I PICK UP MY PHONE A THOUSAND TIMES ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, thumb sliding over the keys, drafting an apology to Gabe, then a fake question, then just a hello, but I don’t send anything at all. And I don’t hear from him, which is worse in all of the ways.
My brain—my relentless, cruel brain—has our entire interaction in the Good Morning America tent on repeat. Listening to him tell the anchors there was no one in his life is tied for most mental views with the betrayal on his face when I brought up Geoff.
Friday morning at Velocity is shot. We’re all frantically double-checking last-minute details before we shuttle over to the conservatory. Which is sort of a gift because I’m only left alone with my thoughts on the way over. I try to pretend the weight in my chest is heartburn from a Danish pastry I snarfed down instead of heartache. Which is totally ridiculous, anyway. We kissed one time. Did I actually expect it to mean something to him?
Yes.
When we pull up in front of the Garfield Park Conservatory, I’m momentarily stunned. I visited the conservatory when I was little, but the only thing I remember was goats. One managed to put its head through the fence, bite my shirt, and refuse to let go. I tugged and fought with it before finally calling for help. My mom was busy with infant Cube, and my dad had run off to chase Max, so no one noticed that I was being eaten alive by a demon creature. Eventually, a lady with a preschool group helped free me from the jaws of the horrible beast and delivered me to my mother with the hem of my shirt gnawed to rags.
There’s nothing in my memory about a massive oblong greenhouse that showcases the sky or lush plants with heady fragrances and an intricate mosaic fountain in all my favorite colors. Nope, Little CalaMaddie was so scarred by the goat encounter that she blocked out the gorgeous immensity of two acres of gardens under glass.
The whole building is open for the guests to tour—including the Fern Room, the Desert House, the Aroid House (which I learn means it’s full of flowering plants)—but the auction will be held in the Show House, under a multicolored dome of stained glass. Dinner will be in the attached Horticulture Hall.
The catering company has handled the majority of the heavy lifting, but it takes a while to get the table assignments arranged, the auction laid out, and the intricate details that will make this event something special. By the time we’re finished, Mara, Katie, and I have to hustle to get ready in what I think is the bride’s room when the conservatory is used for weddings.
“Holy Hot Mama!” Katie catcalls me as I walk out from behind the little partition that was set up for privacy. “Are you taped into the dress?”
“No. Well, not really. It’s got these silicon strips that stop it from gaping open on my back.”
I catch Mara’s eyes in the floor-length mirror. “Did your aunt hook you up with that, too?”
Pretending not the hear the accusation in her tone, I open the little jewelry box that holds my earrings and bracelets. “It was a gift.”
“That sounds about right. Your aunt loves to give you things you really don’t deserve.” The bottom of Mara’s full-skirted black dress swishes as she heads toward the door.
I have taken so much of her crap without fighting back, without calling her on it. Anger rolls through my body in a hot wave. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She whirls to face me. “Seriously? You think you deserved to work on the Fortunato account?”
“That was—”
“This is my third year interning. If anyone earned the right to work on that account, it was me. I did my time getting coffee and making copies and learning from the executives.” She grips the door handle so hard I can see her knuckles go white. “And I have enough self-respect to not throw myself at clients so I had some excuse to get on their account.”
“I did not throw myself—”
“Aren’t you supposed to be out there right now, meeting your date? Because that’s what you are. Not a publicist. Not an intern. You’re the next bit of Gabriel Fortunato tabloid fodder. I hope you enjoy your very short time in the spotlight.”
With that, she storms out of the room. Katie and I stand in silence until the echo of the slamming door fades.
“You should file a harassment report with HR,” Katie says.
“It’s not harassment when she’s probably right.”
“Don’t say that. She’s a bully. Period. She wants what you have and is trying to make you feel bad about it.”
I give a pitiful-sounding laugh, then look down at my hands pressed against my thighs. They tremble a little, but not with anger. Somewhere in the middle of Mara’s tirade, I started to wonder if maybe she was right. I had no intention of stealing anything from her or anyone else, but it still happened.
“Just think about it.” Katie grabs the box with my shoes and hands it to me. “You better get moving. William will freak if you’re not out there soon.”
“Yeah.” I step into my gold stilettos, barely able to get the strap around my ankle between my shaking fingers and the cut of my dress.
Katie sees my struggle and helps me get the buckle latched. “She’s wrong, you know.” She gives me her fiercest grin. “You worked harder than any of us.”
“Thanks.” I try to find a smile for her, but it wavers.
“Now, go! Before William comes looking for you.”
AN ACTUAL RED CARPET HAS BEEN ROLLED OUT, LEADING TO THE entrance of the conservatory. Camera crews from the local news stations and the die-hard fan websites line the area beyond the security barrier.
William is just inside the lobby’s doors, pacing back and forth when I reach him. “Glad you decided to show up. Fortunato’s car is the third in line.” He pushes open the door for me. “If you join him as soon as he climbs out of the car, then everyone will assume you’re together.”
It’s too late to back out, too late to fake sick or break my ankle. Tonight, I’m just an intern learning how to handle red carpet events. I shove all my feelings into a tight little package, ignoring the jagged bits of hurt related to Gabe and the serrated corners of Mara’s words.
We edge through the reporters and photographers, then William lifts the barricade for me to step under right as the waiting valet opens Gabe’s car door.
He pauses to button his jacket and freezes. I watch the shock of my appearance hit him. He jolts like someone punched him in the stomach and he blinks a couple of times like he expects me to disappear.
Nope, the fairy godmother worked her magic.
Okay, fine. It was a favorite aunt with a black American Express card. Either way, I’m not going to poof into a pumpkin or a sooty servant before his eyes.
He holds out his hand. I slide close enough to take it. A camera flashes behind me, and he shakes off his momentary daze.
“I hate this,” he mutters.
It takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes. “You look nice, too.”
“Dio, Madeline. That’s not what I meant.” He steps in front of me, hands low on my waist, and I’m sure William is having a stroke on the sidelines. “You look beautiful.”
I try not to let his nearness affect my brain, but whatever pheromone Gabe emits is in overdrive. Hazel eyes, olive skin, slightly curly hair. And the suit. I went to school dances with boys in tuxes. This is a different stratosphere entirely: This isn’t the kind of ensemble you rent at the local strip mall, and he doesn’t smell like too much body spray. There is a hint of something woodsy and spicy blowing in my direction, but it’s unquantifiable and even more alluring. I want to press my nose into the side of his neck and breathe deep.
He’s just a client. I’m just tabloid fodder.
The words scrape against the inside of my brain, leaving furrows that instantly fill with an angry sort of hurt.
“Don’t get too heavy-handed with the compliments,” I whisper, straightening his already perfect lapels. “I might get the wrong idea.”
William coughs to draw our attention. “Mr. Fortunato, if you’d please?”
Gabe and I walk a few steps, pose, repeat the process. Someone yells, “Hey, Gabe! Who’s your date?”
He turns toward the voice, smirk on his face. “She’s part of my publicity team. I have to hire people to keep me out of trouble.”
The crowd laughs, and I play along, pretending that he’s just so funny.
After maybe ten minutes, William herds us toward the lobby, then toward some potted ferns in a corner. I drop Gabe’s hand the instant we’re inside the door.
“The waiters are carrying around beverages, but none for either of you.” William straightens the tie of what is probably his nicest suit. It still seems a little worn for this particular crowd. “Just to be safe, I don’t want to see a glass in your hands. With your luck, someone will take a photo, and even though you’ll be drinking water, the media will assume it’s a cocktail.”
Gabe nods along, but I can tell he’s biting the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. “I could hide vodka in a water bottle.”
I bump Gabe with my elbow, but William ignores the quip. “You and Maddie will be seated at the dry table with the rest of the nondrinkers.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Gabe asks, mock affronted.
“He’s teasing,” I tell William before he can go into cardiac arrest. “Gabe has promised to be on his best behavior.”
He turns to me, naughty-sexy grin in place. “Did I promise? I don’t remember that at all.”
“Coffee?” William snaps, expecting my confirmation.
“I’ve got it.” I loop my arm through Gabe’s, dragging him toward the entrance of the aptly named Palm House. Trees with narrow trunks and spiked branches scrape against the greenhouse’s roof. Once we’re out of earshot, I step away. “Why do you do that?”
“He calls you Coffee.”
“It’s a joke.”
“It’s a stupid joke.” He sounds irritated and a little protective.
I totally understand the irritation, but the protectiveness throws me a bit. Why does he even care? There’s no one, his voice echoes in my head.
“Let’s find our seats.”
Round tables with silk runners and intricate centerpieces fill the space, pressing up against the flower beds full of ferns. Flickering candles, strands of fairy lights, and carefully muted string music make me grateful for Em’s choice of dresses. Anything less ostentatious would have stood out in the sea of ball gowns, sequins, diamonds, and one lady in a tiara.
Mara’s taking pictures of everything, probably for her portfolio. Arman is helping people find their seats. Katie and Javi are answering questions about the silent auction items. Waiters in white jackets flit between the groups, offering drinks and appetizers.
“I think we’re at table nine,” I say, pointing toward a table that’s tucked slightly off to the side, half-hidden by the ferns that grow along the glass wall.
Gabe takes a few steps in the right direction, then freezes in the narrow gap between two slipcovered chairs. His posture straightens, shoulders rolling back, then he spins to face me.
“Why is he at our table?”
And without looking, I know.
GEOFF IS HERE. HE WASN’T ASSIGNED TO OUR TABLE. I MADE SURE he and Scott were seated as far away from us as possible, but over Gabe’s shoulder, I see Scott stand and move toward us.
“Did you know he was going to be here?” Betrayal darts across Gabe’s features.
“No. Yes. I can explain. Emma and Scott wanted—”
“Gabe.” Scott’s voice is too happy, too loud. “Glad you made it.”
Gabe ignores Scott completely, eyes focused on me. “You told me you’d never push me into something I’m not comfortable with.” Betrayal makes his face goes cold. “I guess you’re not pushing, right? You’re just nudging me in the direction everyone wants me to go.”
“No, Gabe. I didn’t know, I mean … I thought—”
“I thought you actually cared about what I wanted. Not your aunt. Not Velocity. Silly me.”
Scott puts a hand on Gabe’s shoulder, but he shrugs him off.
“You,” he says, and turns to face his agent, “are supposed to work on my behalf.”
“I am.” Scott looks at me for support, and I hold my hands out to my sides.
Gabe shakes his head once, disbelief shifting to anger. “I made it perfectly clear that I will never play for Geoffrey Jones.” His voice is soft, but not soft enough. People nearby are watching, faces alight with interest.
“He’s willing to apologize. Give him a chance—”
“You’re fired.” Gabe says the words calmly, but there’s no questioning that he’s serious.
Scott is stunned, mouth open, but makes no response.
Gabe turns and holds my eyes for a second. “I trusted you.”
“Gabe—”
He brushes past, and when I step backward, my heel snags in the edge of a tablecloth. The centerpiece tilts, but I catch the vase before it topples to the floor. In the second it takes me to recover, Gabe disappears.
Katie is standing next to the raffle box near the room’s entrance, talking to an older woman.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry”—I interrupt—“did you see where Gabe went?”
“Beautiful boy with dark hair?” The woman nods to her left. “Went toward the Show House.”
People crowd the two aisles around the central display of flowering plants. I wedge my way between couples, and ask his teammates, members of the Velocity staff, even the waiters if they’ve seen him. No one seems to know where Gabe went. Dinner starts, my feet are throbbing in my stupid shoes, but he’s not at our table or any of the others.
The lobby is empty except for a couple of security guards, and outside the reporters have all left to find a better story.
Gabe’s gone.
I call his phone. It goes straight to voice mail. I send a text, asking for him to call me. I get no response. I call again. Nothing.
Dropping to the edge of the low fountain, I put my head in my hands. What just happened? Did Gabe really fire Scott? In front of everyone?
William is going to be pissed. Emma’s going to kill me.
But even worse was the hurt on Gabe’s face. Hurt I could have prevented. The knife of my mistakes slips between my ribs.
I trusted you, he said. And I betrayed that trust. I should have warned Gabe that we might run into Geoff, but it’s such a huge event that I hoped we could avoid him. But I didn’t think … I. Didn’t. Think.
How did I screw everything up so badly?
I try Gabe one more time, then call a cab back to my aunt’s apartment, not bothering to tell anyone that I’ve headed home. It’s not like they’d want me around anyway.
I strip off my dress, throwing it across the top of the dresser, and climb into bed still wearing my makeup. Everything hurts worse than it did when I fell off the bike. My head is throbbing. My neck muscles are too tight. But I’d take another gash on my leg over the one across my heart.
Watford hops on the bed and licks my face once before curling up in the curve of my knees. I reach down and smooth his silky ears, and he pushes his head against my hand for more.
He knows exactly what he wants. Food, a soft place to lie, someone to scratch behind his ears. He’s loyal and loving and would defend me to his dying breath.
And I hate myself a million times more.