5. Katherine
5
KATHERINE
I take no pride in the fact that I’m hiding out at the gala. There are so many people here, none of whom I wish to talk to. So, I’m biding my time until I have to appear on stage.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I stay half-hidden behind a large potted palm tree in the hallway. I take a closer look at the long, elegant fronds. It’s a Majesty Palm. Good choice if you can keep the humidity high enough, and I don’t doubt that someone working for this hotel keeps the plants in tip-top shape. The Winstead is known for their massive pots and artful arrangements.
My phone gives a distinctive little trill, and I glance around to make sure I’m still alone. Some days, I feel like I’m two different people. Today, I am not VP of Relationship Management at Chanler and Cort, wheeling and dealing, bringing Manhattan to its knees. No, I’m the reserved plant lover who’d rather be at home reading a good book.
If only my moods would sync up with my social schedule.
I pull my phone from my glittering wristlet purse and see a notification from my longtime pen pal turned college roommate and bestie.
LaShonda: Wish I was there to bet on you.
Warmth suffuses my chest. That’s exactly the kind of energy I need right now. She knows how much I hate this sort of attention.
Katherine: I wish you were too.
Although, I hate to tell her she probably couldn’t compete with this crowd on her law student income. But I’d give her the money, and then we could take ourselves out and have an amazing girls’ night.
LaShonda: with any luck, you’ll meet a guy who checks off all the items on your list.
I inwardly groan at that. Not that I hate her knowing about the list. I just hate that stupid list. Almost as much as I hate how picky I am.
I miss her. We haven’t seen nearly enough of each other this last year. And that’s my fault. I have the resources. I should plan a trip and make it happen.
Flashing blue lights draw my attention to the window, the thick glass muffling the sounds from the street.
Katherine: any plans for memorial day?
Three dots appear beneath my text.
LaShonda: going to the cape. You?
Once again, I’m torn.
Katherine: woman shrugging emoji
I navigate to my list of text messages and reread Ford’s invitation. He’s going to Sutton’s Miami beach house. Mansion is more like it. Sutton might be our former stepbrother, but those two are still thicker than tourists in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. I hardly ever see one without the other.
There’s nothing from my mother.
Not that I expected anything. She’s so busy .
But my father has invited me out to his place in the Hamptons. I miss that house and the summers we spent there. Back before my parents split up and everything changed.
I’m perfectly happy doing my own thing .
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
I’m already antsy enough tonight. There’s no way I can go down memory lane right now. That’ll only add nostalgia to my nervousness.
I click on Kingston’s name and scroll up. Until college, he’d been my closest friend. Five years older but always there for me from the time I was young. We’ve traveled in the same circles for years, and we bonded over never feeling like we belonged in our powerful families.
At least we did until he was bitten by the travel bug.
I pause at an incredible picture from Croatia. Pristine aqua waters, charming tan and terra cotta buildings, brilliant blue sky. Not a skyscraper in sight.
My fingertip traces lazy figure eights over the image. He’s been there for a while. Seems like he’s stayed in this seaside village longer than any of the past places he’s been.
I miss him.
I scroll up through the pictures he sends every few days. There’s an old window with faded blue-green shutters that looks like it should be on the homepage of National Geographic. Above that is a sunset. Then a sunbaked cafe, complete with pot after pot of vibrant red flowers. I can almost feel the sun on my face. It looks like a quiet spot to enjoy an afternoon .
Maybe that’s the answer. Run away to Europe for the holiday and relax on my bestie’s sailboat.
Down the hall, a door opens, then clicks shut. Adrenaline pings through me as if I’ve just been caught. Fudgecake. No one’s been by here in twenty minutes. And it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. I guess my solitude had to end sometime. I smooth a hand down my thigh.
Muffled footsteps echo across the thick carpet, and I peek out from behind the potted palm. My mouth opens with a silent gasp.
Heat and longing surge through my veins, twining around my limbs. If I wasn’t suddenly vibrating with desire, I’d think my eyes were playing tricks on me.
What are they doing here?
Shoulder to shoulder, dressed in gorgeous bespoke tuxedos, Alexander Hunt and Gabriel Rothburn stalk toward me. All loose hips, broad shoulders, and clean-shaven. It’s enough to make a girl go weak in the knees. And goofy in the head.
I’ve never in my twenty-four years experienced anything like it. It’s both disconcerting and decadent.
I duck behind the palm and take a steadying breath. This isn’t a terribly good hiding spot.
I’m not even sure why I want to hide from them except that I’m hiding in general, and they’re going to know it. Gabriel will pick at me, and Alexander will stare at me with those dreamy eyes, silently watching. Calculating. Figuring things out.
I can’t begin to understand the connection I feel with him. It’s been that way since the moment we met. We see each other occasionally and yet, it’s always the same. I’m aware of him on a deeper level. He doesn’t have to say a word, and I’m buzzing.
More than once, I’ve returned home, crawled into my bed, and reached for my favorite vibrator.
Yes, I do have a favorite.
This morning, I cut my workout short so I didn’t risk begging him to hold me. The desire was stronger than anything I’ve ever felt.
He oozes protection. And there’s no use denying it. I feel emotionally beat up.
When he just quietly stepped in to hold the punching bag and didn’t correct my posture or my punch, I was so touched. Just overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness and sincerity. I’m pretty sure I gave a little chunk of my heart to the big, brooding bodyguard.
He’s technically a CEO, but he always makes me think that he’s guarding Gabe’s back in case his bestie says something that gets him in trouble.
But Alex is right. He’s not like most men. And I think that’s exactly why I feel so connected to him. Why I’m looking for him at every event I attend. I should have guessed he’d be here tonight. Events like this are great visibility for his business. People in this circle need protection.
For a moment, I debate acting like I’m on a phone call. Or typing out a long text message.
But I decide against both options. After one more look at Kingston’s pictures, I stow my phone back in my bag and glance through the bright green foliage. I straighten my spine because I’m already half a foot shorter than both of them. No need to slouch.
Alexander spots me first.
His chin lifts, and his eyes narrow.
What? You’ve never seen a woman use a potted plant as cover before?
For the life of me, I don’t understand why I feel so... calm when he’s near. It’s like I can breathe a little easier. He doesn’t fill the air with needless chatter. And even though he’s incredibly watchful, I never feel like a bug beneath a microscope.
Is it because the mental gymnastics with Gabriel are the opposite?
With him, I have to be on my A-game. Chin up. Wits, razor sharp. It’s exhausting and exhilarating.
“Miss Montgomery! There you are.”
I turn to see a woman about my mother’s age. She’s got a death grip on the door to my left and waves for me with her other hand.
“You’re up next, dear.”
My stomach sinks like a bowling ball in the Hudson, but I swallow back the nervousness and square my shoulders. She leads me to the ballroom before either man can say a word, and my mind flashes to the horrors of my debutante year.
The nightmare plays on repeat until a few minutes later, I’m beneath the bright lights, fighting wobbly knees, praying I don’t fall off the stage, and staring hard at the back wall so I don’t make eye contact with anyone. It’s been a half-dozen years, but memories of the knots in my stomach and the sneers from onlookers are hard to forget. My skin made my life hell as a teenager.
“Next up,” the woman with the microphone says, “is Katherine Montgomery. Katherine is the daughter of Lucinda Winthrop and Pierce Montgomery. She speaks French, passable Italian?—”
What? My head whips toward her as the audience laughs.
“—attended Magna Vita Prep?—”
My muscles lock up, and my lungs just stop. I know who wrote this intro. I know what’s coming next. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
“—was an award-winning debutante at The Deb, as well as an accomplished dancer and pianist.”
There it is. The event I’d do anything to forget. Maybe the stage will cave in and take me with it. Please, universe. I’m begging.
“Katherine graduated from Harvard two years ago and currently works for Chanler and Cort as VP of Relationship Management, and she serves on the board of the Winter-Farmington Foundation, advocating for STEM resources for America’s youth.”
I suck a deep breath through my nose, every cell in my body aware that there are hundreds of pairs of eyes watching me.
Bravo, Mother. Way to make me sound like every other trust fund baby here. Boring. Lifeless. And while nothing in the bio was a lie, it didn’t begin to showcase the real me.
Movement at the very back catches my eye, and I drop my gaze a fraction.
Gabriel is saying something to Alex, but Alex’s attention is firmly on me. Like a laser beam, slicing through the crowd, holding my focus until the rest of the glittering room falls away.
As if she’s far, far away, I hear the woman with the microphone continue. “She’s an expert on fine wine and a patron of the arts. Bidding will begin at five hundred dollars.”