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He’s standing with his cousins, Christopher—who sent the tie flying through the air the minute he sat down for dinner, we have yet to find it—Dylan, Michael, Mini Cooper; who I think is forty-five but they still call him Mini Cooper even though he has like eight kids. The four of them are telling a story, and all of them are laughing. I think I only meant to take a picture of Stone, but I captured this one instead. The next one is the one that stops me. It’s a picture of Stone and me. I vaguely remember taking it. It was the one time I let myself get close to him. He put his hands around my waist and pulled me to him. I can still feel his hand on my hip while he kissed my temple.
I turn off the phone, not wanting to read more into it. I’m not this woman who sits around waiting for her Prince Charming. That is so not me. In fact, it’s the opposite of me. Growing up in Hollywood taught me a couple of life lessons, which means I learned very young that people always have two sides to them: the one they show the world, and the one they really are. I also learned everyone always has an ulterior motive for being your friend or even being around you. I was, after all, Tyler Beckett’s daughter. At first, I thought I was cool—you know, all the kids pointing at you when your dad came to school. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I went to a school where all the celebrity kids went, but—as you know—there is always a pecking order in Hollywood. I can count on one hand how many people I’m actually close to from my life in Hollywood. I also knew I would be going away for college as soon as I entered high school; the only question was where I would go. I busted my ass to make sure my GPA was the highest it could be because I also knew that I wanted to major in pre-law. The thrill of arguing with someone and winning got me every single time. After I took the LSAT and received a top score, I had my choice of law schools and I decided to attend Yale Law School. I want to say my last name didn’t help, but I would be lying. Knowing I wanted to eventually become a district attorney, I knew that I had to go above and beyond and I exceeded those expectations. I’m currently one of the top ADAs—assistant district attorney—in my department in Chicago, and I help prosecute criminals. I’m busting my ass so I can eventually become a district attorney. I did an internship in Chicago, and it was love at first sight. I loved everything about it from the minute I landed in the city. It was like I was born to live there.
“Would you like something to drink?” the flight attendant asks, and I nod.
“Can I have a bottle of water, please?” I ask, and she returns carrying a silver tray with a bottle of water and a glass. “I don’t need the glass, thank you.” I grab the bottle of water, opening it and finishing half of it before I put it aside and decide to close my eyes.
The next thing I know, we’re landing. I open my eyes and stretch before standing. “Your jacket and boots are waiting,” the flight attendant says.
“Bye-bye, palm trees. Hello, reality,” I mumble, slipping off my sneakers and putting them in my backpack before sliding my feet in my winter boots and then slipping on my big parka jacket. The door opens, and the wind gusts in. “If that doesn’t say Windy City, I don’t know what does.”
She laughs as I walk down the stairs. I make sure one hand holds on to the railing as I head to the waiting black SUV. Something my parents arranged because if it was me, I would be flying coach and hitting up an Uber when I got back. The back door is open for me, so I climb in, then wait for my luggage to be loaded into the trunk.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, so I take it out, seeing a message from Gabriella.
Gabriella: Thank you for being part of our special day. Also I’m so bummed I didn’t see you before you left. Call me later, sister. I can say that now because I’m married to your brother.
I laugh at the last part.
Me: There is no one better for him than you. Actually, you might be too good for him. I hope you made him sign a prenup.
I add a winky face before pressing send and putting my phone away when he starts to drive. I look out the window, seeing a foot of snow was somehow dumped from the time I left on Wednesday until I got back five days later. Wheeling my luggage into the front door of my apartment building is so much fun, especially with the world’s largest hangover.
When I make my way into the lobby of the building, the heat hits me right away. I stomp off the snow from the bottom of my boots before heading to the elevator. The building only has four floors, and if it was up to me—and I didn’t have my luggage—I would take the stairs, but I need every ounce of strength in my body to make it to my apartment.
Huffing as I unlock the big silver door, I push it open before I step in. I turn the lights on before kicking my boots off at the front door. Putting my suitcase in the corner, I decide I’ll tackle that this weekend. My backpack falls on the floor with a clunk before I take off my coat and hang it on the coatrack right beside the door. I grab my telephone from the pocket before I make my way from the front door into the open-concept loft apartment. Well, it was completely open concept, but we put up walls for the bedrooms. It was an old factory building right by the water that was converted into condos. It was the only thing I accepted from my parents. According to my father, it was an investment. It was the one fight I let him win, but I drew the line there. I paid for everything else even though it irked him not to take care of me.
I’m walking to my bedroom when my phone beeps in my hand. I look down and see I’ve gotten an Instagram notification. But I stop in my tracks when I see it’s from Stone Richards.
My fingers swipe up as the phone scans my face, and then I open the app, pressing the corner where the messages are.
I have a bunch of messages I’m ignoring, and he’s at the top. It shows the green dot next to his picture, which is of him in his uniform looking straight into the camera. I press his name and see the gray text.
What is your type, and why is it me?
I can’t help but snort at his cocky fucking message. I’m about to reply when the phone rings weirdly in my hand, and I see he’s calling me from Instagram. What in the hell is this? I obviously accept it and put it to my ear, wondering if it works the same way as a phone call. “Hello?”
“Hey, gorgeous.” His smooth voice sounds like he just woke up.
“Did you just call me on Instagram?” I ask, so confused about this.
“I did.” He chuckles.
“I have so many questions.” I walk over to my bed. “Number one, how can you just call someone on Instagram?”
“I’ll answer all your questions.” I hear the rustle of covers from his side of the phone. “One, you can’t just call anyone. You need to be friends with them.”
“I’m private.” I climb onto my big king-size bed. I splurged big-time when it came to my sleep. I sink into the down comforter that feels like seven comforters in one. “And we aren’t friends.”
He laughs, and it sends shock waves through my body, landing straight in my vagina. “We became friends last night,” he says, and I close my eyes, vowing to never drink again, “sort of.”
“What do you mean sort of?” I should just end this conversation and be done with it, but instead, I prolong it, telling myself not to be rude.
“Well, I kind of took your phone to hold on to when you went to do some dance move or something.” I lean my head back. “And I added myself.”
“Wow,” I reply, shocked, “so why are you calling me on Instagram instead of my phone?”
“I don’t have your number,” he admits, and now I’m the one howling with laughter.
