Page 1 of No One But Us

Chapter 1

Elle

After nearly two weeks here,it still makes me giddy. Every. Single.Time.

That moment—the one where I emerge from the gloom of the subway into Manhattan’s sunlit streets—feels like the opening scene of a movie. And it’s all mine for the next three months. I wonder if it will evernotfeel too good to betrue.

The smell of coffee wafts on the early June breeze, calling to me, but I continue down the street, my desire to run hampered by a pencil skirt and three-inch heels. My father calls, and I ignore that too. It can wait. God knows he’d say the same about any call I placed tohim.

In truth, there’s no rush. I could enjoy a venti mocha and leisurely chat with my father—not that my father and I actually have leisurely chats—and still make it on time. Instead I will get there early, as I do each day, even though my boss told me to sleep in. Yes, he actuallyorderedme to sleep in, because Edward’s the kind of boss who finds out I’ve got a late night planned and is more concerned with my well-being than my productivity. An internship atThe Evening News with Edward Ferrismay be the work equivalent of winning the lottery, but having a boss like Edward? It’s like winning ittwice.

The building has just come into sight when my father calls again. I feel a stab of worry but ignore it. There’s no time for one of his lengthy diatribes right now, because while Edward may love me, my fellow interns do not. Despite my 3.8 at Cornell and the fact that I’ve spent the past few summers working 60 hours a week on a national talk show, everyone here assumes I got this job because of who my father is, and it’s possible they’reright.

Not helping matters is the fact that Edward has offered me perks he hasn’t offered anyone else. It’s only by working longer and harder than any of them that I’ve been able to hold my head high these past twoweeks.

There are photographers outside the building—not an unusual occurrence since the morning show always has a few celebrities running in or out—but today, oddly enough, their cameras point at me. “You’re usually better at telling the difference between a somebody and a nobody,” I grumble as I push through the revolving doors. It’s only as I reach the security line that my steps falter a little. I’ve spent enough of my life with famous parents to know when I’m being gawked at, surreptitiously or not. And I’m definitely being gawkedat.

I hustle through security, aware of a tension and excitement in the air I’ve never noticed before, and into an elevator that’s already too full—and people stare theretoo.

Maybe I should have answered my father’s call afterall.

Heads turn as I step off the elevator, a chain reaction I begin to predict and dread. I haven’t even gotten to my cubicle before my path is blocked by Stacy—the producer who dislikes me most. I wish I could say her rudeness is a surprise, but I can’t. It’s not just interns who resent Edward’spartiality.

“Whatis going on?” I ask as she pushes me toward a conference room and shuts the door behindus.

“I guess you haven’t seen today’s paper?” sheasks.

I begin to think of ways to defend myself, but the fact that I stayed out late to watch my ex-boyfriend’s band play doesn’t sound particularlyadmirable.

“No,” I reply. “Notyet.”

“Well, you’re in there,” she says, throwing it at me. “You and Edward, leaving a restauranttogether.”

I shrug. Edward is one of the most famous news personalities in the country. He’s always in the paper. “I’m not seeing theproblem.”

“The problem,” she says between her teeth, as her hand lands heavily on the table, “is that lead anchors don’t take interns to dinner for no reason. And the fact that you’re sleeping with him is hardly a well-keptsecret.”

“Sleepingwith him?” I stammer. “That’s ridiculous! I’m19,and he’s my father’sage.”

She rolls her eyes. “As if that stops anyone. The two of you have been seen in public at least three times since you started. Doesn’t that strike you asexcessive?”

It’s actually been more than that, if you include coffee, but that doesn’t seem like a helpful contribution to our discussion. “No,” I argue. “You know he worked with my dad. It just seemed unusuallythoughtful.”

She rolls her eyes again, and I’m beginning to see why mothers loathe this habit in their teenage daughters. “I’ve worked with Edward Ferris for ten years. And he’s a lot of things, but ‘unusually thoughtful’ isn’t one ofthem.”

Her implication isridiculous. I remember me as a little girl, spinning on his desk chair until I was dizzy. How he brought me all of the chocolates left on his pillow when we stayed in the same hotel and helped me construct castles with them. I could tell her these things, but only guilty people offer elaborate defenses, and I am definitely notguilty.

“I’ve known him since I wasan infant. Nothinghappened.”

“Didn’t he invite you to the Hamptons?” she says. “Even people in the office heardthat.”

I shrug. “I didn’tgo. He said something about how I’d like his son—I think he wanted to set meup.”

“Eleanor, his son is five. And he’s with Edward’s wife in France allsummer.”

Oh.

I stare at her blankly, trying to come up with an alternate explanation. He was telling me how fun the beach there was in the summer, especially for “kids” my age. And then he said, “I’d like you to meet my son. I think you’d really hit itoff.”

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