“But that’s in two, almost three months.”

“I just wanted to come.”

My eyes widened and a heavy feeling—like a stone dropping in my gut—robbed me of air. “You knew who I was, where I was from!”

Mason shook his head, taking a step toward me. “No. I swear I didn’t. This is a huge coincidence.”

“Coincidences aren’t welcome in my life.”

“Believe me; I’m as shocked as you are.”

He did sound surprised and somewhat glad too. This wasn’t right. Crap, Mason was now living close to me, and we met on the West Coast. Was it divine intervention? Should I spend some time thinking about its meaning?

No, no time to waste. In fact, I was stalling. I had to get back before someone noticed my absence.

“I need to go.” I walked around him, but Mason’s hand on my arm stopped me. Warmth spread from his skin to mine. Our eyes met and I gasped from the intensity of his gaze. I had forgotten how breathtaking he was.

“Do you have any idea how glad I am that I found you again?” He pulled me closer to him. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.” He leaned over me, his face close to mine.

The incredible scent of his aftershave—woody and spicy mixed with something else so manly and just his—wrapped around me. My head spun and I involuntarily lift my head toward him.

“Don’t do this,” I whispered.

“Why not?” Disappointment laced his words, but he let go of my arm.

I swallowed the excitement I felt over seeing him again and whispered, “You wouldn’t understand.”

With all my resolve and some more, I returned to the ballroom. I felt dizzy and nauseated. The heavy liquor and candle wax smell didn’t help one bit.

“There you are,” Donnie said, walking up to me.

“I was outside, getting some fresh air.” With the plastic smile on, I let Donnie put my hand on his arm. Without meaning to, I looked over my shoulder and saw Mason in the balcony door, his eyes on my date and me. “I’m not feeling well,” I said, glad I wasn’t lying.

“Do you want to leave?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that to you. I know what these kind of events mean to a politician.”

Donnie smile widened. “I’m glad to see you care. However, right now, I care about you more. Let’s take you to the hotel.”

I let Donnie guide me out. Now, I had about ten minutes to figure out an excuse to prevent him from staying with me.

Mason

I couldn’t just leave the ball as Charlotte had. No. I had to stay there, serving those pompous people and remembering she was one them. And who was that guy with her? Her boyfriend? Was he her boyfriend during spring break?

Shit, I wanted to hit something. Instead, when hidden in the kitchen, I drank one or two flutes of champagne, and took a deep breath.

I got back to my apartment at four in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep. I turned on my computer and googled Charlotte and her mother.

Thousands of pictures and articles popped up on the screen. Charlotte, from a young age, in several gowns and pencil skirts and shirts, with her hair pulled up and too much makeup. She was always smiling, as if she was as happy as anyone could be. I scrolled through pictures of her debutant ball, her first day in prep school, helping during her mother’s campaigns, and lots of gossip websites trying to match her with other rich guys.

I clicked on Wikipedia.

Charlotte Anne McClain (born December 18) is the daughter of George McClain and Peyton Sofia McClain. She attends the political science program at the University of Richmond, and intends to apply for law school afterward.

So, she was one of them!

Eager to find out more, I kept reading:

Charlotte was born and raised in Washington, D.C.

Her father, George McClain, was an admired soldier in the U.S. Army. After retiring, he joined the Republican Party and became mayor of Washington, D.C., soon after. He planned on running for the Senate. However, he was assassinated in a terrorist attack during an overseas military award ceremony months before the election.

Her mother, Peyton McClain, who had always been active during her husband’s campaign and political life, received his endorsement from the Republican Party. She’s the current governor of Virginia. Charlotte and her mother have lived in the Executive Manson in Richmond since the last election.

Charlotte was twelve when her father died. Since then, she has been raised by her conservative mother. Charlotte has training in classical ballet, piano and violin, horseback riding, and knows French, Spanish, and Italian fluently.

There are rumors that despite her near perfect education, Charlotte doesn’t plan to engage in a political career.

At the bottom of the page, there was a picture of Charlotte and a red-haired girl. They held hands and smiled widely. The caption read Charlotte McClain and her best friend, Tracy Graham.

Best friend? I thought Liana, MaryAnn, and Becca were Charlotte’s best friends. During those six days we spent together, she hadn’t mentioned Tracy, but she mentioned something about Liana, MaryAnn, and Becca being her real friends. Once more, I was reminded that I knew nothing about her.

I closed that page and ended up on the images search. A new photo popped up—one from a gossip website. Charlotte arriving at tonight’s ball, her arm linked with that guy I saw her with. The caption read Charlotte McClain and her date, Donnie Williams, son of Senator Williams—voted the future’s most powerful couple.

I punched the table.

She was smiling in that picture, looking straight at the camera.

Why then? She didn’t look as if she liked this life when she was in California with me.

Charlotte

An involuntary pang of jealousy took hold of me each time I saw Liana working on a project for one of her art classes. This time was no different.

I sat in a chair across the kitchen table, playing with the box of pastels while Liana leaned over a large piece of paper, drawing away. My fingers itched to help, to work on an art project of my own.

With great effort¸ I stood and refilled my coffee mug. I inhaled deeply, savoring the strong scent. Since we had become friends, during an art class in middle school in Washington, before I left the public system to go to a fancy prep school, I nicknamed her mother’s kitchen coffeeland—the most perfect place in the world. Coffee was always ready, as was some kind of cookie or cake. The mismatching colorful cushions of the kitchen’s chairs added a happy note, and the tiny bay window let the sun shine through, bringing even more warmth to the place. Most importantly, her mother and her father were always around. Liana’s older sister lived in Texas now, but she had been a big part of this place too.

I certainly felt much better here than in my house’s kitchen, with the industrial stainless steel appliances and stark white cabinets, two cooks, and a server.

“What do you think?” Liana held the paper up, showing the pretty landscape drawing. She had used only black pastel and still the texture and shadows seemed lifelike.

“It’s amazing,” I whispered.

“It really is,” said Joan, Liana’s mother, as she entered the kitchen.

Liana pointed to four silhouettes on the corner of the paper. “It’s the four of us—MaryAnn, Becca, you, and me—in Cali.”

Oh, I saw it now. The rocks surrounding the beach were on the opposite corner. It was perfect. Almost as perfect as being there with Mason.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “It looks awesome.”

“Thanks,” Liana said, smiling.

Liana went back to the drawing’s touch-ups as Joan grabbed a few plates from the cabinets and headed outside, where Liana’s father was preparing the grill for the barbecue.