Chapter 7 #2
Yeah . . . That’s how most of us feel.
“I know. I’m going to meet him soon. We have to hammer out the details.
” I could use another hour of sleep first, but that’s not happening.
Two was all I allowed myself before I got up, showered, and made coffee while my hair air-dries.
It’s not a waste of time if I’m multitasking.
“I already spoke to the partners, and they agreed with my plan.”
“Have you talked to your mom?”
I shake my head. Talking to my mom is on my list because of course Ryker plays for the Philadelphia Kings football team. The team our family owns and my mother runs. “Really not looking forward to that conversation.”
“Can we circle back to you?” Serena asks, tilting her head as the wind catches her hair, and we both smile at the sweet smell of the last of the summer grapes floating by. “Have you decided what you’re telling Scarlet and Cade about you and Logan yet?”
I exhale and ignore the heavy weight sitting on my chest. An overachiever who hates the idea of anyone being disappointed in them isn’t exactly new news. “No. I thought I’d have some time to think about it, but Ryker took priority.”
“Olivia, someone always takes priority. Stop. Think about yourself for a hot minute. Your parents are going to murder you when they find out you got married in Vegas, and they’re going to find out.
We both know it. I know you want to keep this quiet, but be real for a minute.
How long do you actually think that’s going to work? ”
“I don’t know . . .” I close my eyes and focus on breathing through the anxiety weighing me down. “But I can’t focus on that right now. Ryker deserves for me to be clearheaded.”
“He does. But you have to take care of yourself first, Liv. It’s like on an airplane when they tell you to put your oxygen mask on first, then help the kids—”
“When was the last time you flew commercial?” I pick at a loose string on my linen shirt.
She lowers her brows. “Not the point.”
“I know, and I promise I’ll take care of myself.
But I really think keeping Logan and me quiet for as long as possible is the answer.
The news can’t be about Ryker’s agent eloping in Vegas if he’s about to marry the woman he just saved from being raped.
It needs to be about him. About them. To control the story, I can’t be part of it. ”
“You know it’s not your job as his agent to control the story. It’s his publicist’s job.”
“His publicist sucks,” I groan. “We both know it.”
“He doesn’t suck, Liv. You’re just better. Why are you fighting so hard to be partner in this firm when you could just open your own and do what you actually want to do?” Serena’s bright blue eyes burn right through me. “I already told you we could open it together.”
“I can’t—I—Serena . . . I can’t do this right now. I have too many fires to put out, including my own, to think about this.”
She drops her feet to the deck below and links her pinky with mine. “I’ll never stop pushing you to do this, Livvy. But I’ll back off for now.”
“Thank you,” I whisper and tuck my MacBook into my bag. “Any chance you want to tell my mom and dad about my marriage for me too?”
“Fuck no.”
“Yeah . . . Me either.”
Navigating my wildly massive family is thankfully second nature.
My mother is one of nine siblings. Nine.
You’d think a family that size with as much money as the Kingstons have, we would all be seriously fucked up.
At the very least, you’d think it’d be safe to assume they didn’t actually all like each other or that everyone would be vying for power, money, and control like something out of a scene in Succession.
You’d be wrong on every single account.
The Kingstons are one of those few families who stick together like fucking glue.
It’s them against the world and always has been.
My cousins and I have basically assumed that policy for our generation as well.
We may not all be siblings, but we’re as close as if we were.
And walking out of Ryker’s new apartment later that afternoon after having just promised him, his new fiancée, and my Aunt Lenny and Uncle Bash that we’d handle this and win the press, the police, and the court of social media over to our side, well, I feel like I could sleep for a week straight and still not feel rested.
I toss my bag into the passenger seat of my car, push the button to lower the convertible top, and throw my hair up in a red Philadelphia Revolution cap to keep it out of my face before I start my trek back to New Jersey.
Luckily, it’s only about an hour’s drive to the Triple Crown Ranch.
Forty-five minutes if I drive fast, and I have a bit of a lead foot, so fast it fucking is.
Almost immediately, my phone connects to my car, and Mom’s name is announced over Bluetooth.
I mean, I made it through the entire morning and into the afternoon, when I honestly expected to hear from her before the jet landed in Kroydon Hills yesterday, so while I wouldn’t call that winning, it’s something, right?
“Hi, Mom.” Maybe if it’s too noisy in here the call will be quick?