CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
NELLIE
The Benton Academy hadn’t changed in fifteen years. The two-story, red brick building was just as intimidating now as it had been the day I’d walked away after graduation.
Women dripping in jewels, wearing expensive gowns, laughed and smiled as they passed by the columns at the grand entrance. Men dressed in tuxes climbed the wide staircase to the front double doors.
Every window was illuminated, the rectangles casting a golden glow into the dimming evening light. Lanterns lined the sidewalk. The lawns were freshly mowed and the scent of cut grass clung to the air.
That smell was normally a comfort because it reminded me of Dad. But tonight, it did nothing to curb the anxiety rattling in my bones. My nerves were frayed, not only in anticipation of seeing Cal, but just being at Benton again.
I’d vowed never to set foot on these grounds again. Yet here I was, frozen on a sidewalk that I hadn’t crossed since I was eighteen.
“Coming, Nellie?” Pierce’s mother asked, glancing back when she realized I’d fallen behind.
“Be right there,” I said, forcing a tight smile. “I’m going to look around a bit. For old times’ sake.”
“Of course.” She nodded, taking her husband’s arm. “We’ll meet you inside.”
Pierce’s father escorted his wife past the bronze statue of Albert Benton, the school’s namesake.
My senior year, a group of students had vandalized the statue as a prank. The two students who’d been caught on camera, wrapping dear old Alfred in toilet paper, had nearly been denied graduation. Their parents had probably made some calls—and written checks—to get their kids out of trouble.
I doubted that courtesy would have been extended to the scholarship kids.
God, I hated this place. The opulence. The arrogance. What if I just stayed outside and waited for Cal to come out after the dinner?
Don’t be a coward, Nellie. I squared my shoulders and walked past the statue, my nerves spiking with every click of my stiletto heels on the cement. I scanned the crowd gathering at the staircase, looking for the man who’d stand head and shoulders above the rest.
But there was no sign of Cal.
Which was probably a good thing. In the past twenty-eight hours since I’d burst into Pierce’s office and asked for his help to score me an invite to this fiasco, I still hadn’t figured out exactly what to say.
Maybe I just needed to see him and it would come to me. Maybe I’d be able to admit that we were better together than we were apart. Even if that meant constant bickering. Even if that meant disagreeing about almost everything.
I’d rather spend a lifetime arguing with Cal Stark, than laughing with anyone else.
My stomach was in a knot as I walked, my heels teetering on the bottom step. My heart hammered, and my skin felt too hot beneath this gown.
With the short notice, I hadn’t had time to shop for anything new. Luckily, I kept a few dresses in my closet for these fancy occasions. It wasn’t uncommon for me to attend functions on behalf of Grays Peak.
I’d opted for a black gown, adorned with columns of sequins that added a dainty shimmer to the fabric. The skirt was full with a slit that ran up my thigh. The top had two thin straps and a deep V that exposed my sternum.
It felt fitting for tonight.
If Cal was going to break my heart, there might as well not be anything in his way.
Oh God, I hope he hadn’t brought a date.
The skirt swished as I climbed the stairs with a fake smile fixed firmly on my face. Pierce’s parents, who I’d grown to adore during my time working for their son, had made a call—and promised a hefty donation—to get me a seat at their table.
I hadn’t explained why I’d needed to come tonight, and because they were amazing, they hadn’t asked why. They’d simply swung by my hotel in their town car on their way to Benton and picked me up for the event.
“Good evening,” the man stationed beside the door greeted as I approached. “Your name, madam?”
“Nellie Rivera.” My voice shook. If he noticed, he didn’t let on as he scanned the guest list.
“Welcome, Ms. Rivera. On behalf of the faculty and staff at Benton, we hope you enjoy your evening. The festivities are taking place in the dining hall. Down the hallway on your left.”
“Thank you.” I swept past him, breezing into the entryway, standing at the mouth of hallways I’d walked hundreds of times.
Guests milled around the space, making conversation. Their voices echoed in the open space, carrying toward the tall ceilings. The smell of floor wax and lemon wood polish filled my nose and transported me into the past.
I wasn’t a woman in a fancy gown but a teenager again, wearing a red and black plaid skirt with yellow pinstripes. My starched white button-down shirt was tucked tight and covered with a black cardigan embroidered with the Benton crest on a breast pocket.
My legs felt wobbly. My palms clammy. But I refused to study the floor as I walked like I would have when I’d been a student. I held my chin high, my eyes aimed forward, and followed the crowd toward the dining hall.
We passed a row of lockers and I instantly found number 197. My locker from freshman year. Memories from those years whipped around me like a gust of wind.
My first day of school, when I’d realized that everyone already knew everyone, and I’d been the outcast. The days when I’d wanted to scream. The others when I’d cried. The few where I’d laughed.
So much had changed from the first day I’d loaded my books into that locker to the last day when I’d hauled them away. I’d ended my freshman year jaded and bitter. Separate from the others, not only by their choice but mine too.
It had been easier to erect barriers so they couldn’t hurt me.
Especially where Cal was concerned.
But it was time for the walls to come down, especially where Cal was concerned.
The noise grew louder as I approached the dining hall. People filled the space, visiting and laughing. Old friends, rich friends, reunited.
A server with a tray of champagne flutes stood at the doors, offering a glass.
“Thank you.” The bubbles burst on my tongue as I took a sip, then scanned the room. Where was he? My hand trembled as I searched, and a splash of champagne escaped the flute and coated my hand.
“Damn it,” I muttered. That was going to be sticky.
With a quick chug, I drained the glass, handing the empty to a waitress as she passed, then turned and weaved through people as I retreated to the hallway and the ladies’ room. It was empty as I pushed inside, moving to a sink to wash my hands. Then I took a calming breath, examining my face in the mirror.
My eyes were lined with coal, the shadow making the green pop. I’d opted for a pale pink lipstick tonight, a subtler shade than the red I typically wore to special functions. My ice-blond hair cascaded down my back in loose waves. I looked pretty. And terrified. No amount of makeup could hide the nerves.
The door opened and I glanced over as a woman in a silver gown strutted inside. I dismissed her, then did a double take. Oh, hell. Phoebe McAdams.
“Hi,” she said, setting her clutch on the counter to dig out a lip gloss. Like most of the other women in attendance, she was decked out in jewelry. Diamonds glittered at her neck, ears and wrists. Her wedding ring was so large it probably weighed her hand down like she was toting a baseball against her knuckles.