Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 96513 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96513 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Katherine,” he said as I exited the building.
I glanced back at him in question right when a camera flashed.
Oh. Of course. He’d wanted to warn me about the press. Had he tipped them off to let them know where we’d be? At least I’d turned to look at him. I probably looked like I adored him rather than like I wanted to bite his head off. That picture would be spread all over Page Six tomorrow.
“Anniversary quota fulfilled,” I said, beelining for the limo.
The driver was there, helping us into the back and angling the media out of our faces. Once we were safely inside, the door closed on the media circus. I sat back with a frown. This was my life. Anniversary dinner meant a newspaper appearance. Typical socialite bullshit.
I leaned over into Camden and held my phone out in front of me. “Smile.”
He didn’t, of course. But he shot the camera a devilish look. Good enough.
I filtered the image and blasted it all over my social network. Fuck you, paparazzi. I didn’t have to abide by their rules. I would much rather post all of my own photographs than have them sell my image to the highest bidder.
I watched the numbers tick up on the post. The comment section was out of control with anniversary congratulations. It’d be a solid post. Too bad it relayed none of my actual anniversary sentiments.
“I don’t know why you bother with that,” he said.
“Part of my job.”
“Your job,” he said derisively.
“I’m not the first socialite you’ve met, Camden. You don’t have to be a little bitch about it.”
Camden just stared back at me. “You are in rare form tonight.”
“And you’re exactly the same as you always are,” I spat back.
Camden looked like he wanted to say more, but instead, he slid his phone out of his pocket and responded to emails. I was dismissed.
I blew out a soft breath and straightened out. Camden didn’t understand my socialite status. He didn’t think that it was a real job. He’d made that perfectly clear the last year. That taking pictures and adding filters and captions to them was not in any way a real job. But I enjoyed it, and I always had. Even when technology hadn’t been quite as convenient… or time-consuming. Keeping up with social media now was an all day, ever day kind of job. No matter what he said.
I returned to my followers and answered some of the comments from people that I immediately recognized. Answering followers was easier than figuring out my marriage. I didn’t know what to do about Camden. I’d walked into that dinner with my hackles raised. I’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it had… just as I’d assumed it would.
But before that… he hadn’t been so horrible. Maybe he’d even been trying to have a good night. That was the problem though. I didn’t ever know which Camden I was going to get when we were together. More often than not, he was the one in “rare form,” and I was the one left speechless and irritated. We were a hot mess.
If I wanted it to keep working—if I could even say it was working—then I was going to have to give a little tonight. Maybe if I let my guard down, then he’d drop the whole thing. Except that letting my guard down was the last thing I wanted. Not when I was used to getting stabbed in the back every time I let myself be vulnerable.
Eventually, the limo pulled up in front of Percy Tower, the flagship for the Percy hotel chain. Camden helped me out of the car and then silently guided me into the foyer. I never got tired of the beautiful, polished interior—the classic gilded look with marble floor and columns, all entranced with Christmas decorations and a floor-to-ceiling tree. We slipped through the crowded entrance filled with tourists here for the Christmas holiday, wanting to see the city at its finest.
It was both the best and worst time to be in New York. Christmas cheer was everywhere—from the tree at Rockefeller Center to the market along Central Park to Macy’s Believe sign to the Rockettes Christmas Spectacular and The Nutcracker to ice skating. It had been my favorite time of year while growing up. My birthday was New Year’s Eve—which was good and bad, depending on what age I was—and so the Christmas season always felt like the buildup to my birthday.
I remembered one year, when I was about twelve, my father had gotten a horse-drawn carriage ride through Central Park for the family that ended with hot chocolate and the Rockettes performing just for me at Bethesda Fountain. The memory ached now. As all of my memories of my father were tinged with grief, for what he’d done and who he’d become. But I’d been a daddy’s girl all my life and losing him had been a nightmare. Losing him and my brother’s disappearance and my mother’s utter denial all in the same week had been… too much.