Page 20 of Famous for a Living

Leaving three of the suitcases out of the picture.

Snap.

Satisfied with the shot, my white nails—done “one last time” with Serena in funereal silence—clap against the phone as I type the caption, then switch over to video and begin filming.

Just one video for stories.

Should I tag @LouisaVoeux?

No. They’d disown me.

Worse. Maybe make a public statement saying they don’t want to be associated.

I swallow, fighting the heat in my chest at the thought.

“Catherine.”

The video is still rolling as I look up at the sound of my name. It takes a second for me to register who spoke. Not just because I so rarely hear my full name spoken aloud, but because of the voice. I know that voice. I remember, vaguely, the low register and slight accent of that man’s voice.

Uncle Terry’s coworker, sitting on one of the benches, rises. He’s wearing that same olive-green work uniform as three months ago, his badge flashing beneath his unzipped coat. Gone is his wide-brimmed hat, showing deep-mahogany hair sprinkled, oh so barely, with strands of silver. The colors match the beard, just thick and unkempt enough, by New York standards, to lie in that hazy field between unfashionable and fabulous.

Even now I see a few resolute snowflakes clinging to his beard.

That face.

Oh yes. I haven’t forgotten that face.

“Cat, actually,” I say, puzzled as he stops before me. I drop the phone to my side. “Uncle Terry’s the only one who calls me that. So . . .” There’s an underlying question in my words. “Good to see you . . .”

“Zaiah. And I’m giving you a lift,” he says matter-of-factly. His eyes fall on the phone in my hand, the video still rolling.

I swipe the video off and stuff the phone in my coat pocket as the memory of our last time meeting returns. I don’t know what it is about him, but he makes me feel like my hand is caught in a candy jar.

Only last time I was able to push against his antagonism by saving the day for him using the very means he clearly hated.

But now . . .

Well, now . . .

I see my own face on a magazine over his shoulder and my cheeks flare. “Oh, actually. I’m renting a car, though. I’m sure I told Uncle Terry that.”

“Maybe in a few days. But today . . .” Zaiah holds out one hand toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. As if to prove his point, an airport worker below slips momentarily on the icy ground before stepping inside his blinking vehicle. “Terry would’ve come himself, but with the night blindness and”—he hesitates, glancing down at the row of suitcases—“he mentioned you might be carrying a heavier load—”

There it is again.

Judging with only the mildest flicker of his eyes.

“I’m staying indefinitely.” I hold the handle of one suitcase territorially. “I had to prepare for anything.”

“You don’t need to worry about furniture. The cabin is furnished.”

“Clothes, I mean.” I narrow my eyes. What, did he think I packed a sofa?

I look at the array of suitcases.

It does rather look like a lot.

“And shoes,” I add.