Chapter Twelve Turn Missteps into Lessons
Chapter Twelve
Turn Missteps into Lessons
New York, New York
My first meeting in New York went well. I had lunch with a prospective donor who was very passionate about work in Africa, having grown up in South Africa himself, and now I’m headed to an interview with a popular podcaster that my new PR firm lined up.
We felt that some good publicity about the traction of the foundation would only help us secure more funds, better our reputation, and lead to an even greater impact. I was all for it.
The podcast host, Hannah Valentine, is originally from Alabama and has a sweet drawl that she uses to her advantage.
She has enough Southern charm to make you feel completely comfortable and enough New York grit to delve into tough topics.
Since it’s easy to talk about the work that I love, my thirty-minute time segment flies by, but somehow manages to go off the rails during the last ninety seconds.
Hannah aims a bubble-gum-sweet smile at me. “Okay, and since our listeners like to know the person behind the project, tell us a little bit about yourself. Married? Single?”
I hesitate. “Um. It’s complicated.”
She gestures for me to lean into the mic and continue.
“I started seeing someone recently. It’s very new.”
Hannah grins. “Someone new. That’s exciting. And how are things going?”
“Well, good, I just. I shouldn’t say anything, I’m sure ...”
“Because you’re afraid you’ll jinx it?”
Her questions are dizzying. When we were talking about Kenya, I was calm and in control. Clearheaded. Now I feel breathless and dizzy and I desperately need a sip of water.
“No. I’m just not sure I should say this.”
Hannah smiles wickedly. “Now you have to.”
“He’s quite a bit younger than me, so I’m not sure if it’s heading anywhere. But I’m having fun.”
Hannah’s eyes stray to the laptop beside her. “My producer just asked ... how much younger?”
“Next question.” I laugh nervously, wondering why on earth I ever opened this can of worms. I have no one to blame but myself, and that I’m old enough to know better is the frustrating thing.
“Oh, she’s blushing, guys. This is juicy.” Hannah chuckles, smiling at me encouragingly.
Blessedly, a few tense seconds later, she wraps up the interview, and I’m hopeful they’ll just cut that last awkward bit out in editing because that felt horribly uncomfortable. And no one is going to care about who I’m sort of dating. Cringe central.
After the interview, I meet with David and Joslyn via video conference and discuss the upcoming charity gala we plan to host next spring. It’s a ways away, but there’s a lot of work to be done, securing donations for the live auction and lining up speakers, entertainment, and a venue.
I called Hart earlier today, but the conversation was brief.
He was in a meeting and couldn’t talk—family-trust stuff, he said.
Later he texted with an invitation to tonight’s hockey game; he and his friends are sharing a suite.
It’s an unexpected turn of events, but I’m up for it.
Mostly because I wasn’t sure if I would see him again this trip.
I fly back to California in a couple of days, and he and I haven’t made any definite plans.
Which is fine, I’ve told myself. He has his life, and I have mine.
At the hockey game, I snack on nachos and popcorn and talk with Vaughn most of the time. The New York Rangers are playing the San Jose Sharks in their home opener. And even though I’m not a hockey fan, I cheer for the Sharks just because.
It’s interesting seeing Hart with his friends.
Watching him interact is a whole thing—something to be studied.
He’s completely comfortable in who he is, in his own skin.
He smiles easily and laughs often. It makes me wonder if I’m the only one with issues, uncertainty.
He’s confident and unfazed. Maybe it’s his upbringing.
His family money. His last name. Or maybe it’s just who he is.
But I find it equal parts sexy and charming.
And he’s unbelievably attractive dressed in jeans, a button-down with the top two buttons undone, and a casual black sport coat.
I changed after my meetings and am dressed in a miniskirt with tall boots and a cream chunky-knit sweater.
After the Rangers defeat my Sharks 4 to 3, we set off, exiting Madison Square Garden in Midtown with a rush of other spectators—down the escalator and into the bustling street below.
“What did you think of the hockey game?” Hart asks.
I told him I’d never been to a game before. “I loved it. It was fast paced. A little violent. What’s not to love?”
He laughs, seeming to enjoy my description.
“Let’s do something!” Vaughn begs.
I glance casually at my phone. It’s late. It’s ten o’clock, and I’m ready to go back to my hotel room, take a hot shower, put on some pajamas, and climb into bed.
Instead, we go clubbing. Our age gap has never been more glaring than it is in this moment.
After making our way down Eighth Avenue, we arrive at Mission NYC, a nightclub with loud house music and low pulsing lights.
We pass by the center of the dance floor, which is a sea of moving bodies.
It’s just like I remember, but unlike when I was his age and went clubbing with my friends, this crew is given the VIP treatment and taken to a velvet-roped-off area with plush seating and bottle service.
Hart stops to talk to someone he knows—a Middle Eastern man wearing a suit and a thick gold chain—and everyone else goes off to dance, except Monty and me, who settle in the chairs.
Monty hands me a drink, and we toast. The beat of the music is sultry and hypnotic, and the lighting is low.
“Hart said you’re in meetings most of the week.”
I nod. “Yes. Making pitches to potential large donors. It’s a new pastime of mine.” I smile. “Did you stay in the Hamptons until today?”
He nods. “We did, but the weather’s turning now. When are you heading back to Nairobi?”
It seems that Hart has filled him in on quite a few things about me, and I’m curious what Monty thinks of me—the cougar who his friend has an inexplicable interest in. He’s probably just as confused as I am.
I tell him a bit more about Nairobi and then ask him some questions about the app he’s developing, impressed by his work ethic. He becomes animated, telling me that Hart has been helping him with some coding he’s been stuck on.
The truth is, his friends are nice, but I don’t have much in common with them. I envy them for still being youthful and carefree. On the cusp of adulthood but not quite all the way there.
I gaze out over the club and see Isaac dancing with two young women, girls, who are very eager for his attention, thrusting along to the music as he watches them with a hooded, stormy gaze.
Part of me wants to dance and drink and pretend I don’t know about things like hangovers or morning-after regrets. But that girl is long gone. Doubts about what I’m doing here, along with pangs of envy, swirl inside me.
Hart returns and takes my hand. “Care to dance?”
“Oh, what the hell.”
We head to the center of the packed dance floor, and I’m struck by a momentary flash of self-consciousness.
Vaughn is in her element, dancing alone and completely content.
Isaac bounces on the balls of his feet to the fast tempo, and the girls he’s dancing with sing along to the lyrics at top volume.
I obviously don’t fit in, but it’s easy to move along with Hart, who doesn’t so much dance as sway with me.
I rock my hips to the music, moving against him.
He watches me with a warm look in his eyes, like he can’t quite believe we’re here, can’t quite believe we’re doing this. That makes two of us.
I feel the eyes of one of the girls on me, her gaze filled with questions.
She nudges her friend with her elbow, and then they’re both looking at me.
Not at Hart. At me. Like I’m a complicated math equation they’re trying to solve.
Or maybe they’re mentally calculating our age difference, not that I could blame them.
I turn to face Hart, who’s oblivious to the attention we’re receiving.
“I think I’m ready to go,” I have to all but shout into his ear because it’s so loud. “But you stay—have fun with your friends.”
He frowns and shakes his head. Taking my hand in his, he guides me to the front entrance and then into the vestibule, where the volume is at a much more reasonable level. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie. “I’m just ready to go.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Giving my head a shake, I press my hands to his shoulders.
“You don’t have to. Stay if you want. I have early meetings tomorrow.
” I do have a meeting with Joslyn, which I could easily reschedule, but I don’t tell him that.
This isn’t my scene, and it’s okay if it’s his, but I’m past the age of doing things I don’t want to do just to make someone else feel more comfortable.
“I want to come with you,” he insists firmly. Taking my hand, we head out the door and onto the sidewalk. “Can I take you to your hotel?”
I nod. “Thanks.” Then I point back at the club. “What about—?”
“I’ll text Monty that we’re leaving. He’ll make sure Vaughn gets home.” He rubs one hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t think Isaac will be looking at his phone anytime soon.”
I can’t help but wonder if I weren’t here with him, if he would have stayed, partied ... ended up in the bed of some random girl. It’s not a thought I want to linger on.
We share a cab to my hotel, and Hart holds my hand the entire time—even when he texts back and forth with Monty.
Back in my hotel room, I sit on the edge of the bed and unzip my boots. Hart watches me, leaning one hip against the desk.
“They think I’m a cougar,” I complain.
Hart laughs. “You’re not a cougar. Maybe a cub.”
“I’m a cub ?” I shake my head. “What does that make you?”
He tilts his chin, considering it. “A snack?”
Laughter bursts from my lips. “Oh, that’s a comforting thought.”
Hart crosses the room and hauls me closer. “I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks, Alessia. Why do you?”
I shrug, lifting one shoulder. It’s a good question. Part of me wishes I didn’t care so much. That I could be the type of person to just lean in to whatever this is and not worry about the consequences.
“Did you tell your friend Scarlet about me?”
I nod, meeting his eyes, wondering how he’ll react to her comments.
“What did she say?”
I bring my lips to his and kiss him once, twice. Slowly. “She was actually all for it. Thought I could use a little fun.” I push away the reminder that Scarlet also said we were at two different stages in life, and the worry in her eyes during our last conversation.
“And she was right,” he says, kissing me again. And then the time for talking is done because getting lost in his kisses is a very good place to be.
Stroking one hand down my neck, he tucks my hair behind my ear, as though pulling himself away with reluctance. “When can I see you again?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit.
It’s another reason why he and I don’t make any sense. We live on different coasts—different continents part of the year. I fear someone’s going to have to be the grown-up in this situation and point that out to him, and I’m terrified that someone is going to have to be me.