Dolly All the Time(57)

My dad raises his eyebrows. “Where are you staying?”

“At Stewart’s,” I say. “His mansion has a few extra bedrooms.”

“Can you go by our place and get my Red Sox sweatshirt?” Gus asks.

“We’re probably not going that way,” I say. I serve myself some more green beans and catch a mood shift off him. “Don’t you have that blue hoodie here?”

“I do but it’s stiff, like too new. Kids here don’t really wear stuff like that.”

“They don’t wear new clothes?” my dad asks.

“They do,” Gus says. “But they don’t seem new.”

This is fashion. I literally never thought I’d see the day. “I know what you mean, it’s a thing. Clothes that look like you’ve had them forever, which is funny for a kid your age because you’ve only been this size for a week.”

He smiles at me because he likes that he’s growing. And maybe because I’ve met him where he is. Life’s weird enough at thirteen, you do what you can to fit in.

“I’ll go by and grab it,” I say. “I could use a few things myself.”

I picture myself sneaking out of a Beacon Hill mansion and spending double the cost of that sweatshirt Ubering there and back. Totally worth it.





Chapter 24





We’re traveling by helicopter to Boston. I’m assuming this has to do with weeknight traffic, but I suspect he travels by helicopter on Saturdays too. I think it goes without saying that I have never been in a helicopter before, and I am a swirling cocktail of anxious, excited, and giddy. A black car picks me up on Goose Lane and takes me to the heliport. Stewart got tied up on a call, so he’ll meet me there. Henry has been working out of the Boston office all week and will meet us at the restaurant. The clients, the CEO, his son, and his son’s girlfriend all together to evaluate whether Stewart’s vision for the future of Whitfield Industries is worth pursuing. This is actually the sixty-thousand-dollar meal.

I’m in the black dinner dress with the scoop neck and red-soled black pumps. I googled these shoes because the box didn’t have a price tag on it, and I briefly considered returning them in exchange for a month’s rent. I finger my dahlia necklace nervously as we drive.

We pull up right next to the helicopter, blades whirring so loudly that the driver doesn’t hear me thank him. He motions toward the helicopter just as Stewart is ducking out and walking toward me. He’s in a dark blue suit and a crisp white shirt with a green silk tie flying over his shoulder. He looks like he’s coming to claim me, throw me over his shoulder, and steal me away.

He smiles when he’s close and takes my hand without breaking eye contact. He says something under the din of the blades. I can’t hear what it is, but I see it in his eyes, so I mouth, “Thank you.”

He leads me by the hand to the helicopter and gives me a headset. It’s infinitely quieter and I smile at him, excited. “You ready?” I hear it in my ears and realize our headsets are connected. His voice in my ear is so close, as close as when we were in his galley kitchen, and I feel it meander through my body.

“Yes,” I say, meaning no, and turn toward the window. He lets go of my hand and turns toward his.

I blink and we’re high over Boston. I can see down to the seaport and all the way across the Charles. I look for my place in the distance and think that this is a true miracle of money, the ability to make Boston and Whitfield just minutes apart.

We land on the roof of the Whitfield building and when the blades cut, I take off my headset and hear the sounds of the city below. A few horns honking, the rush of traffic. Stewart thanks the pilot and tells him he’ll be in touch in the morning. We head into the building and into the elevator. He presses Lobby.

“Do we have time to go to your office?” I ask. I’ve pictured it, all very Mad Men in décor, and I’d love to see the view from there. Everything through Stewart’s eyes has a little more possibility.

He looks at his watch. “Sure. Not much to see, but we have time.” He presses thirty, and we woosh back up to the top.

The doors open and a receptionist drops her phone. “Good evening, Mr. Whitfield.”

“Hello,” he says. “We’re just popping in for a bit.”

We head through a sea of charcoal-gray cubicles. Heads pop up in lightly veiled horror at seeing the heir apparent to the C-suite arriving unannounced. He nods in greeting but doesn’t slow down until we reach his office. A man working off two monitors is seated at a desk outside.

“Surprise,” says Stewart, with absolutely no ta-da in his voice.

The man looks up and is immediately on his feet. “Why are you here? They didn’t cancel. I just confirmed with”—he glances down at his phone—“someone in their office named Patrice. Your dad went home to change.”

“We just had some time. Damion, this is Dolly. Dolly, Damion.” I shake his hand because we are definitely doing business right now. Damion is dressed in a navy blazer and a red bow tie, giving all the Smithers from The Simpsons vibes.

“Well, hello,” he says, relieved. “Sorry to be such a mess about this dinner tonight. I know the heavy lifting is on you, but I’ve confirmed and reconfirmed this thing six times because if it goes haywire, I don’t want it on me.”