilish gleam in her eyes. “I mean, I know I’ve just met you, but I’ve never seen someone make such intense fuck me eyes from clear across the room. But okay, you are enemies .” She adds one-handed air quotes around the last word, and I narrow my gaze.
“Stop that. He is not. We can’t stand each other.”
Lan waves a hand and smirks. “Yeah, okay. Sure. I totally believe you.”