Chapter 2
TWO
Jenna
BEFORE
The Plaza is one of the most beautiful restaurants in New York, and after Benjamin asked so oddly, I got a little nervous myself. Why is Matthew inviting me here for dinner? Is he really going to propose? Well, we’ve been together for seven years now—he could propose.
I click my heels up the marble stairs as fast as I can and am greeted by an outrageously large chandelier. The candles look real, though I can’t imagine anyone still lights them by hand.
I check my watch. Damn—two minutes late again. I’d had a longer-than-expected conversation with Ben about why I turned down Kirillov, but luckily, he understood. As if I’d help someone who made my high-school life hell.
I approach the hostess and dab sweat from my forehead.
“Hello,” I say, slightly out of breath. “We have a reservation under Hudgens.”
She sizes me up, then seems satisfied with my dress and coat.
I’m not really a fan of fancy restaurants.
I come from simple roots, and I still feel out of place among these uptown crowds.
Matthew grew up as a regular guy too—he actually has less money than I do—but since I got a big paycheck, he likes to treat himself.
That only works because I cover two-thirds of the rent.
I think it’s nice that he’s inviting me tonight, though.
A pretty hostess takes my coat and leads me to the table.
I wobble behind her. The dining room is huge: beige marble, white calla lilies, separate booths at nearly every table and massive chandeliers.
I notice that at almost no table sits more than two people—mostly dates.
Makes sense: New York has tons of singles and childless couples and bringing a whole family here would be absurdly expensive too.
“Right this way,” says the hostess.
Even though Matthew winked at her earlier, his gaze freezes the moment I arrive.
I wait until the hostess leaves and then sit.
“Sorry, work was—”
“Yeah, yeah, work again. I’ve been waiting ten minutes,” he interrupts.
I notice he’s wearing one of his nicer shirts, but there’s a hole in his black pants and he hasn’t shaved. He never cares much about his looks: wild black curls, old sweatpants, T-shirts. I’m not superficial, but I believe places like the Plaza are for dressing up. Otherwise, why bother coming?
“Sorry you had to wait,” I say, and he almost slams the menu in my face.
I glance around, hoping nobody saw the menu nearly knock over the wine glass.
“Matthew, we’re at the Plaza…” I murmur, trying to read.
“I don’t care where we are. I just wanted that coq au vin again—you ruined it last time,” he grumbles, tapping his fingers on the table.
“True,” I whisper, swallowing the queasy feeling from the memory of burning the chicken. I can cook, but under stress I mess up. Matthew wants dinner when he comes home, and if I’m swamped at work, I keep botching things.
The waiter arrives before I’ve closed my menu. Matthew orders the coq au vin. “The same for her,” he says, and the waiter takes the menu from my hand without asking.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “I wanted something else.”
“Then get here earlier. I’m hungry.”
I sigh. I wanted the fillet steak.
“Well, today at work—”
“Trust me, you’re not the only one with obligations,” he says, launching into his day without asking about mine. This always happens, and the lump in my throat grows. Thoughts swirl. Why am I even with him?
Why do I put up with this?
Then practical thoughts: I’m almost 30. I can’t start over. I want a family as soon as I’m settled. If I date someone new for years before deciding on kids, I might be too old. Women have a ticking clock. Men have all the time in the world.
“You’re not listening,” says Matthew.
I realize I have no idea what he just said—I totally drifted off while we ate.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?”
He rolls his eyes. “Typical. Let’s go home. I’m playing online with friends.”
He waves for the waiter, and an awkward silence follows.
I wait for him to pull out his wallet—he invited me. But he doesn’t.
My heart skips a beat. I always pay: rent, groceries, dinners. He can’t even pay for a nice dinner once?
A proposal? As if.
He just wanted a fancy meal. I don’t know why I’m still with him—
“The waiter… he’s waiting,” he says, slipping his phone into his pocket and folding his napkin.
I stifle a grunt, pull my credit card from my purse.
“That’s twelve hundred dollars,” he says, and I tap the card.
The week was brutal. I took on a new case that seems manageable, but it’s kept me at the office until 10 p.m. every night.
The mood at home is miserable again. A woman’s supposed to cook and clean.
Blah blah blah. I’m almost ready to admit my relationship has crashed. Or maybe I drove it into the wall.
Someone knocks on my glass door. “John, I’m in the middle of a—”
But it’s not my assistant.
Instead of lanky John, a giant of a man stands there: Colton fucking King.
He’s almost too broad and tall for my doorway.
His pants are crisp, his shirt perfectly ironed, and the Rolex on his wrist reminds me he’s a famous NHL player now…
thousands of fans, major endorsements, but…
he’s also my bully from high school. My expression hardens, though I can’t deny he still looks…
Ugh he’s still handsome. He’d always been beautiful.
Not normal handsome, not cute—beautiful in a way that always felt unfair.
High cheekbones, thick lashes no man had any right to possess, and those light blue, Siberian-Husky-like eyes that could stop a person mid-thought.
And now he’d somehow become even worse.
Bigger. Stronger. Built like a stupid Greek god, all hard lines and easy power. The bleached blond buzz cut should have ruined it, should have made him look like an idiot. Instead, it only makes him more striking.
More impossible to look away from. Almost sex—
Stop. Colton is not sexy. He’s an asshole.
“Colton—what are you doing here?”
“I didn’t know we were on a first-name basis,” he says stiffly, a faint Russian accent slipping through.
He’d shown up halfway through high school with shaky English, but thanks to his pretty privilege and hockey skills, he’d landed at the cool table almost instantly.
Typical. That guy could barely speak a word and still ended up popular.
“What else should I call you? We always used our first names. I didn’t know there was an expiration date.”
His face shifts, and I almost choke.
Oh. Oh.
He doesn’t remember me? He seriously doesn’t know who I am? My pen squeaks—I gripped it too tight, cracking the barrel. I loosen my hand. My knuckles are white. Fuck him!
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” he stammers, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. “I didn’t know we’d met.”
He’s still trapped in my doorway.
I stay at my desk, not inviting him in at all.
The nerve!
“We were in the same high school class,” I spit out. I can’t believe this guy—he comes begging for help and can’t even look me up to remember we spent three years together?
He swallows hard, and I watch his Adam’s apple rise and fall.
“Well, how about we try this… do you happen to know me as Blueface?”
His eyes widen. Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Memories flash: the hallway, five boys cornering me, stealing my books, calling me fat, four-eyes, saying I had crap on my face because of my freckles, calling me a witch, posting witch‐burning pictures—just for my red hair.
Yes. Today I’m the witch, but for good reasons.
I halfheartedly expect him to apologize but instead the bastard dares to step into my office and closes the door behind him.
I don’t know whether to scream at him or hurl my cold coffee at his head. So, I just stand up, my chair scraping the floor as I do. “I’m fully booked and don’t have time for an intake. I can’t take your case.”
He rubs the back of his head. “I’m sorry.”
I roll my eyes. That’s it?
“I need help getting custody of my—”
“Look, everyone here needs help. I told you: I’m booked solid.”
“My assistant said your boss told him you were available.”
I grip my desk. Benjamin better have a good excuse. I decide which cases I take on. That’s how I keep my win rate and earned the junior partner. I’m no rookie.
“You come here, don’t know who I am, and demand I take on a way too difficult case? That’s a whole other level of arrogance, don’t you think?”
He stops mid-office and stares at my suit, holding my gaze a beat too long.
“I’m sorry. You look—great, I…” he mumbles in what sounds like Russian.
I lose patience. Men, ugh. They’re hopelessly inept at conversation. No wonder cat ladies exist—twenty cats beat a clueless man any day.
“My assistant set this up. I told him to find the city’s best lawyer to save my daughter.”
Save? Ha. Probably another guy who just wants to control his ex since she has custody. Who knows nowadays. We must be careful.
I cross my arms.
“Nice approach—letting others solve your mess. The door’s back there. Good seeing you.” Not.
“Jenna,” he says, and when he says my name, my neck tingles. Must be a draft in this glass box. “I really need your help. I’m so sorry I didn’t know who you were, but my daughter is with her mother, she’s scared to sleep alone, I need to help her—”
“Colton, I’m sure this is hard for you, but like I said I’m booked. Talk to my boss. We have other great lawyers here.”
His head dips. “But none have your one hundred percent win rate.”
“My record’s because I know what I can win and what I can’t. Your case is too uncertain. Have a good day.”
“You were nicer back then.”
“You didn’t even remember me, Colton, and we spent three years in high school together. Says a lot, doesn’t it?”
He scoffs but finally leaves.
I sit down again and my hands tremble—almost like back then, in that hallway, when they cornered me and laughed. Dirty witch.
Bullies steal your happiness, it’s just fair that I steal his now.