2. Katherine / Kingston
2
KATHERINE / KINGSTON
Katherine
I sink onto a barstool at the kitchen counter. This is no time for a pity party. Either I go to the event and participate in the auction, or I call the coordinator back and cancel.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t give this more than thirty seconds of my time. After all, that’s the credo that’s been drummed into me for years. Decisive action. If you can’t take action immediately, stop fretting. Get to work. Delegate. Move forward.
I take a fortifying sip from my glass and navigate to the contacts in my phone app, stabbing at my mother’s name with my thumb.
As it rings, I stalk across the sleek wood floor, march into my bedroom, and flip on the light switch in my closet. Hanging on a brass hook at the other end is the emerald green dress Kingston sent over from his mother’s latest collection. I never planned to put it on such a public display.
It covers one shoulder with lots of lovely draping and makes my coloring look good. To me, anyway. Mother hates my red hair.
It’s not my fault. She passed the ginger gene down from her side of the family. Or so she says.
“Good evening, Katherine.” Her voice sounds dry and crackly from years of ‘social’ smoking.
“Mother.”
Be nice, Kat.
“I was just telling James how lovely your dress for the gala is.” I seriously doubt my stepfather cares about such details. If it’s not a number in his bank account, he pays little attention.
Part of me wants to wear a trash bag just to scandalize her. But knowing my mother, she’d figure out some way to turn my stepping out of line into another feather in her cap. She’d probably go on record stating that I’m speaking out against single-use fashion. And after chewing me out, she’d turn around and give interviews with any magazine that called.
She knows how much I hate being in the spotlight. One of these days, I’m going to just walk away from everything and plunk my “padded” ass on a beach somewhere. I don’t care if I get sunburned or my hair frizzes.
“Why did you tell them I’d do the auction? ”
I stare hard at the dress as if it’s responsible for my predicament.
“Oh, Katherine. You need to get out there. The auction is the perfect opportunity. And it’s such a good cause.”
I’m sure it is.
Which is the only reason I’m able to bite my tongue.
My frown is so deep I’ll probably get yelled at by my facialist. “I don’t want to be out there . I told you that.”
She speaks over me. “I know. You and Tyler are on the outs, but?—”
“No. We’re not on the outs, Mother. It’s over.” We were over the moment he sided with her over me.
“But—”
“No buts.”
“You can’t stay single forever.”
Oh, I most certainly can.
Has she met me?
My toy collection suits me just fine; it doesn’t hog the remote, and it never leaves socks on the floor. Plus, I’ve never had a battery-operated boyfriend leave the toilet seat up.
“Mother—”
“Katherine—” How does she manage to sound so put out when I’m the one in the vulnerable spot here? She’s not going to be standing on that stage in front of everyone .
I take a deep breath. In through the nose, hold for a count of four, out through the mouth, and hold for another count of four.
Is it too much to ask for a man to like me for me? Not my family name. Not my connections. Not my prospective bank account.
“Did you pause,” I bite out, “for a second to think of how I might feel out there? Paraded across a stage like cattle?”
“Oh my god, Katherine. Grow up. You are not a cow. This event is decades old and?—”
I tune her out.
This is becoming a habit.
There’s not a hint of concern in her words or her tone. She’s not the least bit apologetic. Did I really expect that?
No.
At this point, no. Deep down, I didn’t.
She cares about a lot of things, but my feelings aren’t one of them and honestly, I’m starting to wonder if she has any herself.
I mean, it makes sense if I think about it.
She’s the eldest daughter and, as far as I can tell, has always lived her life surrounded by men. Father, brothers, husbands, board members, employees.
And she’s learned how to survive in a man’s world, moving the pieces around the chessboard to suit her.
But I’m ready to be the queen of my own board .
My best will never be enough for her, and that’s become achingly clear. If she has no emotion at all, it feels like she’s passed them all to me. I have a cruel poker face, and I use it well. But inside, I’m dying.
A single word cuts through the fog.
Trust-fund.
“Say that again,” I urge.
Silence.
“Mother?”
“I didn’t think it’d be an issue, darling.”
Oh, good grief.
She only pulls out the D-word when she’s trying to butter me up.
“What wouldn’t be an issue?” I try to temper my voice so that I don’t shout.
Her sigh is gusty. My stomach sinks.
“Your grandfather. He made it a stipulation of your inheritance that you be married.”
Kingston
“Hmm?” Marko’s question ping-pongs through my brain. What am I waiting for?
“You can bid on her, yes?”
“I mean—” I could. Does he?—?
Shit. Did he find out who I am?
But he’s pushing to his feet, dusting the back of his jeans with one hand, his beer bottle dangling from the other. “Come.”
I hustle after him, brushing myself off as I go. By the time we get to the bar, I’ve drained my beer and tossed the empty into the trash while he disappears through the swinging door. Do I really want to do this? Do I really think Katherine’s going to find and fall for someone so quickly? Am I ready to admit that I want to be that someone?
Not a minute later, Marko returns with an envelope and shoves it into my hands.
“What’s this?”
“Go home, Kingston. Claim your woman.”
My jaw drops, and I flip open the tab to find a stack of cash. “Marko—I can’t—what is all this?”
He holds up his hands when I try to hand the envelope back. “Don’t wait, my friend. I wonder if you’ve waited too long.”
He ducks his head, looking me in the eye. I huff out a sigh because, dang it. He’s right.
But he’s wrong, too. Katherine was nineteen when I left. She was stuck in her mother’s world and needed to grow. Spread her wings without another person dominating her life. So I left. But she’s always been the woman I compare all others to. And she’s only gotten lovelier. Funnier.
“Whatever it was that sent you away from her, maybe it’s time to return, yes?”
“I sent me,” I murmur, staring down at the cash .
“Go win her.” Marko’s smile is back.
He makes it sound easy. Just sweep into the ballroom, call out the winning bid, and watch Katherine smile with relief, blue-green eyes twinkling as she descends the stairs straight into my arms.
That’s some fantasy.
His earlier question blares through my mind. What are you waiting for?
What am I waiting for? Some sort of sign?
The same feeling I got in my stomach, telling me to go, to leave New York and travel... well, I’ve got it right now. And it’s not the Scampi na Buzaru I had for dinner.
“It is enough?” Marko asks, his gaze dropping to the envelope.
I suck in a deep breath, warring with myself. There’s a reason I haven’t gone back to New York. I don’t belong there.
But if that’s where Katherine is, and I belong with Katherine...
I shove the envelope into Marko’s hands and clasp him over the shoulders. “It’s more than enough. But I can’t accept it. I’ve gotta go. I’ll text you!”
I dart off and then turn back, gaze sweeping the messy bar.
Marko waves me off. “Go. I have this.”
“You’re sure?”
“Da!” He waves both hands in a shooing motion, and I laugh.
My loafers slap against the pavement as I race back to the marina. My sailboat is tucked into the seventh slip on the right. Slowing as I approach, I pull out my phone and hit the group chat labeled SisMonsters . They’re gonna love ribbing me about this, but Marko’s right. It’s time to head home. To Katherine.
Kingston: which of you has tickets to the Give Back Gala tomorrow?
While I wait for their answer, I start packing a bag. My tuxedo, still safe in its garment bag, joins the pile. I sweep my toiletries into the duffle, thankful that they’re already travel-sized because my boat is small. A handful of shorts, a pair of jeans, and a stack of t-shirts go in next. What else?
Flights. I snap my fingers and turn toward the dinette. I need a plane ticket.
I plop in front of my laptop and see what’s available. The result? Not a whole heck of a lot.
My phone pings as I scrub a hand down my face.
Mel: are you in town??
Kingston: not yet
Ella: wasn’t aunt Margaret on the board this year? bet she could get you in.
Sighing, I fire off a text to my aunt. Then I’m back in search of a flight. My left knee bounces beneath the table as I scroll and scroll.
If I drive to Zagreb, I could catch a flight first thing, but there’s a long layover in Munich. That won’t work. I’d miss the gala.
I shoot off a quick text to the family pilot, asking how soon he could be here. For all I know, he’s in Athens with Mama on one of her scouting trips. That’d be perfect.
Normally, I thrive on logistics. Planning a trip. Booking a flight is a rush. But this feels frantic. Important. All because of that auction and my decree that she should wear the green dress I made for her.
Which she doesn’t know. Would she like that? Or think I’m a total creep?
Who knows? All I know is I have to get there. I need to see her in that gorgeous emerald silk. I need to win that auction, and then?—
I’ll figure that out once I arrive. One step at a time.
Auntie Margaret: all taken care of. See you tomorrow.
A sigh of relief gusts from my lips, and I turn my focus back to the airlines. Looks like there’s one more ticket on an airline I’ve never heard of. It leaves in—I glance at the clock in the corner of the screen—five hours. I book the ticket and slam the laptop closed, then slide it into my bag.
I finish packing, blood thumping heavily through my veins. Is this the best decision I’ve ever made, or will it all be a mistake? And how the heck would I know?
I guess it all depends on Katherine.
A buzz of excitement chases away the nervousness. Running my hands through my hair, I glance around to see what I’m missing. I wish I had time to get a haircut; it’s too long. But it looks like I’ll barely make it to the event on time, so there’s no chance for a trip to the barber. Not that Katherine cares when my hair gets like this.
She’ll just ruffle her fingers through it and tease me before saying that she actually likes it carefree and golden from too many hours in the sun.
I drop my luggage at the base of the stairs and move through the tight space, tidying as I go. That’s when I spy the box of cereal I bought for her. She’s an addict, and I send her selections from around the world whenever I find something she hasn’t tried before. I’m pretty sure this one’s chocolate-flavored. I add it to my bag because if everything goes to hell, at least the treat will make her smile.
I lay down for a quick nap, but sleep is fitful. I toss and turn, punch my pillow, turn and toss like waves in a hurricane. Finally deciding it’s pointless and that I’m way too amped, I get ready and grab my stuff.
Duffle in hand, garment bag tucked over my arm, I take one last look around the dark interior. Everything will be fine for—how long? A few days? A week?
When was the last time I watered the succulent?
“Fudgecake,” I mutter Katherine’s favorite word, breaking the early morning silence. Then I reach for the succulent, cradling the small pot in the palm of my hand, and I’m off.