Page 22 of Worth the Wait

I opened the car door and hopped out before he could talk me into letting him take me. I needed a moment to myself. And I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know exactly where I lived.

“I’ll be in touch, Chef,” he said.

I closed the door behind me and wandered toward the subway station.

This was the last thing that I’d expected. The craziest part was that I didn’t feel overwhelming excitement about the offer. And I absolutely should have. This was an incredible thing. Other chefs in my class would have tripped over themselves to make a man like Frederique notice them. So, why wasn’t I more enthusiastic?

I was still mentally beating myself up as I hopped on the train. I tried to pretend like my head wasn’t punishing me for overdrinking last night and like the sway of the subway car wasn’t making me the slightest bit nauseous when it absolutely was.

When I finally reached my stop, I made my way up the station stairs and onto the street. There were even more people than usual crowding my every move, making it hard for me to walk. Manhattan was one of those cities that grew busier, the closer it got to Christmas. And since the holiday was only a few days away, the city was beyond congested. I couldn’t wait to get out of the chaos and into the solitude of my room.

Looking up, I spotted my mother’s building in the distance, and I tried to walk faster, but it was no use. There were too many tourists stopping at storefront windows or turning around abruptly to do something or other. I felt like a character in a video game, dodging and weaving around obstacles that appeared out of nowhere.

My head ached with each step I took until I reached the building entrance and hustled inside. I rode the elevator up and quickly made my way inside my mother’s place. I was thankful that no one was there so I could take my aching body to the bath in peace.

I sat on the edge of my bed and kicked off my shoes before pulling the weighted business card out of my pocket and dropping it on my nightstand with a thud. Pulling out my phone, I glanced at the dark screen. I’d completely forgotten to turn it back on. It powered up quickly, and the message notifications went wild once more. Frederique’s offer had made me blank on the fact that my phone had been blowing up all morning.

Scrolling through the messages again, I noticed one finally included a link to what they all seemed to be referring to. I clicked on it, only to see pictures of me and Jamison splashed all overPage Sixand other local gossip outlets. The photos were everywhere. And we looked like a couple. The headlines that accompanied the pictures said that we were.

I ran my hand down my face, unsure of how to handle this. My phone continued to vibrate nonstop in my hand.

Pushing up from my bed, I walked into the hallway and padded toward my sister’s room. Knocking on her door softly, I turned the knob and let myself in. She was sleeping on her back, her hair tied up in a ponytail, and a satin mask covered her eyes. Plopping down next to her, I shook her shoulder.

“Sarina,” I whispered. “Sarina, wake up.”

She jostled slightly before smacking my hand away. “Go away.”

“Wake up,” I said with a little more force, and she tugged the mask away from her eyes.

“Addison?” she grumbled.

I crossed my legs as I sat up. Sarina followed suit, pulling the mask off of her head and dropping it on her nightstand.

“What’s the matter? What time is it?”

“Early afternoon,” I said because it technically still was.

“Why am I awake then?”

“Look at this,” I said.

I shoved my phone in her face, and the brightness made her wince. I quickly adjusted it before handing it back to her.

She started laughing. Actually giggling, like the whole thing was amusing to her.

“That’s so great,” she said as she scrolled, her finger whipping up so fast that I had no idea what she was even doing.

“It’s not great. They think I’m dating that Jamison guy. The one you said loves to do coke. Our pictures are everywhere. My phone has about a million text messages from strangers, asking me for a statement and interview requests.”

“It’s not a big deal, Addison. Why are you so upset?” Her eyes were focused on the screen instead of on me.

My jaw clenched. “Why am I so upset?” I repeated her question as I tried to get my thoughts in order. “Because I’m not dating him and I don’t want people thinking that I am. How did the press get my phone number in the first place?”

She gave me a half-hearted shrug. “They have their ways. Happens all the time. It will blow over.”

“Can’t you do something? Make a statement on your socials? Anything that helps?” I was begging now as she continued to go through my phone, doing who knew what.

“Shit,” she said as her eyes grew wide. “You just got a text from Matthew O’Grady,” she said, and I swore my heart started beating in double time. “You’re in trouble now.” She turned the phone to face me so I could see the message notification on the screen.

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