Halston

“Almost ready?” Mason knocks on my hotel room door. I rise from the vanity and let him in, saying nothing as he takes a seat on the edge of my bed. Facing the mirror, I slick a coat of ruby red stain across my lips. I’ve found that if you want someone to listen to you, to pay attention to what you say and find you irresistible, you draw attention to your mouth.

It also makes you look fearless, brazen.

People respect you more when you’re not afraid to stand out.

Bright red lips say, “I have something important to say, and I’m making damn sure you’re going to hear me.”

When I’m finished, I dab perfume behind my ears—one with notes of peach, lilac, and geranium—and across each wrist, before giving myself a final glance in the mirror, tugging my sea spray peplum blouse into place and ensuring my linen shorts aren’t too revealing for a family gathering. I’ve never attended a clam bake, but it’s almost ninety degrees out and we’re going to be by the shore, so I wanted to dress light.

“You look amazing. Car’s waiting. Let’s go.” Mason watches me with an owning smirk on his mouth, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. I can almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he fantasizes about wearing me on his arm, showing me off to his family.

If Mason were an intelligent man, he’d realize he only wants me because he can’t have me, but he’s too fixated, too obsessed with wanting the one thing he can’t have that he neglects to see that.

This world is full of beautiful women who would suck his dick for a ride in his McLaren, women who would give their firstborn child for a chance to spend a luxurious evening with a Silicon Valley billionaire.

I’m not one of them.

Slipping my bag over my shoulder, I follow Mason to the elevator. When the doors part, we step inside, squeezing in with a handful of other hotel guests. His hand finds mine, his fingers interlacing.

I follow the path of the light as it moves from the five to the four to the three and eventually to the ground level. Harboring a breath, I brace myself for the moment the doors open.

Kerouac is staying at this hotel. He could be anywhere.

But he isn’t in the lobby.

Exhaling, I follow Mason to the porte cochere and climb into the back of a chauffeured Mercedes.

“How long until we’re there?” I ask Mason once we merge onto the highway.

“About thirty minutes,” he says. “Shouldn’t be long.”

I face away, smiling, keeping the reason to myself.

Thirty minutes is nothing, especially when I’ve been waiting five years for this moment.

A few years back, I hired a private investigator to try and find him when my own feeble Internet attempts got me nowhere. The man said there was a paper trail from Rosefield to New York, but then it was as if Kerouac had completely disappeared without a trace. Off the grid. Nowhere to be found. I worried something unspeakable had happened, but the investigator said he was likely overseas. He offered to keep looking, but it wasn’t going to be cheap and I was running out of funds so he gave me everything he’d collected on Ford Hawthorne up to that point, including his father’s obituary, which mentioned his stepbrother, Mason Foster.

Some basic Internet research on Mason placed him in Silicon Valley, which ironically was already on my radar since Lila and I were starting up a PR firm and planning to cater specifically to the tech industry. The summer after our college graduation, we moved west, set up shop, and pitched our services to any tech giant CEO who would give us five minutes of their time.

One of those CEOs happened to be Mason, who hired us on the spot.

He saw. He wanted. He took.

I now know that’s Mason Foster’s obnoxious modus operandi.

“You’re going to meet my mother today.” He reaches out, placing his hand over mine. “She’s dying to meet you.”

“Please tell me you didn’t give her the impression that we’re together? I don’t want it to be awkward when I have to set the record straight.”

Mason chuckles. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Exhaling, I keep my gaze focused on the passing cars between miniature moments of freaking out on the inside.

The fact that I’m going to see Ford again feels surreal and monumental, like I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life.

Though five years might as well have been a lifetime without him.

“She just wants to see me settled and happy,” he says, finally removing his hand from mine. “I just want to see her smile.”

It’s a sweet sentiment coming from a man who tends to drop names, hog spotlights, steal credit for other people’s hard work, and generally only do things that benefit himself.

“Huh. So, you do think of others once in a while.” I bite a smirk.

His body shifts toward mine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m teasing,” I say. Not really.

“I’m always thinking of everyone else.” His brows furrow, his lips thin and tight. If he were Kerouac, he’d have met me with a quick one-liner and a half-smirk.

“Okay.” I exhale, letting it go and melting into the buttery leather seat before checking the time on my phone.

Twenty-five minutes.