Page 9 of Ticket to You

My mother didn’t raise me and now only contacts me when she needs something—usually money. Gemma is both my best friendandthe closest thing I have to a mother figure. At work, she’s all business, but whenever it’s just the two of us, she treats me like family, a constant source of kindness and encouragement. I may not have any of Gemma’s gorgeous Chinese features, and I may be two heads taller than her, but sometimes I imagine what life would be like if Gemma were truly my mother.

Only when we’re a floor away from the event space does Gemma let go of my arm, assuming her professional stance and toning down her smile. “You deserve this,” she whispers to me before stepping into the room full of Hoffman’s top executives, editors, and writers.

As I have at every cross-publication event since the holiday party, I scan the room from the doorway. Thankfully, just as with all the events in the past few months, Adam Abrams is nowhere to be found. I shake out the tension in my shoulders I didn’t realize I was holding.

Most people mingle with their familiar coworkers. There’s a grouping ofTech Todaymen in button-downs and fleece vests,Delicious and Delectablechefs and writers in flour-dusted jeans, and, of course, myAtelier Todayfamily looking polished in perfectly tailored pants and wrinkle-free dresses. Gemma and I work our way to the most casual group of them all. She settles right in with herOutdoorsycomrades, many of whom eye my colorful, feminine outfit disapprovingly.

Gemma must notice because she sends a shooting glare at any of her coworkers still staring at me. “Everyone, this is my dear friend, Ophelia Brooks. She was nominated as one of our Journalists in Excellence and is abrilliantwriter.”

I swap introductions with the group, flattered by Gemma’s protectiveness over me.

“So,” I rub my palms together, “when do I get to find out whoOutdoorsy’s nominee is?”

“See for yourself,” one of theOutdoorsyworkers says, nodding to the opposite end of the room.

I follow their gesture and find a line of eight tall banners behind the glass podium, each one with a black and white headshot of the nominees. And there, next to my portrait, Adam’s strong brow bone and square jaw are blown up ten times their actual size. The picture looks like it belongs in a cologne ad. Careful to keep my composure, I look through the room again, standing on tiptoe in my heels, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“Hilarious,” I tell Gemma, shaking my head slowly and letting out a dry laugh. “You know, if he were here in person tonight, I’d kill you for not telling me sooner.”

She grimaces. “Oh, he’s not so bad.”

“Really? Did you forget what he said about me when you tried to set us up? Can you argue that Adam Abrams isn’t actually an ignorant, high-oh-his-horse jerk?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow. It takes everything in me to keep my voice lighthearted.

“You forgot presumptuous,” a cold, husky voice says from behind me.

It’s the last voice in the world I want to hear.

6

ADAM

I hopedthat Ophelia might have forgotten what she overheard me saying at the holiday party. But my hope was wasted.

I swallow dryly before speaking. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Brooks.”

Ophelia doesn’t turn around for a few slow seconds. She’s probably brainstorming ways to avoid me for the rest of the night. When she does turn, my body flushes with warmth. Her hair is down loose, its curls framing her square-shaped face. Long, dark eyelashes surround her hazel eyes, which she narrows at me. Her gaze is so intense I lose my train of thought and glance down to regain my composure.

But that doesn’t help, because I’m simply met with more of Ophelia. The bottom of her sleeveless dress hits her right below her fingertips, showing off her long legs. Though the dress’ shape is basic, the fabric is accented with colorful fibers, helping her stand out amongst the conservatively dressed crowd.

Like at the holiday party, Ophelia stays stubbornly quiet.

“Congratulations on your award,” I say, leaning down to get closer to Ophelia’s face. Her perfume smells like vanilla and coffee, and I move back a few steps to at least clear one of my senses of her. I’ve had Ophelia and her witty, sharp personality, on the back of my mind for months. Plus, she’s even more beautiful than I remembered.

Ophelia waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing. They’re handing it out to just aboutanyonethis year.”

Her snarky comment only makes her more intriguing. And thatvoice. When we first met, I thought her rasp was from a cold, but I suppose it’s her usual. It’s so unique, I could sit and listen to her read the phonebook for hours.

What am I supposed to talk to anAtelierwriter about?“Uh, nice dress.”

It’s meant as a genuine compliment, but Ophelia isn’t buying it. “I don’t know. I feel like it’s missing some…color. Maybe you should go grab a drink to remedy that.”

Just as with my insults, she apparently hasn’t forgotten about the wine incident.

Ophelia cocks her head to the side. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Sundance right about now, exploiting a disabled rock climber for your own personal benefit?”

“Sounds like you’ve been keeping tabs on me,” I murmur.

Ophelia’s mouth pops open. Before she thinks of a comeback, microphone feedback echoes from the podium.

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