23. Mckenna
TWENTY-THREE
MCKENNA
It’s hard to ignore the Christmas spirit in New York City. Excitement strums through the streets. It gathers in restaurants and pubs and spills out of storefronts and boutiques, wrapping everyone up in its energy.
The holiday displays are massive, the store windows along Fifth Avenue burst with creativity, and holiday happy hours, dinners, and parties reign. For as much as I pretend not to love the festivities of Christmas, it’s impossible to remain aloof in Manhattan.
Partly, because my family spent a happy Christmas here when I was a little girl. I can still remember pressing my nose and fingertips against the cool glass of the hotel window, watching the snowflakes fall onto the busy bustle below. That Christmas, Dad gifted Mom diamond earrings she loved, and he gave me a fancy bottle of perfume. The bottle shape was vintage, with an atomizer that I carefully pressed once to spritz my neck and wrists. Then, I would dab my wrists behind my ears the way I’d seen Mom do before a party.
It’s one memory and still, I cling to it and the version of what my family could have been if we weren’t…us.
“Slide in here,” Mav says, guiding me into a seat at a small table in the busy restaurant.
“It’s packed!” I exclaim.
“It’s an institution,” Mav remarks, passing me a menu. “You really only have three choices—blueberry, banana walnut, or chocolate chip.”
I smirk. “What if I wanted?—”
“Don’t say oatmeal.”
“Granola.”
Mav looks up, his expression bewildered. “Granola? Mckenna, I tell you this place is an institution and you counter with granola? What kind of a lawyer are you planning to be?”
I shake my head, fighting my laughter. “That’s not an argument, Maverick. You’re?—”
“What can I get you?” The server appears.
“Blueberry pancakes and a coffee,” I order before Mav can have a meltdown.
He rolls his eyes and orders the chocolate chip pancakes.
Once we have our coffees, I ease back in my chair.
“You look happier,” Mav comments. I should be used to his observations by now, but the fact that he can read me catches me off guard.
I blow on my coffee before meeting his eyes. “I am. Being here at Christmastime… It’s magical, isn’t it?”
“Exactly!” he beams. “I knew you were holding out on me.”
I snort. “Sometimes, it’s just a change of scenery. Sometimes, I need out of Boston.”
Mav frowns. “Because of your parents’ divorce?”
I take a sip of my coffee, thinking about his question. “That’s a big part of it. Their divorce is nasty. My dad cheated on my mom.” I glance at Mav for his reaction, but his expression is locked down. I take another gulp of the strong brew. “He cheated before but the last time, it was with my aunt. My mom’s sister.”
Mav’s mouth falls open. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious,” I sigh, wishing I wasn’t. “The worst part is, I can see both of their sides. They were both awful to each other for years. Mom acting out to get Dad’s attention—throwing parties, taking trips without telling him first, flirting with his business partners. And then, Dad punishing her by actually stepping out.” I shake my head. “But we had this one magical Christmas.” I tap the table. “Here, in the city.”
Mav clears his throat, watching me closely. “That sounds really fucked up, Mckenna. It’s almost shocking you turned out normal.”
“I’m not normal, Mav. Most days, I’m barely getting by,” I admit.
He leans closer. “I get that, you know? From the stories my nana and pop shared, my mom was gold before she met my dad. In all fairness, he had the potential to be a decent guy. He did…things, stepped up in ways that would have been applauded if he didn’t fuck them up so badly afterwards.”
I frown, trying to read between the lines. “What did?—”
“He left in the end,” Mav cuts me off, biting the corner of his mouth. “He walked out on us and when he did, he broke my mom.”
Reaching over the table, I place my hand over his. “How old were you?”
“Eleven.”
Damn. “That must have been tough.”
“Yep,” he agrees, chugging his coffee. “It fucking sucked.”
“Did he ever try to connect with you now? Or, you know, after the band blew up?” I ask tentatively.
Mav snickers, the sound sarcastic. “That’s the thing. He hasn’t. And I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel grateful or angry about that.”
I shrug. “You’re supposed to feel however you feel.”
“Both,” Mav says. “But more angry than grateful.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I’m more angry than anything else, too.”
Mav gives me that lopsided, boyish smirk and flips his hand over underneath mine. “See, we have more in common than you thought.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Even though they’re the wrong things.”
“Who says?”
I tilt my head, considering his question.
“Here are your pancakes!” The server appears, dropping off our stacks.
Before I can pick up my fork, Mav’s managed to cut both our portions in half and swaps them so we both have a half stack of blueberry and a half stack of chocolate chip.
He looks at me and winks. God, why does he have to be so endearing?
“Yeah.” I pick up my fork. “You’re right, Mav. ‘Who says?’” I dunk a bite in a pool of maple syrup and pop it in my mouth. “Oh my God,” I gush. “These pancakes are amazing.”
“Told ya, Mckenna. You can trust me.”
And the truth is, I already do.
I cry three times during Hamilton . It’s beautiful, poignant, and unbelievably moving. When the performance ends and I dry my eyes, Mav passes me a handkerchief—he was carrying one in his pocket?!—and eyes me with amusement.
“You carry around hankies?” I dab the soft fabric underneath my eyes carefully, so I don’t smear my mascara.
“Another tip from Warren Willoughby,” Mav replies.
I fold his handkerchief neatly. “Smart guy.”
“Keep it,” he says, standing from the theater seat. “He was the smartest.” He tips his chin toward the stage. “Pop would have loved this musical. I wish you had met him.”
I stand beside him, staring at the stage. Around us, people gather their coats and their programs, slide their purse straps over their shoulders, and collect their family members. “Me too.” I slip my hand into Maverick’s and he glances down at me in surprise. “Thanks for taking me here, Mav.”
A small smile flickers over his mouth. “It was my pleasure, Mckenna. Come on, you up for a walk?”
I nod. “And I wouldn’t say no to a hot chocolate either.”
Mav’s eyes lighten. “With marshmallows and extra whip!”
“Lead the way.”
He does.
By the following day, my heart is overflowing. We had fantastic blueberry pancakes, enjoyed a phenomenal performance of Hamilton , and walked until our feet ached. It was wonderful.
Taking a break from campus and Branson’s persistent presence is a necessary reprieve. It’s nice to celebrate the holidays after silently snubbing them for years. Mav fulfills his promise and takes me ice skating at Rockefeller Center, spinning me around the ice like he knows what he’s doing. On some level, he does because I trust him. The fact that I know he won’t let me fall is bone-deep, and I spend a full hour in fits of laughter.
We drink hot coffees and munch on bagels. I point out a brooch similar to one my grandmother—my dad’s mom—used to wear in a vintage store. She was a bright spot in my childhood, but she passed when I was only eight. Sometimes, I wonder if Dad would have done what he did if Grandma was still alive.
Mav takes me to a comic shop he learned about from his pop. Apparently, his nana and pop lived in Brooklyn for years before relocating to Boston when Jameson was born. We head out to Dyker Heights to take in the lavish Christmas lights. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the incredible lighting displays and fun decorations. We share more details of our childhoods; we soak up the city at Christmastime together, and the hours slip by.
“How do I look?” I ask, holding my arms out to the sides.
We’re staying in a suite at The Bowery Hotel, and the city skyline wraps around us like a hug.
Mav whistles, his eyes drinking me in slowly. Appreciation lightens his irises, and a crooked smile twists his lips. “Gorgeous.”
I grin, warmed by his words. I’m wearing a strapless, red gown with a sweetheart neckline and a chiffon skirt that flows around my legs and pools at my feet.
“Are you wearing these?” Mav bends to pick up the strappy silver heels I purchased with the shiny black credit card he gave me, for his label’s holiday party. His eyes glitter.
“I am,” I confirm, reaching for the shoes and sitting on the edge of the bed.
I pull my dress up to bend over and gasp in surprise when Mav kneels before me. “Let me help you,” he murmurs, his voice even. His eyebrows pull together in concentration, and he places the heel on my foot. As his big fingers fumble with the delicate clasp, his tongue slips through his teeth as he focuses on his task.
My fingers flex in the skirt of my dress as I watch him. Mav, this overbearing, larger-than-life party boy, helping me with my shoes. My chest squeezes at his thoughtfulness. In fact, he’s been nothing but generous and caring, sweet and playful, once we settled into our fake relationship.
Regarding boyfriends, my fake one may be the best I ever had.
The realization makes me giggle, and Mav peeks up, a soft smile playing over his lips.
“I like your hair like that,” he comments.
I run my hand over the low, braided bun held in place with a hundred bobby pins. I usually wear my hair down or in a ponytail. The classic updo is elegant and shows off my diamond drop earrings and the daring neckline of my gown. “Thank you, Mav. You look good, too.”
He beams and stands, towering over me in a well-cut, perfectly tailored black tuxedo. The sleeves are embellished with a pattern that would scream ostentatious on most men but looks sophisticated on Mav.
“We’ll make everyone jealous tonight,” he promises, reaching out a hand.
When I take it, he pulls me up. Mav helps me into my coat, and I grab the simple silver clutch I packed for the evening.
A black limousine takes us to the event. I spend the car ride people-watching outside the window and trying to tamp down the nerves and excitement that zip around my stomach.
My parents used to attend events like this. Was Mom ever giddy with excitement for the night? Did Dad tell her she looked gorgeous and help her into her coat?
I mentally search for examples of their love, but all I recall are barked demands and a fluttering rush. Everything was done in a hurry, constantly under pressure from other people’s expectations. There were never moments to pause and appreciate, never enough time to pose for a photo or kiss their daughter good night.
There was only that one Christmas and the skyscrapers of the city to witness it.
“We’re here.” Mav’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I turn to look at him.
“You okay?” he asks. “Do you need another minute? We can circle the block.”
His consideration causes a swell of emotion to rise behind my eyes. My fake boyfriend shows me more compassion and respect than my father ever showed my mother.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m great. Thanks, Mav.”
His eyes study mine for a beat as if to clock the sincerity of my words. “Okay,” he agrees. “I got the door,” he tells the driver. He pushes the door open and slips from the back seat.
Then, he reappears and reaches for me.
I slip my hand in his and let him guide me out of the limo. The moment we hit the front steps of the event, photographers swarm. Flashes go off in rapid succession. Our names are called by paparazzi, news outlets, and employees of Mav’s label.
We’re escorted through the chaos until we reach the front doors. Mav keeps his hand wrapped around mine the entire time, his muscular frame blocking me from the photographs and whistling as best as he can.
“You good?” he murmurs when we reach the elevators.
I smile at him. “I’m good.”
He grins. “Let’s have some fun, Mckenna.”
I bite my bottom lip and dip my head in agreement.
When the elevator dings and the space before us opens, we step out like the power couple we’ve grown into.
Fierce, friendly, and united.
“Maverick Tate!” A man comes forward.
Mav grins. “Hey, Leonardo.” He helps me out of my coat before shaking hands with Leonardo. “Have you met my gorgeous girl? This is Mckenna Byrne. Mckenna, this is Leonardo, Red Pilot Record’s CEO.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I say, extending a hand.
Leonardo beams. “Wonderful to meet you.” He takes my hand and leans closer to kiss my cheek. “I’m so happy you joined Mav this evening.”
“Me too.” I step closer to Mav, who places a protective hand on the center of my back.
Leonardo ensures we each have a glass of champagne and that our coats are adequately checked before greeting new arrivals.
“Come on.” Mav takes my hand and leads me deeper into the room.
The space is decorated beautifully, with crystal chandeliers and blooms of red flowers. Mistletoe hangs above each doorframe, and a massive Christmas tree stands guard in the corner. It’s tasteful and welcoming, inviting everyone to participate in the festive joviality.
“Allegra,” I breathe out when my friend comes into view.
“You look beautiful, Kenny.” She hugs me hard. Lowering her voice, she murmurs, “How are you holding up?”
“Good,” I say, meaning it.
When my friend leans back, she searches my expression for the truth. Allegra smiles. “You mean that.”
“I do. Things have been…better than I ever expected.”
Allegra squeezes my shoulders. “I’m glad.” But the look in her eyes tells me I’m not off the hook. At some point, Allegra and I are going to sit down and discuss Branson. But I still have no idea what I’m going to tell her.
“Hey, Kenny.” Levi bumps his sister out of the way to kiss me hello.
“Hi, Levi,” I say, giving him a warm hug.
Derek and Jameson greet me next. The band forms a little huddle, with Allegra and me in the center, and conversation breaks out around us.
At one point, Jameson disappears to check on his girlfriend Amelia, who excused herself to use the restroom. Except, too much time has passed. Levi spots a friend, and Mav and Derek are pulled into a conversation with fellow musicians interested in collaborating.
Allegra moves me over to the bar for champagne refills. “Tell me everything,” she breathes.
I laugh, thanking the bartender for another flute of bubbly. “It’s been really good,” I admit. Then, I wrinkle my nose. “I hate admitting this, but I get why you two are so close. Mav’s a good guy.”
“Loyal,” Allegra agrees.
“Caring,” I tack on.
“You sound smitten.” Allegra’s eyes dance.
I snort but don’t deny her statement. A part of me feels smitten with Maverick Tate. Especially tonight, all dressed up and out in the city, with a man like Mav by my side.
“He helped me put on my shoes!” I say, half in explanation, half in defense.
Allegra chuckles, her laughter soft.
“Cheers, ladies!” The man beside her turns toward us and lifts his fresh drink in our direction. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” I say, clinking my glass against his.
“Who are you here for?” he wonders.
“The Burnt Clovers,” Allegra replies. “You?”
“I’m staff.” He shrugs.
“You work for the label?” I ask to clarify.
“I do.” He smirks. He’s probably in his early forties but gives off an easygoing charm that makes him appear younger. “Christian Carrington. Lowly lawyer.”
Allegra laughs. “Lowly? I doubt that. I’m Allegra, and this is Mckenna. She’s in law school.”
“Are you?” Christian’s eyes flash. “What year?”
“I’m in 3L,” I reply.
He grins. “You’re nearly there. Now the hard part begins.”
I groan. “You mean law school wasn’t the hard part?”
“Damn, I thought the LSATs were the worst of it,” Allegra mutters.
Christian shakes his head. “What type of law are you interested in pursuing?”
“Entertainment,” I reply.
“Ah, then, I might be able to help.” He reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a business card.
He passes it to me, and I glance at his embossed name and title.
“General Counsel?” I sputter.
Christian smirks.
“Lowly, my ass,” Allegra jokes.
“If there’s anything I can help with as you navigate the job hunt”—Christian tips his head toward me—“please, reach out. My cell number is on there too.”
“Wow,” I say, realizing the absolute gold I’m holding in my hand. “Thank you, Mr. Carrington?—”
“Call me Christian,” he interjects.
Allegra hides her laughter behind a sip of champagne.
“Christian,” I amend. “I truly appreciate this.” I lift his business card slightly.
“Of course,” he replies quickly.
I tuck his business card into my clutch, and he reaches to hold my flute as I fumble with the clasp. When I take my glass back, his fingertips brush mine, and he holds my gaze, his eyes flashing with an eagerness that makes me pause.
Wait. Does he think I’m interested in something other than professional support?
I shuffle back half a step and take a sip of my champagne to buy a moment. Wracking my mind for something to say, my eyes dart around the event space, looking for Mav.
Christian’s hand darts out as I lower my champagne flute, and his thumb presses lightly to the corner of my mouth. “A drop,” he explains as his fingertips flutter across my cheek and skim the top of my shoulder.
He moves naturally, his tone holding a hint of apology. I shake my head, confused. My stomach twists and the back of my neck prickles, a warning.
But I must be reading into things that aren’t there.We’re in the middle of a party!
I glance at Allegra, but her eyes are glued over my shoulder.
Slowly, I turn around, and my heart rate jumps as I note Derek and Mav moving toward us.
Relief flows through my body as the tension in my shoulders deflates. I smile at Mav, grateful to see him, and his expression hardens.
Mav’s face is locked down, his jaw tight and his eyes flat. A cloudy blue that looks lethal. He glares at me, and I stand straighter. Oh, shit. He definitely misinterpreted that. I polish off my champagne and brace for his impact.
“Are you all right?” Christian asks, moving a hand to the small of my back.
I flinch and try to put space between us but with Allegra now on my other side and the bar ledge behind me, there’s nowhere to go.
Mav sneers, his eyes zeroing in on where Christian’s hand touches me.
Shit.
I look up at Christian to explain the situation, but before I can get a word out, his hand is forcefully swatted away. Maverick’s presence eats up the space. The air. My ability to think coherently.
“I see you met my girl, Carrington,” Mav states, his voice cold and his eyes hard.
I angle myself toward Mav’s frame, but he ignores me. Right now, his glower is aimed at Christian.
A rush of nerves, mixed with frustration, rolls through me.
Is Maverick jealous? Was Carrington hitting on me?
I shake my head, if only to clear my thoughts.
“Fuck,” Derek mutters behind me.
Allegra grips my hand. I squeeze her fingers and pull in a breath.
Together, we wait for the night to unravel.