Page 5 of Worth the Wait

It was the truth. Not only would I have never applied, but I wouldn’t have gotten accepted if it wasn’t for my mother and all her connections. I’d still had to do the required work to get in, but I knew that she’d pulled some strings on my behalf. Which was part of the reason why I’d felt like I couldn’t turn the offer down when she called me to deliver the news.

Plus, Patrick had told me it was an opportunity that wouldn’t come around again. He said I deserved this chance and that I should grab it with both hands. Said he wasn’t going anywhere and that he’d be waiting for me to come back home.

I was pretty sure he’d stopped waiting by now.

My mother opened her mouth to say who knew what when the front door—thankfully—flew open and my sister stepped inside, looking like a freaking movie star. The look on my mother’s face was unlike one she’d ever given me. It was obvious that Sarina was the apple of her eye. Their relationship was the exact opposite from the one we had.

“Oh my God, you’re home! I’m so happy. I never see you anymore,” Sarina said as she kicked off her sparkling ankle boots and headed in my direction before giving me a hug.

Even though we kept similar hours during the night, our paths never seemed to cross.

“I know. Work is brutal,” I breathed out, and my mother looked at me quickly before focusing all her attention on the prettier Whitman daughter.

Sarina’s hair was the same shade as mine, filled with natural highlights, and was currently pulled into a high ponytail on top of her head. But it was her stunning features, accented by what always looked like professional makeup, that truly set our looks apart. She really did look like a runway model who rarely ate a full meal. And I looked like someone who enjoyed eating the things she cooked. Sarina was always dressed to impress and wouldn’t be caught dead in half of the outfits I loved to wear.

“How was your night? Did you meet anyone fabulous? Or famous? Tell me everything,” my mother asked, and my sister looked at me before rolling her eyes.

“My night was fine. All the usual suspects were there,” Sarina said, sounding completely unimpressed, yet she still attended some event or another almost every single night. “No one to write home about, Mommy Dearest,” she said, and I laughed out loud. “But you really need to come with me sometime, Addi.”

I bristled. The scene my sister was in was definitely not for me. I had less than zero desire to mingle with the rich and snobby of the Upper East Side. Or wherever they were from. I always got it confused.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.

My mother quickly agreed. “Oh, I concur. Can you imagine Addison at one of those soirees, sweetheart? They’d probably think she was the staff.”

Damn. Mommy Dearest could really be a bitch sometimes.

“Mom,” Sarina chastised. “No one would think that. Jesus.” She turned to look at me. “No one would think that, Addi. Plus, I’d dress you and do your makeup so you’d look even hotter than you already are.”

For as different as my sister and I were, she was an absolute rock star whenever it came to defending me. For whatever reason, she saw me in ways I did not see myself. And I knew she wasn’t bluffing or just trying to blow smoke up my ass. She meant the things she said, and I loved her for it.

“Just say you’ll come to at least one. I know you don’t think you’ll enjoy it, but come for me. So I can show you what I do. Bring you to my work for one night,” she pitched, and how could I possibly say no?

It was easy to forget that this was Sarina’s job when it looked like all she did was party every night. But those parties led to endorsements. It was her job to be seen and to document it all on social media to her millions of followers.

“When you put it that way, of course I’ll come.”

“Yes!” She clapped her hands together, and I tossed a glance at our mother to catch the disapproval written all over her face.

“I’m going to bed,” she said, and my sister shooed her away with both hands the second our mother turned her back.

“I thought she’d never leave.” Sarina maneuvered into the kitchen and opened the fridge to pull out a meal replacement drink.

“You should let me cook for you.” I cocked my head to the side. “That is not a meal.”

“If I let you cook for me, I’ll never fit into any of my clothes,” she argued.

I scoffed. “I do know how to make healthy meals, ya know.”

“I’ll think about it.” She pulled out a seat and plopped in it. “My feet are killing me. World’s cutest booties over there”—she thumbed toward the door—“but also the most uncomfortable.”

I swallowed the obvious question that was on the tip of my tongue—why wear them then? There was no point in asking. I’d already done that when I first moved here, and Sarina explained that she was known for certain things and she liked maintaining that image, even if the outfits she wore physically hurt sometimes. Her image made her a lot of money, and she’d told me once that the pain was worth the paycheck.

“Maybe I’ll wear them in the kitchen,” I teased, and she barked out a laugh.

“Your feet would be bleeding in an hour,” she said, and I must have made a face because she told me she was joking…kind of. “Will you really come to an event with me?” She perked up, her warm honey eyes meeting mine.

“Yeah. Absolutely. I’m just not sure I even have a day off anytime soon since it’s the holiday season.”

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