Keeping Her Page 12

  "Thank you." His hand is cold and clammy. Gross. "It's good to finally be graduating."

  "Oh, yes, that too. But I actually meant congratulations on your engagement."

  He congratulates me on my engagement instead of getting my masters degree? He'd never say that to a male student.

  "How did you hear about my engagement?" I ask.

  "My wife watches those morning shows and said they announced that Pearce Kensington was marrying a girl who goes to Hirshfield and is in the history program. My wife told me because she assumed I knew you. So when's the wedding?"

  "March." I sit up straighter and clear my throat. "Anyway, as I said on the phone, I wanted to talk to you about job opportunities in the area. For now, I'm living in Weston so it'd be great if I could find something around there, but I don't mind commuting to one of the surrounding towns."

  "How many hours a week do you want to volunteer?"

  "Volunteer? Are you referring to an unpaid internship? Because I'd be fine with that if you think it will help me eventually get a full-time job."

  He leans back in his chair, his hands crossed over his middle, a grin on his face. "You're not seriously looking for an actual job, are you?"

  I feel my blood pressure rising. He asked the question in a condescending tone and his grin is now a smirk.

  I don't smile back. I remain very serious. "Of course I'm looking for a job. That's why I made this appointment with you."

  He leans forward, placing his arms on the desk. "Sweetheart, you don't need a job."

  Now I'm really angry. I want to reach over and strangle him with his tie, but instead I take a moment to calm myself, then say, "And why is that?"

  "You're marrying Pearce Kensington. He's a billionaire. A billion is a lot of money."

  Oh my God. Does he seriously think I don't know what a billion is? I'm starting to hate this guy and I don't hate anyone. Dislike? Yes. But hate? Usually never.

  "Mr. Burmwall, I hope you're not implying that women should live off their husband's money rather than make their own."

  He laughs. "You have no need to make money. Having a job would be a waste of time. Pearce probably makes more money on his investment portfolio in one day than you would make in an entire year working at some museum."

  I clench my hands, trying to control my anger. "Maybe it's not just about the money. Maybe I want to use my skills and my education and not just sit at home all day."

  "Which is why you should go be a volunteer. Museums always need volunteers."

  "Yes, to stuff envelopes for fundraising drives. I did not go to school to stuff envelopes all day."

  "I'm sure they do more than stuff envelopes," he says, sitting back again.

  "Are you saying you're not going to help me find a job? You're not even going to tell me where to start looking?"

  "I could, but it's pointless. They're not going to hire you, sweetheart."

  I shoot up from my chair. "Stop calling me sweetheart. In fact, don't call any woman sweetheart who isn't your wife. And for the record, I can and will get a job. On my own. Since apparently you refuse to assist me."

  "Rachel, calm down. I was just trying to be—"

  "Goodbye, Mr. Burmwall." I storm out of the room. I can't stand being told to calm down, so his final words just shot my anger up even higher.

  I go out to my car and just sit for a moment, taking some deep breaths to calm myself down. What an ass. I doubt he'd treat a man that way. If a man is wealthy, is he not supposed to work? Pearce works, or at least he used to, and he plans to work again. But he doesn't need to, so according to Mr. Burmwall, Pearce should sit at home all day and do nothing. Or go volunteer somewhere a few hours a week. But would Mr. Burmwall ever advise Pearce to do that? No! Of course not. Because he's a man, and men have to work. But not us women. We should spend our days shopping or getting our nails done or waiting for our husbands to come home.

  My attempt to calm down doesn't work, so I start the car and drive back to the loft. It's two-thirty and Pearce is home since he no longer has a job. When I get off the elevator, I'm still fuming mad. Pearce is on the couch, reading a newspaper, but he gets up when he sees me.

  I hang my coat up and feel him behind me, his arms around me. "Hello, sweetheart, how was class?"

  I cringe. "Don't say that word."

  "What word?"

  "Sweetheart." I break free from his arms and walk to the kitchen. "Don't call me that."

  "Um, okay." He sounds confused. He comes over to where I'm standing. "I didn't realize that word upset you."

  I sigh, and turn to face him. "It doesn't. I mean, it doesn't upset me when you say it. Only when other people do." I hug him. "I'm sorry. I'm just angry and frustrated and I'm taking it out on you. I think I'll just lock myself in the bedroom until I've calmed down."

  He lifts my chin. "What happened?"

  I replay the conversation for him, including the sweetheart references. When I'm done, he brings me into his arms. "Rachel, I'm sorry he treated you that way. That was extremely unprofessional, as well as rude and condescending. You should report him to someone higher up at the college."

  "It wouldn't do any good. Besides, he's probably only talked that way to me. I'm sure I'm the only student he's ever had who ended up marrying a billionaire. He was somewhat helpful to me back when he thought I was just a regular graduate student. But now that I'm the wife, or soon-to-be wife, of Pearce Kensington, everything's changed." I look up at Pearce. "Do you think he's right? Do you think I won't be able to get a job because I'm married to you?"

  "I really don't know. All the women I know who come from wealthy families have never tried to get a job, so I don't have any examples of it."

  "Did these women go to college?"

  "Yes. All of them did. My mother has a business degree but she's never had a job, and her friends haven't either."

  "But they're from a different generation, when women stayed home. The younger women must want to work."

  "They have college degrees, but they don't actually get jobs, at least not regular paying jobs. They usually do charity work, such as organizing fundraisers or planning charity auctions."

  "What about your ex-wife? Did she try to find a job?"

  "No, and she had no intention of ever getting one." He hesitates, as if he doesn't want to say what he's thinking.

  "What is it, Pearce?"

  "I was just going to say that doing charity work is not a bad thing. Some of those events are very large and entail a lot of work and specialized skills."

  "What kind of skills?

  "Marketing, budgeting, public relations, event coordination, advertising. It depends on the event. Even though my mother has never held an actual job, she puts a lot of time and effort into her charity work. She finds it very fulfilling. And she's been able to put her business degree to use over the years, planning these events."

  "So you think if I can't find a job, I should just do charity work?"

  "I think you should do what you want to do. I'm just saying that there's nothing wrong with volunteering for a charity. It doesn't mean you're not working. You're just not getting paid for your work. And if it's an organization you feel strongly about, you might find it very rewarding." He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Rachel, if you want a regular job, then go get one. I'm not stopping you. I want you to be happy, sweethea—" He stops before he says it.

  I laugh. "It's okay. You can say it."

  He smiles. "Would you like me to go beat up Mr. Burmwall now? I'm more than happy to do so."

  "No. That's okay."

  He checks the clock. "Actually, we need to get going. We have that photo shoot in an hour and we have to drive to the studio."

  Pearce lined up a photographer to take photos of us to send to the media so we won't have people following us around and taking our picture and selling it.

  Ever since we sent out that engagement announcement, Pearce has had people from the media calling him, asking for photos of us. Th
ey also asked if we'd do interviews. We haven't agreed to it yet, but Pearce thinks we should. He said it's better to put ourselves out there and control what's said about us rather than have gossip magazines make things up.

  I don't like all this publicity. Pearce warned me many times that his personal life was often made public, so I need to accept that and get used to it, but it still bothers me.

  When we get to the studio, I'm whisked off to a room where an older woman does my hair and makeup. She uses a lot of makeup, way more than I'd normally wear, but she assured me it'll look natural on camera.

  She finishes up just as Pearce walks in.

  "They sent me in here," Pearce says to the woman, "but if you're not ready, I can go back out there and wait."

  She looks him up and down. "Wow. Aren't you a catch?" She winks at me. "You did well picking him."

  I laugh. "I agree."

  "I think I'm the one who lucked out," Pearce says.

  "You definitely did." The woman nods in my direction. "She's gorgeous. When she first came in here I thought she was a professional model. You need to get that girl to an agency."

  Pearce smiles at me. "What do you think, Rachel? Would you like to be a model?"

  I shudder. "No. Absolutely not. I get nervous in front of the camera, which is why I just want to hurry and get this over with."

  The woman leads Pearce to the chair next to me, facing the mirror.

  "Relax," she says to me. "It's nothing. You just stand there and smile." She steps back and checks out Pearce and me in the mirror. "You two are both gorgeous. You might just be the best looking couple I've ever seen."

  "Thank you," I say. "But I'm sure you say that to everyone."

  She shakes her head. "Believe me, I don't. You too really are a beautiful couple."

  Pearce reaches over and holds my hand and the woman gets to work on his hair. When she's done, we change into the clothes we brought and go on set and wait for direction.

  The photographer takes photos of us alone, then together, posing us all different ways. Halfway through, a young woman dressed all in black comes into the studio and watches as the photographer snaps more photos.

  When we're done the woman goes up to Pearce and me and says, "I'm an editor at Celebrity Weekly magazine. I'm here for a different shoot, but I recognized you when I walked in. I heard about your engagement, and if you don't mind, I'd love to get an interview and maybe use some of these photos. Our readers love wedding stories. And your photos are great. You two are a beautiful couple. You might even make the cover."

  "What do you think?" Pearce asks me.

  "Um, sure, okay."

  "Can we do the interview right now?" she asks. "It won't take long."

  We agree to it. The interview is short, maybe ten minutes. She says it'll be in one of the January issues.

  By the time we get home and have dinner, I'm exhausted. It's been a long day.

  We get in bed early, and as Pearce is pulling the covers over us, he says, "I forgot to turn the lights on."

  He gets back out of bed and goes over to the miniature Christmas tree I put on the dresser and plugs in the lights. It's just a tiny string of colored lights, but they add a warm glow to the room so we like to leave them on all night.

  I decorated the loft yesterday while Pearce was at the gym. I told him what I was planning before I did it because this place still feels more like his than mine, and I wasn't sure if he'd be okay with having lights everywhere. He told me months ago that he's not really into Christmas, which doesn't make sense to me. I mean, come on, who doesn't like Christmas? Anyway, he said I could decorate however I wanted, but I didn't go overboard. I bought a tree for the living room and put multicolored lights on it, then strung some lights around the windows and put a miniature tree in the bedroom.

  When Pearce got home, I couldn't tell if he liked what I'd done. But when it got dark later and he could see all the lights, he got a big smile on his face. And as soon as we got home tonight, he immediately plugged in all the lights. I take that as a sign that he's starting to like Christmas. Eventually, I'm going to get him to love it.

  "There." He gets back into bed. "How's that?"

  "It's good." I wrap my arms and legs around him and hug his chest. "Do you think we should stay home for Christmas?"

  "And not go to Italy? I thought you wanted to go."

  "I do, and I'm really excited about it, but this is our first Christmas together so maybe we should be spending it here at home."

  He kisses my forehead. "We'll spend the next one at home. We have plenty more Christmases ahead of us. And maybe next year we'll be in a house."

  I sit up slightly. "You want to get a house?"

  "Why do you act so surprised? We've talked about getting a house."

  "Yes, but I thought you meant in a few years."

  "We don't have to get one right away if you don't want to. I was just thinking that you might want to live in a place that we picked out together instead of living here. Just think about it and we can talk about it later."

  I do want to get a house. I just haven't said anything to Pearce about it because where we live will depend on where we work, and right now, neither of us has a job. And talking about that is stressful, at least to me, because my job prospects aren't looking good. There are almost no job openings around here.

  Pearce reaches into his nightstand and pulls something out. "I almost forgot. This is for you." He hands me a small box. "An early Christmas gift."

  "The trip is my gift." I sit up and turn the light on next to the bed.

  "The trip is our honeymoon. Now open it."

  I open the box and inside is a small crystal ornament in the shape of a star. "Pearce, it's beautiful. I love it."

  "I noticed we didn't have any ornaments. I'll get you some more, but I thought you might want to pick out the rest."

  "Actually, I was thinking of continuing a tradition my family does where we collect ornaments over the years. Something that reminds us of something special that happened that year. Would you be okay with that?"

  "Of course. Whatever you want."

  I hold out the star. "So what does this say about this year?"

  "That you're my bright shining star?" He laughs as he kisses me. "Or the star of your class? You're graduating with honors."

  "I think it should symbolize a wish. You know how you wish upon a star? We should each make a wish for the thing we want most in our new life together. Not something that's a given, like love, but something that we really want but may not get. That way, when we see the star every year, we'll be reminded to keep working toward whatever it is that we hope to have someday."

  "Are we telling each other these wishes?"

  "No. So wish for whatever you want. Ready?" I hold up the star.

  "We're doing this right now? You gave me no time to think."

  "Oh. How much time do you need?"

  "Never mind. I've got it. Go ahead."

  I dangle the star between us. "Okay, make your wish."

  I close my eyes and imagine my wish. It's a wish that's not likely to happen, but that's why it's a wish. It's something to hope for.

  My wish is for Pearce and I to have a baby. I want that more than anything. So that will be my wish every year when I take this ornament out. A wish I'll make every year at Christmas. And maybe if I'm lucky, that wish will come true.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  11

  PEARCE

  It's nine in the morning and I'm heading over to Jack's house. I've been trying to reach him since the sentencing last Sunday but he hasn't returned my calls. He finally got back to me last night and told me to meet him at his house today, before he left for the office.

  "Pearce," he says when I arrive. "Come on in."

  Today he's wearing navy pinstripe suit pants and a white shirt, a much better look than his meditation outfit. At least now I'm not having to look at his bare feet and chest hair.

  He takes me to his hidden room. "H
ave a seat. You want breakfast?" He sits down in front of a heaping plate of bacon and a Bloody Mary.

  "I already ate."

  "Well, I haven't, so you talk while I eat." He stuffs a slice of bacon in his mouth, then rolls his sleeves up.

  "Do you always eat that much bacon?" I point to his plate. There must be at least a half pound of bacon there. Maybe more.

  "Don't nag me about my diet. You sound like my damn wife." He wraps his greasy fingers around his Bloody Mary glass and takes a swig. "Now what do you want?"

  "I want to know what happened when I left the room on Sunday. What did they talk about?"

  "I can't tell you that." He stuffs a wad of bacon in his mouth.

  "You're my mentor. You're supposed to look out for me."

  "No," he says, talking with his mouth full. "I'm supposed to teach you things, not protect you. You have to protect yourself, Pearce. I've told you that many times. And I've provided you with the tools to do so."

  "I can't protect myself when I don't know what I'm up against, or when it's going to happen. So tell me so I can prepare myself."

  "I don't know what the hell's going to happen. You heard what they said. The higher level members are making the decision."

  "Yes, but you could at least tell me what was discussed."

  "I'm not allowed to do that."

  I feel like I'm talking in circles here. And the fact that he's acting so casual about this is infuriating.

  "Did they say anything about Rachel?" I lean forward, pleading with him. "Please. I need to know."

  He glances to the side as he dabs his mouth with a white cloth napkin.

  His silence is causing my heart to thump harder. "What is it, Jack? Are they planning to do something to Rachel?"

  He doesn't answer. He goes to pick up a slice of bacon but I grab his wrist. "Dammit, Jack! Tell me! Are they going to hurt Rachel?"

  He looks down at my hand on his wrist, then glares at me. "DON'T touch me when I'm eating. I'm like a dog. I'll attack."

  I release him and sit back in my chair and wait for him to speak. But he remains silent as he finishes his bacon. I sit there, having to listen to his disgusting chewing sounds. It might even be worse than having to look at his bare feet. When he's finally done eating, he gulps down his Bloody Mary, then wipes his napkin over his mouth.