Chapter 3
Six foot two. Born in New York. Leo. Son of Mariette Ashwood and Lucas Carrington. Attended NYU, graduated top of his class in Party Hosting and Underaged Drinking, apparently.
Wikipedia article, social media sweep, and a keyword search of a gossip site or two later, every single fact I’d found burned itself into a corner of my mind with his name on it.
I knew about his past relationship with Allegra Amato, socialite and fellow nepo baby of two Hollywood starlets, and just how amicable their split had been.
Pictures of him and his brothers at last year’s Ashwood Annual.
Videos of him in South America, Europe, and around the US doing God knows what.
Allegra had still made it into recent posts on his social media, smiling, rolling her eyes, holding a middle finger up at the camera.
His broad shoulders must’ve been a recent development. Same with the messy-but-not hair because, back then, it had still been neatly styled. A little too much so. I’d reached photos from over three years ago, so maybe my research wasn’t as surface-level as I had intended.
Unfortunately, it confirmed what I’d feared: His sense of fashion had always been alive and well.
Elliot accessorized perfectly, wore the right colors for his skin tone, and somehow managed to never look washed out despite the blond hair.
He utilized accent colors, matched his ties to Allegra’s dresses, and hadn’t touched a pair of skinny jeans in his life.
I had yet to find a single flaw in the guy. Apart from his unbearable arrogance.
“Maeve?”
Her voice drew me back into the present. Back into a chair, at a desk in Camila Rodriguez’s office, where I was meant to scan the onboarding sheet somewhere in a forgotten tab by now. I was here to work, not research my new . . . colleague.
Horrified, my gaze trailed away from Elliot’s naked upper body.
Getting distracted on the most important day of my life wasn’t like me at all.
By a man, of all things. I couldn’t afford to slip up when Camila sat on the other side of her desk, watching me.
Waiting for me to acknowledge whatever words I hadn’t acknowledged because I hadn’t been listening.
Fuck.
She blinked at me, brows raised in expectation and confusion, and well . . . I couldn’t blame her. She’d probably never had an intern lose interest on their first day. While that’s not what was happening here, she couldn’t possibly know that.
There was no good way to explain, No, don’t worry, I was just online-stalking the guy sitting one office over. “I’m sorry. God, this is going terribly. I—” My face disappeared in my hands. “It doesn’t matter,” I muffled. “What did you say?”
For the remainder of my two months, thirty days, and four hours at Adeline Ashwood, I was Camila Rodriguez’s plaything—at her mercy for coffee runs, boring administrative tasks, and whatever else she needed at every moment of every day we were together.
Fucking things up with her this early on wasn’t in my best interest, not just because she was my immediate boss, but because I’d admired her since I’d been old enough to admire.
The way she played with shapes made it seem like every single one of her designs was its own entity, alive and breathing. It bordered on magic.
Turns out, she was also the sweetest woman alive. Instead of repeating herself, Camila lifted the glasses from the tip of her nose to the top of her head, dropped the pencil between her teeth, and abandoned the sketch she’d been leaning over.
It didn’t make me feel better about my lack of attention.
“It’s a lot to take in, I get that,” she said.
“When I started twenty years ago, as an intern, by the way”—a wink—“I stepped off that plane from Barcelona nervous. Got to the studio nervous. Didn’t eat or sleep because I didn’t know what to do with all my nerves.
For three months, I was an anxious mess—I’m still not sure how this thing worked out so well after that. ”
Because you’re a genius, I almost yelled. In case she’d forgotten.
“What I’m trying to say is . . . you’ll be okay too. We all saw your portfolio. You’re a talented girl. Don’t let whatever Rachel said get to you.”
Some of my own anxiety settled at the mention of hers, and some of the drained color returned to my face at the fact Camila Rodriguez had just called me talented.
Something I’d gotten used to hearing in college and from friends, family, and teachers—whose compliments meant nothing in comparison to hers. No offense.
I shook my head, a half smile finally returning to my lips.
If it were just Rachel’s words echoing in my mind like Camila had guessed, I would probably be jumping around the room after that compliment.
I wished that was all it was. Wished the smug smirks and blue eyes weren’t what was really getting under my skin.
“It’s not Rachel,” I confessed, frustrated. “This doesn’t usually happen, I am sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about him.”
Her accent slipped and she looked honest-to-God horrified when she gasped, “A man?!”
It kind of reminded me of Mom.
The concern, damn-near outrage, in her voice let me know those had definitely been the wrong words. “No. God, no. Not like that. Elliot,” I corrected, mortified. “Ashwood. I can’t stop thinking about . . . well, how am I supposed to beat a guy who’s set to inherit the place one day?”
Immediately, her features relaxed. She audibly exhaled, let herself fall back into her chair. “For starters, he’s only set to inherit a quarter of the place.”
For a moment, Camila’s dark curly hair, paired with the look on her face, reminded me so much of my best friend, a pang of something shot through my chest. Good thing Paula wasn’t here to witness me as a rambling mess, googling a guy instead of working.
She wouldn’t believe it.
“Let me tell you something about Elliot, dear.” The woman opposite me hummed.
“You’re right to be intimidated, going up against an Ashwood on their .
. . home turf. He’s not dumb, very charming.
But in my twenty years here, I haven’t seen that boy in the studio once.
” The look on her face said everything I needed to know about how she felt about that.
“He doesn’t care about Ashwood; he doesn’t care about what we do here—that video speaks for itself.
He cares about the money and power his grandfather provides, and he doesn’t want to lose it. That’s why he’s here.”
Whatever that video meant, I vowed to find out the second I got home. I couldn’t very well have clicked on those links I’d spotted in articles while I was still sitting across from Camila.
“You’re a passionate, talented girl, Maeve. That’s why you’re here. I shouldn’t tell you this, but don’t be afraid to play . . . dirty—he certainly won’t be. This is your dream, isn’t it?”
Again, it felt a little bit like Mom’s voice in my head—with less swearing and more composure. But they were both right.
This was my dream. And I would fight for it. I had no problem getting my hands dirty.
Sure, he was an Ashwood. Sure, his grandfather owned the place. Sure, he seemed to have an effortless understanding of fashion. But I’d been preparing for this since before Mom died.
With every outfit I’d pulled together for impromptu runway shows in our too-small living room. Every hole I’d stitched and every patch I’d sewn onto jeans. Every time I helped her get dressed for a night out.
Every memory with her was an accumulation of reasons why I deserved to be here, and a reminder that I was ready for it. I’d been ready.
I straightened and snapped out of the nightmare called real life. There was nothing I could do about Elliot Ashwood now except for one thing.
Be better.
Thankfully, Camila had one of those faces you could read every wish off of, and I had an unnatural ability to read things off of faces. Thoughts, feelings . . . and those wishes.
Her eyes found mine, and I knew whether she needed another piece of paper, her pencil sharpened, or a note written down.
Five minutes ago, the yawn rattling her chest screamed Coffee!
louder than she could’ve. And because my motto was now officially Be better, I’d opted for the coffee shop around the corner instead of the vending machine down the hall.
Thank you, empty cup with its logo in the trash.
Plain cappuccino, coconut milk. No syrups, no sugar.
The barista typed in the order, brown curls flying every possible direction when he looked back up at me, eyes huge behind his round glasses. “Never seen you here before,” he noted. “Not from around, are you?”
I sighed, tapped my phone against the machine, and waited for the successful ding indicating more money going out of my account. “That obvious?”
His amused snort brought a smile to my lips too.
He was cute, all in all. A guy who—if I were normal about that kind of thing—I could like.
Come back for every day until he’d no longer have to ask for my order, and I’d no longer have to pay.
Until I’d pick him up after a shift and we’d go on a first date, then the second, and third, where he’d tell me he wasn’t ready for a relationship.
I’d never see him again and would feel like crying every time I ordered a coconut cappuccino.
But I wasn’t normal about that kind of thing, had always been too determined, too focused to give relationships a try—so I’d be spared that inevitable fate.
The chances of any relationship working out at my age were so slim, why bother when I could focus on school or work without distractions and the inevitable heartbreak? I wanted my full focus on beating Elliot Ashwood, who was enough of a hurdle in himself.
“The accent’s a dead giveaway.” Cute Barista snickered, wiggling the to-go cup between us, Sharpie ready in the other hand. “Name?”
“Maeve. Just started around the corner.”