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CHAPTERONE
Madison
I carry Mom’s hot cocoa into the living room, placing it on the coffee table. She lies on the couch, her hand laid across her forehead like a painting of a Victorian lady who’s had enough.
“Thanks, Maddie,” she says, sitting up with a yawn.
It’s late, the lamps are lit, and the open curtains of our apartment are showing the lights of the opposite building. Our neighborhood isn’t the best, but thanks to Mom’s hard work hopping from job to job, it’s not the worst either.
She has a new job that pays better than any of her previous ones. She’s assistant to a man called Jacob Jennings, the CEO of a large media distribution conglomeration—websites, TV stations, radio, and podcasts all flowing from him. As an aspiring journalist, the job excited me more than her others. Then I made the mistake of looking up Jacob Jennings online.
As Mom sips on her cocoa, I drop onto the armchair, trying not to think about forty-two-year-old Jacob, with that severe look in his pale eyes. They’re blue, but they almost look white as he stares at the camera, arms folded in one shot, his firm muscles straining the fabric of his suit.
His lips are flat, not smiling. Except, if I starereallyhard, I’m sure I can see the beginnings of a smirk. Like he finds the world funny but won’t grace us with a smile.
His reputation is one of honesty and integrity, which triggers even more silly thoughts in me. Thoughts like what a great couple we’d make, me with my little website, making strides with my own projects, and Jacob at my side, fighting for the truth beside me.
“What are you thinking about?” Mom asks, laying her cocoa down and brushing her hair aside. Hers is straight and blond. Apparently, I get my brown hair from my dad, though I’ve never met him.
“Nothing,” I murmur. “Just tired.”
I can’t tell Mom about the thoughts I’ve harbored for Jacob. I can’t afford to tell her about the secret dreams which feel real… dragging my fingernails down the front of his shirt, feeling his muscles beneath, staring up at him, and seeing lust in his expression.
Yeah, right.
I’m sure billionaire CEO Jacob Jennings is justwaitingfor a nineteen-year-old wannabe journalist. I’m sure he’lllovehow curvy I am and willadoremy lack of experience. I bet he doesn’t haveanysupermodels or actresses or socialites and othernot-me’sthrowing themselves at him all day long.
Sarcasm takes the sting out of it, sometimes.
“Tired,” Mom repeats. “I know the feeling.”
“I’m proud of you,” I tell her. “It must be difficult…”
I don’t need to say anything else. She’s one of Jacob’s assistants, and apparently, he’s a bit of a hard-ass.Coldandbluntandscaryare words Mom has used to describe him.
“When he asked me to collect some files for him earlier,” Mom says, “I thought I was going to melt. It’s the way he looks at me… it’s never outright rude. He’s always polite, but there’s something in his eyes…”
I swallow a ridiculous, angry response. It’s not as if I can yell at Mom for getting that weird, dreamy lilt to her tone, one I’ve never heard before. Sure, Jacob may be just a rude jerk, and that’s why Mom’s voice shakes when she talks about him. Is there something else going on? What if shelikeshim?
Mom hasn’t had much luck in dating. First with my dad, who ran out on her when she was eighteen and pregnant, igniting my desire to become a truth seeker, to uncover mysteries. Then later, a series of boyfriends who never treated her right. Perhaps Mom thinks Jacob is going to change everything. He’s the man she’s been waiting for, which is fine… I have to believe that. I can’t imagine competing with Mom for a man.
I’ve seen Jacob in a few photos online, researched him a little, and learned about his determination to always get down to the facts, but that doesn’t mean these feelings nestled deep are facts.
I’ve never had a crush. I’ve never daydreamed about a man while at the restaurant, serving patrons, or while working on my budding journalist website. I’ve never had a man wander endlessly into my thoughts, tempting me… until Jacob.
“But the money’s good,” Mom goes on in a musing tone, “and it’s better than the lawyer’s office. Or the call center. Or the carwash.”
“I love you, Mom,” I say.
She leans back like she didn’t expect that. Maybe it’s because she can tell part of it comes from guilt, from knowing that I’m nurturing a need that would twist Mom up. Either I’m crushing on her mean bully of a boss or I’m crushing on a manshe’scrushing on.
“I love you too,” she says after a pause.
“I just want you to know I’m grateful,” I say. “Reallygrateful. You’ve worked so hard to give me a good life. Having a child at eighteen, alone, and raising her… alone. It’s impressive.You’reimpressive.”
Her smile is pure warmth, but then it falters.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
