Chapter One
Kennedy Noelle
I hate Christmas. Yep, there I said it. This crappy holiday can go to hell. Okay, maybe I am being dramatic, but holy crap, this day is turning into a complete dumpster fire.
My jackass of a boyfriend turned off my alarm when he got up this morning, instead of hitting snooze, so I was late to my hair appointment; the hairdresser got a little to scissor-happy and chopped five inches off my hair, the esthetician used the wrong wax on my lady garden, and I’m pretty sure I have third degree burns down there, and then Starbucks’ girl got my coffee order wrong and gave me matcha instead of a peppermint tea. Gross. I know, first-world problems. Poor Kennedy Noelle Kensington, I hear you say. But truthfully, this complaining is all to mask what I’m really upset about: I didn’t get accepted for the internship at The Row.
The letter landed in my mailbox this morning, and I regret opening it. I should have never checked it before Christmas. It’s been a bad omen all day. I graduated top of my classthis summer from FIT, earning a degree in fashion design. I’ve dreamed of being a big-time designer since I was little and would play fashion shows with my Barbie dolls and beg my mom for her old dresses so I could cut them up and make my own. This internship would have sealed the deal. If I could get my foot in the door at The Row, my goal seemed achievable. But it wasn’t to be.
I turn the corner, tripping over my own feet for the third time on this walk back home, and decide I am done for the day. My feet hurt so bad.
I spot a yellow cab bay and decide I am hopping in one to get home. I quicken my steps, my feet throbbing with every tap of my kitten-heel boots, and I swear, I am about to weep in pain. I wave my hand frantically, my Chanel purse sliding off my shoulder as I try and run and wave at the same time. As I approach the cab that pulls in, I collide with what feels like a brick wall. My purse goes flying and lands in a puddle.
“What the heck?” I screech at the 6ft 5 wall of muscle I’ve just been derailed by.
“Do you not look where you are going?” He growls, picking up my now soggy purse and thrusting it into my hands.
I am so taken aback by this man’s rudeness, I’m frozen, clutching my dripping purse, mouth agape.
He proceeds to open the waiting cab door and toss his overnight bag in it.
Is he joking?
“Hey, that was my cab,” I yell, finally finding my voice.
“No, it’s mine.” He turns to glare at me, and if I wasn’t so mad right now, I’d have melted on the spot. For a hot second, I think I’ve just yelled at Chris Hemsworth. He is a dead ringer for him. He looks at me with a jaw so tight I wouldn’t be surprised if he cracks every tooth in his beautiful mouth. He glares at melike I’ve ruined his Christmas, birthday and Easter, and I retreat, letting him have the cab.
He wastes no time jumping in, slamming the door and speeding off. No apology.
What an asshole.
I use the sleeve of my cream coat to wipe the remaining dirty puddle water off my leather bag and then decide to take the long walk home that we have lived in for barely three months, clearly needing to avoid all forms of public transportation today because I don’t fancy my chances after this disaster of a day and its barely noon.
As I pound the busy streets, my painful winter boots cut into my skin, and a dull ache forms in the pit of my stomach.
I failed.
Years of hard work, unpaid summer internships, and working retail jobs have been for nothing.
We have the drive to my parents’ vacation home this evening for the holidays, and the reality of that makes that dull ache turn into a painful knot. Knowing I’ll have to face my family and tell them I failed when they are all thriving makes me want to throw myself into oncoming traffic.
Let’s calm it with the dramatics, Kennedy. They’re your family, and they love you.
I let out a long sigh and reach into my purse to pull out my phone so I can call my boyfriend, Carson.
It rings and rings and goes straight to voicemail. Great. Letting out a frustrated breath, I shove the phone back into my purse and powerwalk the rest of the way to my house; the winter New York air hitting my cheeks, making them feel tight and tingly.
I arrive at our brownstone, paid for by my boyfriend’s parents, because we are both graduates trying to land a job. Carson comes from money. So do I, but there’s money, and then there ismoney. Carson hasn’t had to work for a damn thing. Everythinglands in his lap, and his parents have held his hand throughout. I have been hellbent on paying my way, and even though his parents won’t accept a cent from me, I have saved money every month from my retail assistant job at Bloomingdale's so that I can give them a big cheque when we move out. This living situation is only temporary. Carson has been promised a job at his father’s advertising company on one condition: he spends twelve months working for someone else to gain life experience. My parents worked for their wealth. My father a surgeon and my mother a health and wellness expert, they have instilled in me and my three sisters that we are to work for everything we want, which is fair enough, and they have supported me through school on the condition I work and pay my way too. But come on, throw a girl an extra bone every now and then. I’m tired.
I open the front door of our home and step inside, tripping over Carson’s tennis shoes and gym bag he’s left in the hall.
“For shit’s sake… Carson,” I bellow up the stairs, knowing that’s where he’ll be, playing video games no doubt in his man cave. I unzip my boots that will be going in the trash and toss them beside Carson's, then take off my coat and hang it on the hook and hobble my way up the stairs in search of my man-child of a boyfriend. The faint sound of his voice trickles down the stairwell, and I follow the sound. To my surprise, I find him in our bedroom, packing a suitcase.
“That’s great. I’ll see you first thing Monday. Merry Christmas.”
Monday? We will be in The Hamptons on Monday with my family.
“Hey… what’s going on,” I ask hesitantly, gesturing to the suitcase that I note is full of summer clothes and not the attire appropriate for the cold weather.
