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Chapter 1
Kennedy Takahashi
I love New York City in the morning. I love the sound of bustling street traffic accompanied by the frantic blaring of car horns, bicyclists darting between cars, crowded sidewalks, the scent of freshly-baked bagels wafting out of deli doors, the hypnotizing aroma of fresh-ground coffees. It’s one of a kind.
But it’s not London.
It never will be.
Here in the Big Apple, there are no red double-decker buses lining the busy streets, no fish and chip shops on every block, no authentic British pubs with well-worn, centuries-old wooden floors on every corner.
And there’s no Connor Murphy.
After five years, I still think about him. I still miss him, and I’m afraid I always will. Connor left a massive hole in my heart I don’t think will ever heal.
Even now, I wonder if I did the right thing by leaving him.
At the time, I didn’t think I had any other choice. We were so young then, and I had no defense against his father’s powerful family. I was trying to protect Connor, and I succeeded. But at what cost? I abandoned him. Ihurthim. And if he was telling the truth at the time, I broke his heart—that sweet, funny, goofball heart of his.
I’ve never met anyone like him, and I doubt I ever will.
In hindsight, maybe I was too quick to leave. Maybe I should have told him what his grandfather said to me. But he was so young then—just nineteen. And so impetuous. I didn’t want him throwing away his future—his massive inheritance—for me.
Anyway, it’s too late to do anything about it now. Connor’s probably married to the daughter of a British aristocrat by now. I know his grandfather, Reginald Murphy, had big plans for his sole heir. Plans that didn’t include his grandson settling down with a Japanese-American girl—aforeigner.
I can still hear the hateful words Mr. Murphy said to me the day we attended his ninetieth birthday party. Even now, they make my chest ache.
I have to force myself to shake off these painful, bittersweet memories of my time with Connor. I try to forget the circumstances that sent me fleeing London and returning to New York. I think the only people who were happy about my decision to return home were my parents andSobo—my grandmother.
This morning, on a sunny Friday in June, I arrive at my office building and step through the front revolving glass doors.
The doorman, a sweet old gentleman with dark skin, buzzed white hair, and a beaming smile, tips his hat to me, as he does every morning. “Good morning, miss.”
I return his infectious smile. “Good morning, Mr. Walker.”
I know his name because he’s wearing a nametag.
Crossing the spacious lobby, I head for the bank of elevators and hope to catch an available car to take me up to the twenty-third floor where my employer, Wentner Global Investments, is located. My knock-off beige heels—which match my pencil skirt and jacket ensemble—click sharply on the polished marble floors, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. As I hurry past the visitor’s desk, I swipe my badge to get through the employee turnstile.
It’s an impressive building, professional and upscale. Everything is trimmed in gold, and the floors are polished marble. It’s prestigious and a bit stuffy, but working for Wentner is doing amazing things for my resume as a global financial analyst. After my stint here, I’ll be able to work anywhere in the world I want—Tokyo, Shanghai, Paris, Berlin. Even back in London if I wanted to.
I wonder if Carmichael & Son Capital Investments would take me back after I left them so precipitously. I could always ask Will Carmichael for a job—he’s the son of the company’s CEO and founder. I’m still close to him and his wife, Skye, a fellow American.
Quit thinking about London.
Quit thinking abouthim.
I manage to slip into an elevator—orlift, as Connor would have said—just as the doors begin to close.
Stop it.
My brain has this stupid habit of translating American words into their British equivalents.Lift, boot, petrol, crisps.
Inside the elevator, the crowd shifts to make room for me. “Thanks,” I say, giving everyone a grateful smile before I turn to face forward. The button for my floor is already pressed.
“Kennedy, hi.”
I hear some shuffling of bodies behind me, and suddenly someone is looming over me. I glance back to see Marty Anderson standing directly behind me. He towers over my five-four height. “Oh, hey, Marty.”Crap.I smile politely.Please don’t ask me out again. Especially not in an elevator full of people.
