Margaret placed her phone on the kitchen counter and pulled a wineglass from a cedar rack, then opened her refrigerator and withdrew the bottle of Viognier she’d purchased from a vineyard near hers last weekend. She poured a healthy splash into the glass, picked up her phone, and headed through the dining room into the living room, where she left the lights off and curled up on the overstuffed couch that faced an elegant white marble fireplace.
Swirling the wine absentmindedly in the dim ambient light from the streetlights shining through her windows, she closed her eyes and dipped her nose into the glass, inhaling the bouquet. It wasn’t a bad vintage—the familiar smells of vanilla, apricot, and oak filled her nostrils, and she sighed, relaxing for the first time all day. Leaning back, she swirled the wine again, then sipped, letting the cool liquid take over her mouth as she breathed slowly through her nose. Finally, with another sigh of delight, she swallowed, amazed that such a decent wine could be produced in Pennsylvania, and hoping that her own vintages would one day surpass her neighbors’ and rival her competitors’.
For Margaret, who’d earned her undergraduate degree in Paris and her sommelier certification in Bordeaux, winemaking was an art. As for wine drinking . . . well, it was a very sensual, very visceral pleasure that made her toes curl as she took a second sip.
All of the stress of the day started to slip away as she balanced her phone on the arm of the couch and took the diamond studs out of her ears, placing them carefully on the coffee table before her. Her wineglass followed, and she propped up her feet beside the glass, leaning back on the couch and closing her eyes. Without thinking, her hands reached for her phone, and she played with it, handing it back and forth between her palms, as her thoughts focused on Cameron Winslow.
Why did he dislike her so much? And why did it bother her so damn much?
Gulping her wine uncharacteristically, she placed the glass back on the table and headed into the kitchen for the bottle and returned to pour herself another splash. As a rule, Margaret never overdrank, but if anyone could make her break her own rules, it was Cameron.
Cameron . . . on whom she’d had a crush for as long as she could remember. Cameron . . . who’d been the first boy to show her attention when she was ten years old. Cameron . . . who’d moved away when his father suddenly died. Cameron . . . who lived directly below her apartment and about whom she’d fantasized since the moment she saw him standing there in the lobby last November, talking to Alex English. Cameron . . . with his tall, muscular body, thick black hair, and grass-green eyes.
Cameron . . . who couldn’t stand her.
She looked down at her phone, where his name and number glowed.
It was clear he didn’t want anything to do with her. He barely gave her the time of day when he saw her, and if he thought she didn’t notice all the times he pushed “Door Close” when she was running for the elevator, he was delusional. After bumping into her at the building gym two mornings in a row in December—both times he’d looked her over carefully before offering the most unbelievable scowls—he started running outdoors instead. Even in the almost-unbearable cold of winter, he ran outside instead of using the treadmills, and she couldn’t shake the feeling he’d rather run in subzero temperatures than risk running into her. She had no idea what she’d ever done to him. Hell, if memory served, Cameron had been the one who gleefully teased her in the years before he moved to London. In fact, if she concentrated carefully, she could still feel him tugging on her tight, neat braids at one of the neighborhood pool parties.
She shrugged defensively, catching her reflection in the glass of her windows, which looked out onto the darkness of Rittenhouse Square. Tugging the pins from her chignon, she loosened her thick, long, wavy hair, and it unwound, falling effortlessly around her shoulders. Unbuttoning the top two buttons of her simple white silk blouse, she tossed her hair a little, the crisp white and dark brown a sharp contrast. She took off her glasses and placed them on the coffee table, then stared at herself carefully. And yes, she looked younger and sexier and more approachable like this. But she also looked less polished and professional, and that simply didn’t cut it in her father’s world.
As if on cue, her phone started buzzing.
“Hello?”
“The Gallo-Fishtail Import numbers,” he barked without preamble.
“On your desk, Father.”
“I’m quite sure I asked for them to be e-mailed to me.”
And Margaret was quite sure he hadn’t because when Douglas Johnston Story gave a command, Margaret listened.
That said, arguing was futile.
“Father, I can send them over to you—”
“It’s too late,” he snapped. Then, under his breath, “Why one of you couldn’t have been born a boy . . .”
She winced but didn’t acknowledge the familiar refrain that had become more overt since her mother’s passing several years ago. “Really, I can forward them now, or—”
“I’m leaving the office now. You’ve wasted hours of my time tonight already, Margaret. Just have them e-mailed to me by eight tomorrow.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You don’t get ahead by making mistakes, Margaret.”