Brutal Blueblood

Money I needed to save every penny of, so I’d erred on the side of fortuitous opportunity and booked this interview.
I had no idea how well I’d done. There was a secret inner part of me that was internally twerking. In my head, I was cool and sexy and had rhythm. I knew the reality of that would look a lot like a twitchy giraffe.
The other, more realistic side of my brain was worried.
Internships didn’t get much better than the Preston Media internship. It came with transportation and a stipend, and after the internship was over, priority consideration for employment at Gotham Girl, or its parent magazine, Gotham.
Supposedly, Ms. Preston really put the interns through their paces. She demanded the best and only took the best. I knew she’d seen a lot of candidates. How many others looked just like me on paper?
She wanted to turn out actual journalists, so that meant keeping the interns eighteen and older on call at all hours, which I could handle. I could absolutely handle that.
God, I wanted this so bad. I’d been prepping for weeks, even while I was on the Everston Fellowship. Sometimes I wished I could be like every other teenager. Like one of my friends thinking of dances and parties and bonfires in the woods. But if I didn’t make this work, that was it. No money for a fancy college besides what scholarships I could gather up, and since my mom made just enough to push us over the income threshold to be considered for any of the free tuition programs, I would be on the hook for anything the scholarships didn’t cover. Sure, I could take out a ton of loans, but I’d have to go to a state school, and while that was fine, I’d always dreamed of Columbia.
It was all I’d dreamed about.
So, I had to hustle. It was my only option.
If I were being objective, my first round had gone well. It had taken several hours. Of course, Sera had dressed me for the part: a mauve pencil skirt, silky gray blouse that made my eyes pop. I looked like an adult instead of like a teenager who was on the brink of desperation.
I had other possibilities for internships, but they were more like local Sussex County papers, and those were the last thing I wanted. I wanted to work at an ambitious media company. I wanted to work for my favorite magazine.
As the elevator slowed, my stomach flipped one last time as the journey ended with one final, gentle spring. And then we stopped. The crowd of uber-slick, New York-savvy modern girls in the car with me went still as they waited for the doors to open. I knew in my bones that even if I got this internship, I still wouldn’t be able to shake who I was at the core of it.
An outsider.
I was lucky to attend Pembroke. From the moment I’d stepped onto the campus as a first year, I’d known the other students weren’t my people.
Well, aside from my friends. Friends like Sera.
Sera was different. She gave not a single hoot who I was or where I came from, just who I was as a person. She was an actual friend. And then she’d tucked me under her wing and nestled me close. Even when I didn’t want to be nestled. Even when I’d wanted to be on my own and free. And by free, I meant in my room, closed away, studying.
But no, Sera never let that happen. She insisted I was in her crew, and so occasionally, she would force me out. If I were being honest, I was glad she did.
I strolled past my internship competition with a determined stride. Once I opened the heavy doors into the glinting glass world of Manhattan, I blinked furiously as I dug into my coat pocket for my sunglasses.
I’d only ever been to New York one other time in the summer. I still wasn’t used to the crowds and the noise. But God, the constant honking of horns, the clash of people . . . there was a part of me exhilarated by it. I just needed a minute to let it all sink in and ease away the quick flash of anxiety and hint of fear I had at being in such a busy, unfamiliar place, and then I would be okay.
When my hands clasped around my sunglasses, I was going to take a step forward, but instead, I walked into a wall of wool-covered muscle. Wool-covered muscle that smelled like Dior’s Ambre Nuit. I knew that scent well. My manager at the high-end boutique I’d worked in over the summer wore it all the time. She’d claimed it was her boyfriend’s and reminded her of him.
I couldn’t blame her—I loved the scent.
I was momentarily stunned by the impact as my body went completely still. It was only when I felt the strong grasp around my waist and was wrapped in warmth that I gathered my senses.
Then I was being gently steadied by big, careful hands.
This all happened in a matter of seconds. Or years. Either way, I was so disoriented that all I could do was hang tight. I looked up. But that was probably a mistake because I started stuttering and tried to back away, almost falling again because my foot slipped on a scatter of rock salt.
“Whoa, easy there. All right?”
I coughed. “Shit. Oh God, this is embarrassing.”
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Owen said in his silken, British-accented baritone.
Butterflies fluttered in my belly. The total opposite of post-interview nerves. Why was his voice so deep? Jesus. He was in high school, but he had a man’s voice, the kind you read about in romance novels. Or the kind you heard when you watched movies and the gorgeous male lead opened his mouth and caused the panties to start dropping. Like Clive Owen.
All I could do was blink. What happened to pretending we were unaffected?
He pulled me around