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  “Hey.”

  David leaned against the wall, obviously waiting for the bathroom. My ears grew hot so I gave a casual smile. “Hey. Sorry if I took too long.”

  He smiled back and I wished I could make him smile like that more often. He lost his broody edge and it made him more approachable. “Nah, I was actually up here looking for you. Want to hang out a bit?”

  My heart beat crazily in my chest. “Sure. Where?”

  He pointed to one of the bedroom doors. “Here’s good.” He walked in and I took a deep breath and followed. Through the thin wall, I heard moans and banging and realized someone was screwing next door. I tried to play it cool, but my skin was burning and I hoped I didn’t look all flushed and red. So. Embarrassing.

  David rolled his eyes at the crude sounds but didn’t seem bothered. “You really gonna come with us this summer?” he asked, taking out his vape pipe and lighting up.

  I stiffened. Did he want me to? I couldn’t read his expression, so I shrugged. “Sure. Still trying to convince my mom, though. She’s afraid traveling the country in an RV isn’t a great idea.”

  “Probably isn’t, but that’s why it’ll be epic. What if she says no?”

  I hesitated. “Not sure. I may do it anyway.”

  He smiled again, nodding like he approved. “Cool. You ever sing?”

  “You mean like karaoke?”

  “Anything. I’m looking to play guitar, but it’s helpful to have a decent singer. Freda’s awful.”

  I laughed. “I could tell just from our car rides.”

  On cue, a groan rose from the other room. Then a girl’s voice. “Yeah, baby, yeah!”

  I ducked my head, trying to pretend I didn’t care, but he must’ve known because he grabbed his phone and began playing music to drown out the noises. “Better?”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “So, would you consider singing with me if we get a gig?”

  I considered, wondering if I could be brave enough to do that onstage in public. “What if I suck?”

  “Then you get fired, or we only play at clubs where everyone’s already drunk.”

  We both laughed, and I relaxed. “Sure, I’d give it a try.”

  “Cool, let’s do it now.” He scrolled through his phone, and the song “Without Me” by Halsey came on. “You know this?”

  I blinked. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, sing.”

  I twisted my fingers together, shifting my weight. “Now?”

  “Why not? It’s just us.”

  Which made it worse, I thought to myself. I got ready to tell him it wasn’t a good time, that I was too tipsy or something, but his gaze met mine in a bit of a challenge and I opened my mouth and began to sing. I didn’t try to hit any high notes, just gave him the basic middle strains. I kept my chin up and pretended we were in some smoky bar and I had this one moment to impress him. I had a decent singing voice, but other than chorus, I’d never tried to sing in front of someone. Finally, I stopped, curious to see what he was going to say.

  “You’re good.” Warmth rushed through me. “You got the job.”

  “Singing for my supper,” I teased.

  He didn’t tease me back. His expression changed, the room got tight with tension, and my stomach dropped. Then he walked slowly over to me until he was super close. His breath smelled like mocha and smoke, and his eyes were dark and serious, and then he was leaning his head over and he kissed me.

  I’d only been kissed a few times before, on a dare or because I was desperate to see why everyone thought it was a big deal. Mostly, they were sloppy and wet with tongue and awkward fumbling that turned me off.

  But this was nice. He didn’t try to grope or shove his tongue in my mouth. Just kissed me with a firm pressure, as if testing me out. When I tentatively opened my lips wider, he finally held me, and his grip was firm and strong, so I let him take it further. It didn’t take long for his palm to cup my breast, and though it felt good, my brain began to churn, and suddenly the bed in back of him seemed too big and overwhelming, like it was taunting me.

  I pulled back, unsure why I’d changed my mind, then panicked when I realized we were alone in a bedroom at a party where I didn’t know anyone. I’d seen my share of Lifetime movies where girls got raped at strangers’ houses and no one ever backed them up. I was just about to push him away hard and run, but he stepped right back on his own, staring at me with a surprisingly intent and sober gaze. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just—I’m not ready for that. Yet.” My cheeks burned. My virginity had never bothered me before, but I figured he’d laugh or make a teasing remark.

  Instead, he nodded and sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s cool.”

  I relaxed, twisting my fingers. “You think?”

  “Yeah. You should be able to do stuff on your own terms. I guess most people I know aren’t like you.”

  “I’m not a prude or anything,” I rushed to say.

  “I know. I like that you’re different. Most of my friends need sex and drugs to cope with shit, you know?”

  I cocked my head, fascinated by his deep, thoughtful voice and the way he looked at me. “Like what?”

  “Pain. Too much fucking pain.”

  The darkness was back, shadowing his face. I didn’t know what he was thinking about, but it was bad. I wanted to go and take his hand, but I felt frozen, not sure what to do. He got up and pocketed his phone, then motioned toward the door. “We better get downstairs. Freda will probably be looking for you.”

  “Yeah.”

  I followed him out, my emotions sharp and jagged like cut glass. The rest of the night was good and we climbed back in the car at exactly ten thirty to get me back by eleven. I sang along with Freda, and Connor passed around a joint, and it was pretty much perfect until the cop pulled us over for speeding.

  I figured we still had a shot, but he smelled the weed and found the bag stashed in the glove compartment.

  Everything turned bad from there.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Francesca

  I’m not sure when I realized I wasn’t like other girls. I never got giggly over boys or spent endless hours dreaming about Tim Collins—the hot jock the entire school adored—asking me to prom. I only remember trying hard to care about all the things my friends did, like makeup and kissing and being noticed by the popular crowd. But even back then, I think I realized I was missing some type of gene that made me feel romantic love. I didn’t understand romance novels, poetry, or chick flicks, and was more interested in those underdog movies like Cool Runnings or Rocky or even Wall Street (I loved Gordon Gekko and think he got a bad rap).

  I never knew advertising was a thing until I scored an internship at a Manhattan firm for the summer in between semesters for business credit. I was pretty much an errand girl, getting lattes and lunch, copying and filing, but one day I was able to witness a high-level meeting with a team pitching a potential client to sell a new cereal to the marketplace. I knew immediately I wanted to experience that rush of adrenaline. I loved the concept of finding the right hook to sell a product. It was a perfect combination of statistics and research, driven by forcing the brain to think outside the box for creativity.

  The creative director in the meeting was a sharply dressed male, handsome and charismatic, but it was the woman next to him who fascinated me. Her power suit and tight bun gave off a cool capability I craved to duplicate, and it was obvious she was the one who knew the most about the project. The man was the face of the company. She was the brains, evident in the way she answered the client’s endless questions while the supposed lead pretended he was allowing her to speak on his behalf.

  I realized then that it was a boys’ club I’d have to break into. I didn’t just want to be her.

  I wanted to be more. I wanted the man’s job. I refused to let any man t
ry to steal my power. So, at twenty years old, I made myself a promise to learn everything about the business world and advertising. I swore I’d run my own company one day, on my terms.

  I learned everything from the big power agencies, then moved north to avoid the major competition and opened my own place. I marketed it as a boutique alternative for clients who wanted to be treated like the national brands but didn’t have the big dollars. I drained my savings to invest in marketing and publicity, creating my own ads for my business, and my client base doubled within the first year.

  Life was pretty much perfect. I was a young woman with a burgeoning business, finally making money. But I hadn’t counted on a strange twist that occurred when I turned twenty-eight. My valued assistant at the time, Sierra, had become pregnant. Yes, I was thrilled for her, but more concerned about how I’d plug the gap in my busy schedule for the three months she’d be on maternity leave. When she came into the office to show off her new daughter, I handed her an elegantly wrapped present, resigned to cooing and fussing over a newborn who couldn’t do anything but poop and sleep. Then she’d expertly slid the baby into my arms.

  I looked down at the infant’s wrinkly face and pink skin; the way her tiny fingers curled into a fist and tried to push into her rooting mouth; the crease of a frown between her tightly closed eyes; the wriggly body squeezed into a white onesie printed with happy colorful butterflies; the smell of powder, soap, and innocence drifting to my nostrils. My insides suddenly stilled. Time became a flowing, liquid thing that made no sense as I stared, fascinated, at the magnificent creature in my arms. And as if right on cue to the perfect stimulus, my biological clock burst to life in stunning, vicious Technicolor.

  For the first time, I craved something I couldn’t do on my own. This was nothing hard work, perseverance, and effort could accomplish. I spent an entire year obsessed with babies and pregnancy and the hidden life of motherhood I’d never cared to explore before. After researching every angle and option, I decided to attack my intense need for a baby like I had everything else.

  I set a time limit of thirty. If I hadn’t met a man whom I envisioned a future with, I’d have the baby on my own. Freezing my eggs was a valid option, but I couldn’t imagine waiting too much longer to get pregnant. I refused to be one of those mothers who were too old to keep up with an infant and gray-haired by prom time. Already, biology was against me, favoring healthy pregnancies at a younger age. Maybe I wouldn’t have the traditional route the world believed in, but I knew I’d be a good mother, and my future son or daughter would have enough love from me to equal a dual set of parents.

  The process suited my nature. I was able to pick out the father by doing meticulous research to find the best traits and advantages for my future baby. I became pregnant immediately and embraced every change in my body, relishing the growing life inside me that would give me new purpose.

  When Allegra was born, I learned a valuable lesson. Books and research and intellectual knowledge meant nothing compared to the type of all-consuming, massive love I’d been capable of. The moment she was put on my stomach and our gazes met, I realized I’d reached an almost dangerous precipice. Nothing was more important than my daughter. The violent, ferocious need to protect and cherish my precious baby rocked and tore my stable world apart. My entire body trembled and shook when I held her, and for the first time, a crippling fear shot through my system, draining away my egotistical belief that I’d be able to control things. I was helpless and vulnerable to the cruel fates, no longer locked in my Rapunzel tower of confidence and capability.

  And the voice inside me whispered, tormenting me with words that stung like a nest of wasps.

  You made a mistake. This time, you’ll fail. You’ll never be enough for her.

  And I cried, my head bowed over her perfect, precious face, and swore in that hospital bed I wouldn’t let her down.

  I blinked, the distant memories slowly fading away. My surroundings took hold and I walked over to the French doors that led to the patio.

  My daughter had been arrested for drugs.

  I pressed my palms against the cool panes of glass and stared outside. The gardens were in full bloom, opening up to the spring sun with a hungry thirst to be reborn. I’d never had the inclination or patience to involve myself in gardening like my mother, preferring to hire out and enjoy the cultivated, clipped blooms after they’d been weeded and pruned and watered. As I stared at my pristine gardens, I wondered if I’d made a mistake yet again, like I had with my daughter. It had been easier to shroud myself within the safety of work and farm out the hard stuff to experts rather than diving into the mess. Maybe the dirt, thorns, and weeds were required to be dealt with before I’d be able to appreciate any future beauty. Maybe if I didn’t do it myself, I was just a fraud, like that man I’d observed long ago in that ad agency, his success only a pale imitation, hidden behind ego and a partner who’d done the actual work.

  Dear God, what was I going to do?

  I pushed away from the all-seeing windows and made my way into the kitchen. The cold gleam of stainless steel, black-and-white tile, and marble countertops usually soothed me, but right now I felt only emptiness as I poured myself a glass of Chardonnay and sat down on a high-backed white leather chair.

  I’d failed in the worst way possible. My daughter was smoking pot behind my back. Her name could appear in tomorrow’s paper—not to boast of an academic scholarship, but included on the local police blotter. All the hard work to get her poised for a successful college career tipped precariously toward disaster. But even the threat of community humiliation, academic discipline, or loss of opportunities meant nothing next to the knowledge that Allegra was in trouble.

  Oh, I knew most mothers never believed their children could be doing drugs, drinking in the basement, or having sex without their knowledge. We figured we knew our kids. They’d grown in our bellies and were ripped out of our bodies. We watched every single moment of their life unfold in front of us. We bathed them, cleaned their poop, and introduced them to the world on our terms. But it meant nothing now.

  How did so many years of preparation and worry and love mean so little? She was making her own choices and going down a disastrous road. These new friends of hers smoked pot and skipped school. Did she actually believe I’d allow her to travel cross-country in a broken-down RV with delinquent strangers? This was the group she chose to hang out with?

  Not on my watch. I’d die before I let her go.

  My fingers trembled around the stem of the glass. Instead of being contrite and crying as she begged for forgiveness, she’d blamed me. Where had the hate come from? We hadn’t even had a blowout fight in the past year. I deliberately backed off to allow her space to grow and find her own way. Tried to give her privacy instead of being one of those pushy, nosy moms.

  Look what that had done. She’d gotten worse with the freedom and now I had to get a handle on it.

  I rubbed my temples, head throbbing, and downed the glass of wine. I had to deal with this presentation tomorrow and then I’d handle Allegra. Once I snagged the account, I’d take some time off and concentrate on what she needed and how I could fix this. Maybe get her a therapist. I’d mentioned one to her before, but she’d scowled at my suggestion and refused. This time, I’d insist. Did she need antianxiety drugs? Was peer pressure getting to her?

  The questions whirled through my overtaxed brain.

  Just one more lousy day until it was time to dazzle and close a big win for my team.

  I could do it.

  I headed up to bed.

  * * *

  * * *

  The next morning, my team gathered in the war room to go over last-minute details before the presentation. I’d dressed in my favorite lucky suit—a smart, sleek black pin-striped Michael Kors number that both was stylish and projected confidence. Kate looked polished in slate gray, the feminine ruffles on
her blouse a delicate touch by Vera Wang. And Layla sported a Donna Karan pantsuit in rich cream, her dark skin a gorgeous sheen against the pearl. Adam exuded enthusiastic energy and was dressed in a classic Calvin Klein with a narrow cut in a muted navy with a red tie.

  I sipped some water, forgoing my usual coffee, and tried to get into the zone. I was much more nervous than normal—my heart beating at a more rapid pace than I was used to—and I needed to reflect a calm, competent demeanor. I shouldn’t be worried. My pitch was razor sharp.

  Kate sipped her espresso, her blue gaze shredding through the proposal to double-check for accuracy. “We have lunch reservations at Anthony’s right after the meeting,” she said in her low voice.

  “Good.” I dragged in a deep breath and swore that after I nailed this, I’d begin taking regular yoga classes. I hoped I didn’t start to sweat and thanked God for jackets. “We got this. We’ve practiced nonstop, our video campaign is brilliant, and we have a chance to go viral on IG.”

  “As long as Alan isn’t a conservative,” Layla pointed out. “He has the capacity to kill it.”

  “He’d get outvoted,” I said firmly. “Lexi would rather go with a daring campaign than boring. Plus, humor sells.”

  “True,” Kate said, nodding.

  Finally, my assistant called to let me know the clients were here.

  Showtime.

  I slipped into charm mode and soon had settled everyone in the conference room. Lexi’s Lemonade was the brainchild of Lexi Hutchinson, who’d become obsessed with the juice-drink culture when her own kids became addicted to sugary sports drinks. I liked her immediately because she wasn’t pretentious and she wanted to find the right niche to sell to and get the brand national attention. Right now, she was in local supermarkets from a grassroots endeavor that had exploded.

  Alan, dressed in a conservative black suit, was bald, proper, the numbers guy. Johanna was the head of marketing, a fierce redhead who’d challenged me to think big or forget the whole thing. I wanted to impress her the most.