Page 5 of Stick to the Deal
Not sure. Grandmama was most insistent, and I have some family stuff I need to handle.
My phone vibrates in my hand as the Wicked Witch Theme softly plays. I sigh and curse under my breath. It’s like the woman has me under constant surveillance. Begrudgingly, I answer, “Hello, Grandmama.”
“Nicolette.” Her crisp London accent echoes through the line. “When are you arriving? What are you thinking being photographed with rock celebrities? Was I not clear you are expected to keep a low profile?”
With a slow breath through my nose, I count to five. This is exactly why I didn’t give in to dinner and yet it still bites me in the ass. “You have been most clear. I was attending a concert for work. Kenzo Star is a client, I met him while doing a piece for Time Magazine. He’s apparently more interesting than the twenty other professionals I’ve photographed in the last month.”
A faint tut sounds over the line. That’s about as emotive as the ever proper Vivienne Atherton gets. “Really, Nicolette. I know I agreed to give you some space to find yourself, but gallivanting with rock stars and landing in the gossip columns is unacceptable. It’s about time you grow up and accept your place in this family. Need I remind you that you’ll be thirty in a few months?”
My delicious pastry turns to lead in my stomach. “No, Grandmama.” There’s no use defending myself or trying to shock her with how ‘inappropriate’I could have been. “I fly out in the morning and will be at the estate by supper.”
“Very well. Do wear something appropriate. I’m sure the paparazzi will be waiting outside Heathrow after your latest dustup.” Without so much as a goodbye, the line goes deadin my ear.
Appetite lost, I gather my breakfast and dump it in the bin. Four hours later, after extensive retail therapy and a visit to my favorite stylist, I once again have a spring in my step. Or maybe that’s the bounce of my new chin-length bob? Nothing can get me down now!
“Ms. Atherton.”
Dammit. Spoke too soon.
I turn towards the doorman. He’s worked here as long as I remember, yet still calls me by my grandmother’s last name despite my staunch insistence on including my father’s surname. That’s the downside of using the family apartment, I guess. “Yes, Peter?”
“Package arrived for you, miss.” He steps around the imperious desk and hands me a packet wrapped in brown kraft paper and tied with twine, my name and address written on the front in a majestic, feminine hand.
“Thank you, Peter. I’ll need a car at nine a.m. for the airport, please.” I may rebel against my socialite standing, but I’m not an idiot. Why haul my suitcases through the subway when I can afford a town car?
He dips his head as he returns to his post, fingers already flying across the keyboard to mark the request. “Shall I send a cart up at quarter of for your luggage, miss?”
I thank him again and drag my bags and parcels into the elevator. Very quickly, I realize my love of fashion has outgrown my luggage capacity over the last month. Sorting through the clothes I’ve accumulated during my visit, I sort them into two piles. Unfortunately, the more casual or daring outfits won’t be welcome in London. Those I box up and ring Peter to ship them back to my penthouse in Friendship Springs. Once every Grandmama Dearest-approved item is carefully packed and my carry-on ready, I eye the parcel over a slice of cold pizza.
Beneath the plain wrapping is a cerulean blue folder with the words “Something Blue” embossed in gold foil. Atop the file is a single white Post-it note.
Miss Kato-Atherton
Included you will find all profiles matching your specifications. Please let me know which are acceptable and I will arrange meetings.
J. Kelleher
My chest tightens as I tuck the packet into my carry-on and stare out over the city before me. The lights dance as I picture a dozen futures, each full of what-ifs and make believe.
Everything has a price, and now my bill has come due.
Chapter 4
Up in the Air
Itap my loafer on the carpeted floor of the first-class cabin. Both anxious to be off and dreading being one minute closer to this homecoming.
“Sir, your coffee.” The attendant gives me a radiant smile.
My answering expression is polite but dismissive. “Thank you.” I’d much rather be having a scotch, but it’s only five a.m. local time. With a seven-hour flight, there’ll be plenty of time to numb my senses before we land.
The first-class cabin is nearly full. As a last-minute ticket, Foster wasn’t able to secure a solo seat, but luck is on my side and the adjoining spot is empty. I hadn’t thought about prying eyes when I’d planned to review my potential blushing brides on the plane.
A glance behind me confirms that the stream of boarding passengers has slowed to a crawl. A giant pastel green backpack lands on the seat next to me, jerking my attention back to my row.
The woman standing in the aisle is tall and slim, dressed in black leggings and one of those shruggy sweaters over a tank. Her inky hair twists into two haphazard buns on the top of her head and the little of her face I can see is absent of makeup. She looks wholly out of place among the suits and high-end clothing dotting the cabin, but she certainly draws the eye.
The hostess must agree, because she rushes over. “Miss, may I see your boarding pass?”
