We Are Us

I pointed at Jolie’s feet, knowing from my mother that female footwear generally dictated how far they were willing to go. “Can you walk in those?”

Jolie looked down, then back at me. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

I laughed. “What I mean is—how many blocks before you’re limping?”

She considered the question, giving a reluctant shrug. “I don’t know, maybe five.”

Exactly what I’d thought. I stepped to the curb and put my hand out. “Come on, we’ll catch a cab back to your place. You can run upstairs and change, then we’ll grab takeout and head to Central Park.” A taxi pulled up and I opened the door. “We probably won’t get another day like this until next year, let’s not waste it inside.”

As Jolie slid inside the back seat, her skirt edged upwards, flashing a long expanse of smooth, toned thighs. Getting in beside her, I swallowed heavily and loosened my tie, staring out the window until the back of my neck didn’t feel like it was broiling.

Her apartment wasn’t far, and Jolie didn’t take long to change. Unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed when she returned wearing jeans instead of another skirt, I gave the driver our next destination and Jolie turned to face me. “What’s at Broadway and Seventy-Second?”

I gri

Forty minutes later, we were scrambling up a sun-warmed rock and settling beside each other, drinks in one hand and a bag from Gray’s Papaya in the other. “So you took me away from Eggs Benedict and Brioche French Toast for,” she scrunched her nose, “a hot dog?”

“Oh no, not just any hot dog. The best in the city.”

She opened her bag skeptically, pulling out a rectangular cardboard box, already stained with grease. “Better than the Second Avenue Deli?”

I feigned offense. “Second Ave is strictly pastrami on rye. Are you sure you’re a city kid?”

She giggled, a soft lilting sound that had the birds around us twittering jealously. “Do you eat anything besides smoked meat?”

“Not if I can help it,” I admitted, taking an enormous bite of the dog and chewing enthusiastically. Jolie’s bite was more tentative, but she smiled at me around the bun. “Better than Eggs Benedict?”

“Yes, but kind of a tie with the French Toast.”

I took a pull of my papaya drink. “Okay, fair enough.”

“Back at the Brunch, you mentioned you were at Columbia, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m pla

At her admission, an unexpected rush of optimism surged forward like a rising tide. Bobbing on the waves was a strange sense—almost a premonition—that I was going to know Jolie for a long time. At least distance wouldn’t be an issue. “Where’d you apply?”

“NYU, FIT, and Parsons.”

“A creative type.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” The indignant flash in her eyes sent a bolt of heat slamming against my chest.

I choked down the last of my lunch. “No, not at all. I don’t understand it, but I think it’s cool.”

“What are you studying up in Morningside Heights?”

“It’s only my second year so just the core requirements for now, although my major will be economics. I’m basically marking time until I can work at the company.”

“You want to work with our dads?”

“Yeah. I mean, they’ve built one of the best independently owned investment companies on Wall Street.” I gave her a curious look. “I’m kind of surprised you don’t.”

She slid her half-eaten meal in the bag and wiped at her face with a napkin. “Nope, it’s all yours. I want to design clothes or jewelry or maybe even furniture. And I love my dad, but I wouldn’t want to work with him.”

I scoffed. “I can pretty much guarantee my father will do his best not to actually work with me either. I mean, I’ve been going there after school for years, and our only interaction is when he waves at me from behind the glass walls of his office.” I tried to keep the resentment out of my voice.

Jolie’s sympathetic expression was proof that I didn’t do a very good job of it. “That must be really discouraging. I’m sorry.”

I rolled my shoulders, drawing my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. “It’s fine, I’m used to it by now.”

I rarely spoke about my father or the business I intended to join. In high school, everyone knew who I was. And in college, as soon as my classmates discovered I was one of those Montgomerys, I became a stepping stone to an introduction or an internship.

Jolie not only knew exactly who my father was, she was also an heir to one-half of the same firm.

And yet she wanted nothing to do with it. A fact I found both incomprehensible and admirable.

Staring at Jolie now, the billionaire’s daughter wearing frayed denim and a shy smile, her carved cameo profile framed by a wild mane of honey hair, that coil of intrigue pulled just a little tighter.

“If it makes you feel any better, my dad says that he doesn’t know anything about the side of the business your father runs either.” She peeked over at me. “I think they fight about it sometimes.”

I cleared my throat, searching for an even tone that wouldn’t betray my scattered thoughts. “Well, if my business partner didn’t let me onto the floor he ran his operation out of, I’d get pretty pissed, too.”

Jolie’s eyes widened. “My dad’s not even allowed on the floor?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“No.” She shook her head, blonde tendrils swaying like streamers around her face. “I used to ask to visit his office, but he never agreed so eventually I stopped asking.”

My father had hardly rolled out the red carpet for me, but I couldn’t remember a time when I wasn’t expected to be there every minute I wasn’t in school, sleeping, or sweating on a sports field. “Yeah. They lease three floors. One for their offices and conference rooms. That’s the floor clients see. One level up is the trading floor and back office operations, which your father manages. The level below is for individual investment accounts and the administrative staff maintaining them. That’s the part of the business my father manages.”

“Why can’t my dad just walk down the stairs?”

“There’s an access panel to get in the door.”

“And he doesn’t have the code?”

“Nope. I’ve never been down there either. My dad says it’s to protect confidential client information, but I think it’s because he’s a control freak.”

“Hmm.” Jolie’s lips closed around her straw, sending an avalanche of lewd thoughts pouring into my brain like some kind of sewer pipe with no shut-off valve. I imagined them closing around something else, something belonging to me. Something a hell of a lot bigger than a damn straw. “Well, I guess you can’t argue with success.”

Exhaling, I forced myself to look away from Jolie and the plump pink temptation of her mouth. “If that were true, our dads wouldn’t be arguing about it.”

She put her drink down on the rock, extending her arms behind her and leaning back, tilting her face up toward the sun. My gut clenched, taking in her perfect profile, the ends of her hair whipping around her wrists like a flag, her breasts pushing up through her t-shirt. And those long legs of hers, wrapped in soft, worn denim. “True.”

For the next hour, we talked about more than our fathers, or the business they shared. I learned about her stepmother, and that Jolie only joined the drama club so she could learn how to make costumes. That she loved Harry Potter but hated The Hunger Games. That she’d never been to a lacrosse game. And that she’d rather eat tacos than just about anything else.