Chapter 3
SASHA
TWO MONTHS LATER
This was a terrible idea. I knew it was a terrible idea—I told Sam it was a terrible idea. But he doesn’t seem to give a shit about me right now.
Irritation burns in my chest, mixing with the hurt at Sam’s complete dismissal of my feelings as I check my face in my pocket mirror. I shake off the bad feelings, using my nail to brush aside an errant eyelash on my cheek.
My brother and I may not be close these days, but he’s done more for me over the years than anyone else in my family. Mostly because my parents only listen to him. He’s still the only reason my mom didn’t outright sabotage my escape to go to grad school in London.
“What’s the point of more school, Sasha? You already went to college!” The subtext there was “who cares if you graduated? You were a complete failure at husband hunting!”
When she found out what I was planning to study, she nearly fainted. “Victorian what?” she’d asked, agog.
“Erotica.” I took great pleasure in drawing out the syllables over the phone.
“What on earth is wrong with regular English?”
My mom was born in the wrong era. I wasn’t particularly into English lit, even the horny kind, but the program had openings and looked interesting, and I was cashing in on an offer from Sam to quietly pay my tuition as an escape route from Mom.
“Almost there, honey,” my Uber driver says in the mirror. She’s a motherly looking woman with a thick Spanish accent and blue-rimmed glasses on a chain who introduced herself as Maria. There’s a Puerto Rican flag decal proudly displayed on the back of the passenger seat.
I shove the mirror into my purse. “Maybe I can just hang out with you tonight instead?”
Maria cackles. She thinks I’m joking.
I know exactly what this guy is going to be like. All Sam’s friends and acquaintances seem to be obnoxious dude-bros with eyes that seem to be stuck at boob-level. Actually, now that he’s entered public office, he’s widened his associate group to slimy businessmen who… No. They’re about the same.
But no matter how much Sam has changed over the years, he’s still my big brother. And I’m wearing my favorite Louboutins and a strapless Finchley dress, which I smooth my hands over now. At least I’ll look impeccable while suffering through this.
My mother’s voice echoes in my ear. “You never know, Sasha, you might enjoy yourself!” She always said that just before cinching the sash on whatever dress she’d chosen for me like she dearly wished it was a corset.
Maria angles her car behind the snaking lines of traffic toward Sequoia, a brand-spanking new California-inspired fine dining establishment in the heart of midtown Manhattan.
I watch its huge glowing sign grow closer through the window, though it’s still a couple of blocks away. “Why do people in New York want to eat California-based food anyway?”
“Beats me, honey. I don’t even know what California food is.”
“Wheatgrass cocktails, probably.”
She screws up her face in the mirror. “What the hell is a wheatgrass? Sounds like cow food.”
I laugh out loud, even though, admittedly, I lived on wheatgrass after every late night in London.
My laughter dies as I glance down at my phone. My last text was from Sam, reminding me for the third time about this date.
My stomach churns, the annoyance about this date shifting into the worry I felt when he first texted, asking for the favor.
Sam’s been making headlines again, and not the good kind.
It was semi-amusing when he was Wall Street’s most eligible bachelor, because mostly, it was salacious headlines about which supermodel’s heart he’d broken this time.
Now that he’s in politics, not so much. Last week, after yet another alleged scandal broke, this one about his assistant abruptly quitting with rumors of sexual harassment floating around, a reporter somehow snuck past my doorman and got all the way up to my apartment.
I opened the door in my sweats, thinking it was my doorman with my kung pao chicken delivery.
Then cameras snapped in my face and a ballsy-AF reporter demanded to know whether the harassment rumors were true.
“No!” was all I managed to get out before slamming the door. But he’d already gotten his photo op.
Do I honestly believe if I help Sam, everything will turn around?
When I asked him about the harassment rumors, he swore up and down they weren’t real.
That he’d never do anything like that—I could ask any of his exes.
It was true. He didn’t have a track record of anything like that.
I want so badly to believe him. But I think that just makes me a sucker.
“Sorry, honey, this is as close as I can get,” Maria says, pulling to a stop. “Damn valet is hogging the whole street.”
I gather up my purse, but I don’t move to get out.
“All good. I could use the fresh air.” I grip my purse against my chest. “I hope your daughter gets that acceptance letter soon.” Maria told me her daughter’s trying to get into some elite esthetician college.
It sounds way smarter to me than what I did.
Not many career paths from historical book porn.
In the mirror, Maria’s face beams with pride. “Me too.”
The clear abundance of love for her daughter radiating from Maria’s smile makes my chest hurt.
It doesn’t matter if her daughter gets into that school.
I know Maria’s expression won’t falter. She’ll just encourage her to keep going.
If my mother had ever once looked at me like that, even for a fraction of a second, I’d be walking on sunshine for days.
A beat passes, then Maria eyes me over her glasses. “You know you gotta get out of the car if you want to go on this date, right?”
I finally force myself to bid a farewell to my driver and step out into the New York City evening.
I make my way down the busy sidewalk, passing groups of friends laughing and couples with arms around each other.
It reminds me of London. I miss being anonymous there.
I miss Nora, too. Terribly. My friends here in New York all seem to have moved on to marriage and babies since I’ve been gone.
Nora and I talked every day in London, but I haven’t seen her since that wedding.
God, that wedding. That paparazzo helicopter damn near sent me into a panic attack. I’d convinced myself they were there for me. I’d been looking over my shoulder for weeks. Sometimes they’d be there. Other times, I felt like people were watching me but there was no one there at all.
My heel slips on a grate, but I manage to catch myself, my heart skipping from nearly falling.
I’d been feeling so alone since returning from London, no matter how many friends I saw. The paparazzi situation just made everything worse.
But that day at the wedding, for the first time since I’d come home, there was one person who seemed to see me and get what was going on. One person who saw the panic in my eyes when the paparazzi appeared and wasn’t concerned for his own well-being.
It was Griffin Kelly. The most grumbly, cantankerous grump I’ve ever met. A man so starkly different from his brother, Nora’s boyfriend, Jude, that I would have been convinced they weren’t related if I hadn’t seen them side by side.
Griffin was this close to being an asshole, responding to my questions in grunts and barely acknowledging my presence while he stood around his brother’s wedding looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
But the moment those rotors sounded and he saw the look on my face, he turned into someone completely different.
His words may have been hard and commanding, but his tone screamed “I’ve got you.
” And he tucked me behind him without a thought for himself.
It made me feel like I was the most important person in the world.
Like I needed to be protected at all costs.
Even now, I can’t help the little flutter of butterflies that reappears at the memory.
Then he reverted to grumbly dick again when the danger was over.
I’ve reached the restaurant. I stand outside, looking for any excuse not to open the giant glass door. But a couple leaving, chatting and holding hands, makes room for me. The man holds the door, his eyes on his wife in a way that makes my heart ache yet again.
I find myself saying thank you, which they don’t hear, and suddenly, I’m inside, whether I like it or not.
Please, Sash. I’ll owe you one.
Yeah, bro, you will.
The restaurant is minimalist, all white, with subtle lighting hidden behind the lines of the wall. Dozens of pale-wood tables dot the floor. It’s buzzing with people at nearly every table, but I don’t see any men on their own.
I move toward the small cluster of people waiting to be seated and pull out my phone.
SASHA: I’m here. I don’t see him.
Sam responds immediately.
SAM: Thank you. He’ll be there.
My stomach tightens. Thank you? That kind of quick gratitude doesn’t sound like my larger-than-life brother.
But this whole thing hasn’t been like him. There was something off about the way he sounded so desperate for me to make this date. And honestly, that’s the only reason I’m here.
“Can I help you?” the hostess asks, startling me. The people in front of me have been seated.
“Sorry, yes.” I slip my phone back into my purse. “Actually,” I say, leaning in and giving her my friendliest smile—the one that disarms even the iciest women, “I’m not sure. I’m meeting someone here. But I don’t know what he looks like.”
The woman returned my smile when I started talking. She looks nice, if not a little overly efficient.
But now she’s gone stiff, her smile tightening. “Oh, yes. Of course. He’s expecting you.”
I frown. “I didn’t say who I was meeting.”
She laughs, almost nervously. “He told us what you looked like.”
My stomach tightens further. How would he know what I look like? I’ve never met him. Then I remember that photo in the news. My you’re not my chicken! Face.
I want to ask the hostess more questions, but she’s already briskly moving through the restaurant, forcing me to rush after her as she threads through the tables. She doesn’t stop at any of them. Instead, she leads me up a set of stairs to the second floor.
“Hey, uh, is this some kind of private seating area?” I ask. I should stop, but she won’t be able to hear me. “I don’t really want to be alone with someone I’ve never met.”
I’m getting more and more concerned. My heart beats a warning against my chest. “Do you know this guy?”
“It’s our VIP area,” she says, not answering my second question. Her voice is sympathetic.
We’ve emerged into a second dining area. Here, there are several tables set, but no other diners.
My stomach drops.
On the far side of the room, there’s a wide balcony dotted with giant potted plants and a half-dozen tables glowing with candles.
It should feel pretty and private, but instead, it feels ominous.
Over the balcony, the upper level of a two-story sushi restaurant across the street is bright and bustling with activity.
God, how I wish I was there. With friends. Alone. Anything but this.
I pull out my phone, pulling up Sam’s text again.
SASHA: Sam. What the fuck is going on? Who is this guy?? I’m going to go.
No response. I’m about to turn around, all my spidey-senses on red alert.
“Miss?” the hostess calls from the middle of the floor.
Just as I turn around, a text pops up.
SAM: Don’t leave. Please. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it weren’t life or death.
My stomach plunges.
“Miss Macklin.”
I jerk my body back around at the deep, smooth voice.
A man stands in front of the table at the far end of the balcony. How did I not see him before?
I swallow as he crosses the floor toward me.
I’ve never seen this man before in my life. Yet the coolness crawling over my skin tells me things just went from bad to much worse.