Rise - Part One (Rise #1)(4)

"About this?" He taps the edge of the envelope against his knee. "I thought you might regret asking them to throw it out so I went JFK this morning to pick it up for you."

I glance quickly at the pearl encrusted watch on my wrist. Normally just the sight of it gives me a sense of comfort. My cousin, Ivy Marlow-Walker, designed it for me as a special graduation gift. Right now it's doing little to quiet my racing heart. I stare down at the delicate hands on its circular face. If he went to the airport this morning, he must have gotten up at the crack of dawn. It's barely past nine now.

"You shouldn't have done that." I lean forward so my elbows are both resting against the top of the antique desk that the former tenant left behind. "Why wasn't it thrown out when the airplane was cleaned?"

"Gabriel's mother grabbed it after you left the plane." His eyes search my face. "She saw you tuck it into the seat pocket after reading it. She assumed you forgot it."

That's understandable given the fact that I could feel her eyes glued to the single sheet of yellow paper as I unfolded it and read it under the dim light that was cast from the overhead lamp I turned on when I thought she'd drifted to sleep. By the time I realized she had leaned close enough to me to make out the messy handwritten note, I hadn't cared. I knew that I'd be leaving it behind, just as I left behind the man who had written it to me. "She was mistaken."

"How old are you, Tess?"

I should be mildly offended by the question, but I'm not. I'm asked it frequently. I used to think it had everything to do with the uneven pattern of freckles that are scattered over my cheeks and nose. I turned to make-up to remedy that but even the blush, mascara and shadow I wear don't mask the fact that I'm young. In a city where new businesses pop up and disappear at breakneck speed, being taken seriously when you don't look like you carry the expertise needed, is a challenge.

"How old are you?" I counter, not because I'm particularly interested in his age. I'd guess he's in his early thirties judging by his friendship with Gabriel. I researched both Caleb and Gabriel Foster before approaching them with my proposal to handle the event planning for the Liore show. I know everything there is publically known about both, including the fact that Gabriel is thirty-two years old.

"I'm thirty-one," he says with no hesitation at all. "If I had to guess, I'd say you're twenty-one."

With all the unwanted life experience I have I feel like I'm nearing fifty-years-old. The calendar suggests otherwise. "I'm twenty-two."

"This seems serious for a twenty-two- year-old." He picks the envelope up between his index finger and thumb so he can wave it in the air. "How old is the guy who wrote this?"

In human years, he's twenty-four. In emotional maturity years, he's a toddler. "It doesn’t matter."

If the words offend him in any way he doesn't display that. On the contrary, he pushes forward. "I'm older than you so let me offer you some advice."

I cock both brows. If I had a nickel for each time someone said that to me, I'd have enough money to buy three new office chairs. Granted, the majority of the time my father is the one offering up his unsolicited advice, but I welcome that because I know he wants me to find the best that life has to offer for myself. This man, who I don't even know, has no right to offer me anything. He may not realize that I'm wise enough to know that his advice is based on absolutely no knowledge of what brought on that written marriage proposal he's holding tightly to.

"There may come a day when you'll want to read this again." He sets the envelope on my desk directly in front of me. "Don't let a momentary feeling ruin an entire relationship. If I was you, I'd put it in one of those desk drawers so it's still there if you want it in say, five or ten years."

I stare down at the plain envelope. My name isn't anywhere on it. The man who wrote the letter didn't take the time to address it to me. He'd simply stopped by the hotel I was staying at, pushed the letter, along with some money at the man working the front desk and told him to make certain it was hand delivered to my room. I pick it up tentatively before I rip it in two and toss both pieces into the waste basket. "You're not me."





Chapter 3


"Did the pilot tell Gabriel anything about what you said to his mother?"

I gaze past my cousin to the display of heels that adorn the far wall in this trendy boutique in SoHo. Ivy is on a break from work and when that happens, I typically drag her out of her jewelry store and into another of the overpriced shops that line this street. I'm all for dreaming about what might be and right now I'm picturing an incredibly expensive pair of red heels on my feet. I'm tempted to look down at the comfortable, black heeled sandals I'm wearing but that will burst my bubble and I'm not ready to fall back into reality for at least another two minutes.

I'd celebrated with Ivy weeks ago when I landed the job as the Liore fashion show event planner. She's been my biggest supporter since I decided to start my own business but it's her husband, Jax Walker, who I most admire. The man has a sharp business sense that is unquestionable and he's been more than happy to share all of his expertise with me. He views me as a younger sister and since I've been in New York, his reassurance that I can make it, has given me the courage I've needed to keep steady on my career path.