Chapter Three Ruby
Idiot. Pompous, preening, snobby idiot.
I don’t know what I ever saw in him. I don’t know why I didn’t forget him as easily as he clearly forgot me.
Approximately eleven months ago—not that I’m counting—it was a sunny late-spring day in Manhattan, and I had just gotten the news that I would reprise my soloist role for an upcoming production of Don Quixote. The average person might have been grateful for that. Being a soloist in the NYC Ballet is no small accomplishment.
However, it wasn’t good enough for me. I had hoped I’d be promoted to principal dancer that year—had thought for sure that I’d done what I needed to do in order to prove myself worthy. Apparently not.
I needed to clear my head, so I went to the Strand. I’m not usually much of a bookworm, but there’s something about the massive bookstore on the corner of Broadway and East 12th Street that speaks to me. Maybe it’s the slightly disorganized rows upon rows of books, or maybe it’s just that being surrounded by thousands of other stories makes mine feel less tragic and insignificant.
The point is, I had developed a habit of going to the Strand whenever I felt overwhelmed.
That day in May, I was deep in the back corner of the stacks, pretending to read the back cover of a mystery novel, when a smooth, masculine voice said, “That’s a good one.”
I looked up to find a stranger dressed in stylishly rumpled Ralph Lauren smiling at me.
“Oh?” I responded, trying to play it cool even as I found myself struggling not to tremble at how gorgeous he was. “I actually don’t… read.”
The stranger cocked his head to the side. “You don’t read?”
I remember I blushed like crazy and started babbling, which is not something I have a habit of doing.
“I do read. I can read, I mean. I just don’t… read… um, mysteries. Or, like, for pleasure. I don’t have much time, you see. To read. Books.”
I expected him to laugh in my face, dismiss me as a bumbling idiot, and carry on with his day.
Instead, he smiled wider and said, “This is a strange place for a book-hater to be.”
“I’m not a book-hater. I love books.”
“You just don’t read them.”
“I like being around them.”
At that, something seemed to spark in his gaze. He held out his hand to shake mine, catching me off guard.
“I’m Ben,” he said to me. “Ben Hawthorne.”
I had to place the novel back on the shelf in order to shake his hand.
“Ruby Sullivan,” I introduced myself.
That’s how it began. Not only did we spend the next three hours perusing the shelves of the Strand together, but then we got coffee and pastries. Then, he insisted that we stop by an art gallery over in West Village. After, because neither of us could bring ourselves to go our separate ways, we had dinner at a dusty little pub in Soho.
He even walked me home and wished me goodnight like a gentleman.
There was just one kiss—brief and chaste. Barely any hand-holding at all. Honestly, there was really nothing more than admiring glances and soft secrets shared between strangers. We didn’t even talk about ourselves all that much. For the most part, we spoke about New York, art, and the beauty of the city.
I thought we had a connection. I thought that maybe, perhaps ridiculously, after spending my entire life not caring much about dating, fate might have dropped my soulmate right into my lap.
Except, when morning came, he didn’t call. Nor did he reach out that afternoon or evening.
He disappeared.
It was like that random, wonderful day we spent together had never happened.
For a while, I worried that I’d imagined the entire thing.
It was for the best, though. After Ben offered some vague details about his family and his career, I realized who his family was. They were the Hawthornes. The ones who have their names carved in the marble at the NYC Ballet because they’ve been such generous donors over the years.
Which meant that Ben was most certainly off limits. I couldn’t be seen getting cozy with a donor. It would jeopardize my reputation, because any accomplishments I achieved would then be assumed to be the result of my relationship with him, not my own work ethic.
So, maybe there’s a version of reality in which things were different and I actually did fall in love with Ben Hawthorne. Maybe, in that alternate universe, he called me in the morning, and we playfully bickered about our coffee orders. Maybe he walked me to the studio. Maybe I met him again at the end of the day and kissed him properly—not so chastely. Maybe, after that, there were a million more kisses shared between us.
Maybe, in another world, Ben and I had a happily ever after.
In this world, however, he became my nemesis.
It wasn’t just the ghosting that turned me against him. It was the fact that, about six months later, Ben reappeared in my life. Not in my life, specifically, but in the company’s life. Word spread that he’d taken over his father’s role on the Board of Directors, a place earned by the Hawthornes’s philanthropic generosity.
I’d been more determined than ever to act like I’d never met him personally. As usual, I threw myself into dancing. When I heard that we would be doing Giselle in the summer and that Katia Nikov—the primary choice for the titular role—would be receiving a minor wrist-tendon surgery that would put her on rest until September, I became obsessed with proving my prowess. It helped that Katia herself kept whispering in the producer’s ear about my potential, and how nobody was better suited to slip into her vacancy than me.
I almost had it. Everyone knew it. Rumors were flying before the announcement was made. I was going to perform as Giselle and, if I did well, I’d officially become a principal dancer.
Except, then someone on the board made it very clear that he thought Giselle was outdated, overdone, and uninteresting. Any company could do the classics, apparently, but the NYC Ballet should be at the forefront of the more modern ballets.
Given that the Hawthornes are royalty in the New York arts world, Ben got his way. Giselle was wiped off the season and replaced with a contemporary ballet from a fledgling choreographer. The principal roles were handed out to the experienced dancers, and I was awarded my usual lower role among the soloists.
Now, thanks to Ben Hawthorne, I’m cursed to spend the summer with a grand total of twenty-seven seconds of solo stage time. When I go back to the city after this wedding, I’ll be back at square one.
The worst part is that he has no idea he’s ruined my career trajectory.
Worse yet, he can’t even be bothered to remember who I am.
I’ve never despised anyone more in my life.
When the dinner is over, I join Eva and the other bridesmaids in the gardens of Blakeley Manor. The sky is clear and twinkling with endless sparks of stars. It’s the sort of thing that I never get to see in the city, and I’m quiet as I marvel at the beauty of it.
Beyond the cliff on which the manor is perched, the ocean is roaring her usual song. When we were kids, Amy and I used to go to the beach in the evenings and call out to the sirens that legend claims guard these shores. They never answered back, of course, but we didn’t mind.
I want to go back to Gram’s and change out of this dress. I want to get as far away from Ben as possible.
Unfortunately, it’s still too early for me to duck out. Even if my title as maid of honor is more of a formality than anything, I shouldn’t leave yet.
Eva sidles up next to me while the other girls coo over the starlit scenery.
“He’s cute, huh?”
I blink at her in confusion. “Who?”
She giggles. “Ben, of course. He’s single, you know.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Good for him.”
“And you’re single.”
“By choice, Eva. It’s a very specific, intentional choice.”
Eva sighs. “One day, you’re going to fall madly in love with someone and it’ll catch you so off guard that the only thing you’ll be able to do is say, ‘Oh my goodness Eva, you were so right! I do believe in love after all!’”
“That sounds like a threat.”
She snickers quietly. “Why don’t you like him, anyway?”
I throw her a sideways glance. “Who?”
“Ben, obviously.”
“Who said I don’t like him?”
“I’m not blind, Ruby. I know you. I can tell when you don’t like somebody.”
I consider telling Eva the truth. She wouldn’t judge me for it. In fact, there’s even a chance that she might agree that Ben is a self-important snob. That he’s just so very special—so special and rich and gorgeous and powerful that he wouldn’t deign to remember little me.
Yet, that would require providing more details about that day at the Strand than I’m willing to give. I never told anyone about it. Not even Eva.
Plus, Ben is the best man. One of Sebastien’s closest friends. I don’t want to make things awkward between Eva and her husband-to-be by voicing a complaint.
“It’s fine,” I say to Eva. “He’s… fine.”
“Like, that’s a fine slice of man-meat kind of ‘fine,’ or…?”
“Ew, Eva! Please don’t say the phrase ‘man-meat’ ever again.”
Her laughter is loud and raucous, catching the attention of the other girls. They start discussing the plans for tomorrow as we head back inside, where the guests are now mingling casually throughout the dining room. I hover at the fringes of the bridesmaid group.
As if my mind is content to infuriate me, it tempts my gaze to wander toward the far end of the room where Ben is talking to a couple of guys that I don’t know.
My blood boils at the sight of him. The audacity to look that good while being that nefarious… he should be locked up. Permanently.
Everything about him irks me. I hate the way he wears his designer suit like it’s something he just happened to throw on. I hate the way the luxurious clothing hugs his tall, impressively toned frame and that, despite the perfection of it, something about it is somewhat glamorously askew. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s not wearing a tie, and that the collar of his shirt isn’t lying flat. Maybe it’s the slight wrinkles in his trousers that he wears so carelessly and confidently that you’d think the pants were designed to look like that.
Everything about him screams of effortless ease. Even the stray, wavy locks that escape his subtly gelled hairstyle seem to drape themselves across his forehead with casual artfulness.
The entire effect should make him appear untidy and inattentive.
Unfortunately, all that disheveled luxury makes him look kind of… hot.
I want to gag as soon as the thought drifts across my mind.
No. Ben Hawthorne is not hot. He’s an arrogant, imperious brat who thinks he knows better than everyone else just because he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
At that exact moment, as if he has access to a live feed of my unfiltered thoughts, Ben glances up from the glass of champagne in his hand and locks eyes with me.
Look away, I try to command myself. But I can’t.
He doesn’t look away either. From the other side of the room, I can’t tell if he’s surprised or amused or unbothered by the fact that he’s just caught me staring at him, but that’s probably a good thing. Still, I swear I see the corner of his mouth lift in a sideways smirk.
I really, really hate him.
With a scowl, I yank my eyes off him and turn my attention back to Eva and the girls. I pray that it’s enough to convince him that my wandering gaze was simply an accident.
To my complete and utter dismay, it’s not enough. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense two people approaching us with calm, measured gaits. When Eva turns and lets out a happy squeal, I know that means one of them is Sebastien. I also know, deep down to the very marrow of my bones, that the other man is Ben.
“Excuse me,” I say to no one in particular. “I need to use the restroom.”
I slip away, grateful for my dancer’s body when it allows me to weave through the chattering crowd without difficulty.
All I can think is that I need to get away. I try to remind myself that this is Eva’s night—Eva’s weekend—and that I shouldn’t be disappearing without warning, but I want nothing more than to run out of this fancy manor and head back to the comfort of Gram’s house.
Just as I turn the corner of the hallway and gulp down a breath of relatively fresh air, a hand closes around my forearm. The touch is somehow both gentle and firm, and surprising enough that it causes me to freeze instantly.
I whirl around, coming face-to-chest with Ben’s open shirt collar.
Miraculously, I manage not to stumble when I quickly take a substantial step away from him.
“What do you want?” It comes out way harsher than I intended, but it has the desired effect. Ben immediately drops his hand from my arm.
“I—we—are you leaving?”
“Why do you care?”
His eyebrows lift at the challenge in my tone. I wish I knew where I misplaced my dignity. I’m never this standoffish with other people.
“The others were thinking about heading into the main part of town for some drinks,” Ben says, nodding his head back toward the dining room. “As a local, maybe you could show us the best place for that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Ben. I think this town is a little too quaint and humble for your tastes. I wouldn’t want to upset your tender, aristocratic preferences.”
A flicker of shock edged with humor comes to life in his eyes. I fight the urge to clap a hand over my mouth.
I highly doubt that anyone has the guts to talk to Ben Hawthorne like this. I shouldn’t even be doing it, considering the power he holds over my career.
“Ruby, I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “It wasn’t my intention to insult you or your hometown.”
“Intention and effect are two different things. I’ll pass on the drinks.”
I walk away, holding my spine as straight as I possibly can until I round the next corner and I’m certain he’s disappeared from sight.
As soon as I’m alone, I let out a long exhale and slump against the elegantly papered wall.
Just three more days. Two and a half, really. That’s sixty hours, approximately half of which I’ll be sleeping or occupied with non-wedding things.
Which means I only have to withstand about thirty more hours of Ben’s presence before this whole thing is over and I can go back to the city. With any luck, his role on the board and my role as a soloist won’t need to overlap at all.
Or, with better luck, Ben will decide to leave the NYC Ballet alone and let me live the rest of my life in peace.
After this weekend, I never want to see him again.