Page 1

Chapter 1

Ellery

I arrive at my parents’ Upper East Side apartment building with two minutes to spare, which by Ashford standards means I’m already late.

Bill gets a yawn I don’t quite manage to stifle.

“Big Friday night, young lady?” He’s seventy-one and has been calling me that since I was in diapers.

“No, couldn’t sleep.” I stick out my bottom lip and sprawl over the marble reception desk like a damsel in a silent film flinging herself onto the railway tracks.

The candy jar comes out and lands right in my eye line. My hand slithers around until it finds a Baby Ruth. Tearing at the wrapper with my teeth, I shove the whole thing into my mouth, letting the chocolatey caramel goo soothe my frazzled brain.

“Forecast?” I tip my head to the ceiling like I can see through eleven floors of concrete.

“Cold front.” He winces, shoving two more fun-size candies across the desk. “Been building since about seven.”

Above us there’s a woman with a day planner and little tolerance for anything that falls outside it. Stalling here is going to cost me. A comment, or at least an arched eyebrow. My mother will draw payment for my lateness somehow.

The elevator doors chime shut, and like a dog at a dinner bell, I run down the checklist. By the time it reaches their floor, I’ve reviewed my reflection in the mirrored walls from three angles, smoothed my skirt, unstuck a piece of hair from my lip gloss, and arranged my face into one I know she’ll accept. Eleven floors is plenty. I’ve done it in four.

The doors open onto their private landing. Black-and-white checkered tiles disappear down a long hallway, and an antique table sits front and center with a ceramic pitcher of fresh flowers on it. My mother has a real thing for French Provincial.

Dad’s scanning the Times over his half-moon glasses, a cup of coffee in hand, as my mother flicks through her planner. Pale fall sunshine spills through the French doors, sucking the color out of the eggshell walls and the gold-framed canvases my art history professor would’ve called bucolic. Far below, a garbage truck grinds to a stop.

Most of the year, they call this penthouse home, close to the headquarters of the family business, close enough for Dad to cut deals over scotch and cigars. In the summer they migrate back to the Hamptons, and I get a reprieve from these weekly brunches.

“I heard wonderful things from Harrison’s mother,” my mother says before my butt hits the upholstered chair. “Apparently he’s quite taken with you.”

Harrison Wells. The Third. Last night’s date. The twelfth she’s arranged this year, and it’s only mid-September. Sandy hair, good teeth, a walking Abercrombie catalog who sawed through a steak and asked which part of Ashford Enterprises I was most looking forward to after grad school. He seemed like a decent guy. The problem isn’t Harrison.

“He’s nice.” The Baby Ruth turns to glue in my gut. I gulp my ice water to help it down.

Their housekeeper, Julie, brings out a fruit and yogurt parfait on a silver platter and sets it in front of my mother, flicking me a small smile before she goes. The spoon clinks against the crystal as she picks at her breakfast.

“Gina says he’s planning the theater for your next date.”

They debriefed before I finished brushing my teeth.

She touches the tip of her fountain pen to her beige lipstick, then scribbles something down.

“Oh, maybe.” I reach for a croissant, napkin at the ready. Small bites, straight spine, careful not to scatter flaky pastry. Press myself into the furniture until I become background noise. I don’t have to think about any of it. My body knows this choreography better than a New York City Ballet dancer. “I’m not sure if we’ll go out again.”

The planner snaps shut.

Instead of blending in with the damask wallpaper, I am the centerpiece of the table.

“Ellery, really? What’s wrong with this one?” She leans in, waiting for an explanation. “He’s a gorgeous, successful young man. He likes you.”

He likes me. As if it’s so remarkable that someone like him would like me.

“We’ve done business with the Wells family for years,” Dad adds. “You could do a lot worse, honey.”

All I want from today is to get through this brunch and avoid another lecture. So I say the small, safe, deniable thing.

“I’m not sure we have much in common.”

“Never mind.” She sighs as if I’m more than she can bear. “Suzanne Callahan’s son has just returned from a year in London. We’ve arranged for you both to go sailing next weekend.”