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Steph laughs. “Your sense of humor is still intact. I guess that means you’re all right.”
“I’ll be okay,” I assure her with false bravado.
I make my way to the elevator and realize that while I refused to do the exposé, the next person likely won’t. Dammit. I hurry downstairs, step outside and hail a cab. But instead of going to my small apartment in Brooklyn, I give the driver directions to James’s mansion on Sixty-Fourth. I have no idea if he’s home, but he’s well into his nineties, so I doubt he’ll be out for long.
When we arrive, I pay the fare and step out, lifting my eyes to take in the looming building before me. I haven’t been here since I was a teen. The first time I ever saw James’s mansion was when I was five. I’d had the chicken pox, and the after-school day care teacher had sent me home. Dad had put me in the back seat, and I’d sat quietly as he’d driven James to wherever he needed to go. We’d picked up one of his grandsons from swimming lessons—apparently, he’d already had the pox, so it was safe to sit him in back with me. For all I know, it could have been Will beside me that day. I was quiet and shy, and other than answer a few questions James directed my way, I stayed silent.
Until I vomited all over the back seat.
I take a deep breath and step up to the front door of the mansion. Unease presses down on my shoulders as I jab the bell. I haven’t seen James in years, and part of me worries he might think I was behind the last exposé. I wasn’t, of course. I’d had no idea Avery Roberts was working on an article that would ruin a man’s life.
Behind me, people rush by, always in a hurry. One of these days I’d like to go somewhere with a slower pace. Maybe write that book. But with the meager funds in my pocket, the farthest I could trek is to Starbucks, two streets over. When I got there, I’d have to order a water, no straw. I snort at that thought and pray that the tooth fairy comes through. But I’m quick to pull myself together when the door creaks open.
I expect to be greeted by a servant. Instead, James Carson himself is standing in the foyer, his hazy blue eyes moving over my face. I wait for recognition to hit, and I can tell the second awareness creeps in by the way his eyes widen.
“Mr. Carson,” I begin, and place my hand over my uneasy stomach. “I don’t mean to bother you—”
“Bother me. Of course you’re not bothering me, child. Come in, Khloe. Come in, and please call me James.”
“It’s been a while. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”
“You haven’t changed a bit.”
I can’t say the same for him. Over the last decade, his winter-white hair has thinned, and the lines bracketing his milky eyes and pale lips have deepened. He’s a little shorter, his body much frailer than it was when I last saw him.
“Come along,” he says. Gnarled fingers tighten around a cane, and his gait is slow as he guides me down the hall.
“Maybe I changed a little,” I say for lack of anything better. “It’s been quite a few years.”
“Ten, to be exact,” he answers. While his body is deteriorating, it doesn’t appear that his mind is following suit. I shadow him into his den and admire his extensive library as the vanilla smell of old books fills my senses. James turns and offers me a warm, grandfatherly smile, and my heart squeezes. He was like the grandfather I never had and always wanted. It was only Dad and me growing up. We lost Mom to cancer when I was just a child. I only have a few fleeting memories of her.
He winks at me. “Have you decided to take the job at the Grub?”
“The only thing I know about food is how to eat it, and even then, I make a mess of it. Believe me, I’m not cut out to cover restaurants and do reviews. I’d be a detriment, not an asset, to your company. But thank you for the offer.”
“I always loved your honesty.” He taps his cane on the wooden floor. “Max did a great job raising you.”
Warmth fills me at the mention of my father. “You were always so good to us. My dad talked fondly about you.”
“He used to tell me your dream was to write for the New Yorker.”
&
nbsp; “Still is,” I say.
A beat of silence takes up space between us as we both get lost in our thoughts. A moment later, James breaks the quiet. “Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” he asks, his voice gravelly as he smooths his hands over an imaginary tie and nods at the ebony leather chair.
I lower myself and sink into the soft cushion. It’s heavenly, and if I weren’t so anxious, my stomach roiling, I’d love to curl up and have a nap. Although I’m not sure why I’m so tired. I get enough sleep most nights, and it’s not like I could be pregnant—unless it was immaculate conception.
“There is something I think you should know.”
He walks up to his bar and picks up a brandy decanter. “Drink?”
After the morning I’ve had, I sure could use one, or two, but I politely decline. I’m not sure I’d be able to keep it down. He pours a generous amount into a crystal snifter, swallows it in one smooth motion, and refills his glass.
I wait as he slowly makes his way to the sofa across from my chair. I take stock of the room, my gaze going from the colossal desk in front of the window to the Polaroid camera on the side table. I note the stack of what looks like wedding photos beside it. I cringe, knowing they’re not happy photos of Will’s wedding, considering he never had one. While a part of me is mortified about the terrible invasion of privacy, I can’t help but think his fiancée had a right to know what was going on. I sure as hell would have wanted to know. But I’d have to have a fiancé before he could cheat on me. Aren’t I a real catch now? Jobless, penniless and soon to be homeless. I can’t understand why men aren’t lining up.
“You still work for Starlight?” James asks, like he’s reading my mind.
