Halston

Another Year Later …

“Yes, can I help you?” A narrow-eyed receptionist with jet black hair pulled into a tight, low bun glances up from a reception desk.

This is Mason Foster’s administrative assistant.

His gate-keeper.

The woman who, allegedly, hasn’t been relaying my messages for the past month.

“I’m here to see Mason Foster,” I say with gumption.

She reaches for her phone. “Is he expecting you?”

“He should be,” I say. “I’ve been trying to reach him for weeks.”

Placing the phone back in the cradle, she bites her lip. “I’m sorry. Unless you have a scheduled appointment, he can’t see you. We have a strict, no-soliciting policy.”

“I’m not a solicitor,” I say.

“Then what’s this meeting in regards to?” She bats her thick, dark lashes.

“I’m going to change his life,” I say, knowing full well I sound insane, but one of the top rules of marketing is to hook the customer within the first several seconds, and I’m already running out of time.

The girl laughs. I don’t blame her. I would laugh at me too.

“Trust me, all I need is five minutes of his time,” I say with a wink. “Then I’ll stop with the phone calls and the emails and crazy ex-girlfriend behavior.”

Her smile fades the second she glances over my shoulder, and when I turn, I see a tall man, a few years older than me, with sandy blond hair and an overwhelming air of arrogance in his step.

“Mr. Foster,” the receptionist says, sitting straighter.

“Ming.” He approaches her desk, glancing over the ledge. “Everything all right?”

“This is the woman that hasn’t stopped calling all month,” she says. “Says she’s going to change your life if she has five minutes of your time.”

Mason takes a step back, eyeing me from head to toe before a devilish smirk claims his mouth. “I’m not sure whether to have security escort you out or to insist you join me for sushi so I can get to know you better.”

I think he’s hitting on me.

Extending his hand, he says, “And you are?”

“Halston Kessler,” I say. “Owner of Fusion PR. We specialize in promoting tech companies.”

“Beautiful name,” he says, “for a beautiful woman.”

“Flattery is not necessary, Mr. Foster,” I say, releasing his handshake and trying to imagine Mason and Kerouac side by side at Thanksgiving dinner, wondering how they interact and if they keep in touch.

“So tell me, Halston,” he asks, “would you care to join me for lunch?”

If it means getting his attention, then yes. “I’d love to.”

“Perfect. I’ll drive.” Mason nods toward the elevator, and I follow. “We’re in the market for a new PR firm.”

“I know. I saw the ad in the Silicon Register.” Two months ago, Lila and I graduated from Greatwood, loaded up our little cars, and road tripped it to Silicon Valley to start up our PR firm. We figured a specialized firm in a location with loaded locals was going to be a recipe for success, and with my degree in Public Relations and her degree in Information Technology, our business plan practically wrote itself.

For now, we work out of a two-bedroom basement apartment we share in a shitty side of town, but our lease is month-to-month and as soon as we land a few contracts, we’re going to upgrade our digs and get an actual office.

The elevator deposits us in a basement parking garage, and Mason leads us to a parked Ferrari. Bright red. The shiniest thing I’ve ever seen, even in dimly lit surroundings.

“Hop in,” he says with a wink.

This was almost too easy.

My heart races when I think of Kerouac and how insane it is that I’m spending time with his stepbrother or ex-stepbrother or whatever their dynamic is. I’ll figure it all out soon. I don’t want to rush this, don’t want to make it obvious.

I’ll work for Mason, get to know him, and maybe one of these days I’ll see Kerouac.

Even if it’s just in passing, even if it’s a photograph or a conversation … I’ll settle for that because it’s better than nothing.

The never knowing is what kills me.

And as soon as I know, I can finally move on.