Being back in her parents’ house was like being on a different planet. Her dad had given her a bear hug at the train station, her mom had kissed both her cheeks when she’d walked through the door, and her older sister, Robin, had squeezed her tightly. Jules hadn’t realized how much she’d missed affectionate physical contact since Aaron had left.

She remembered Vivian touching her hand over a cup of La Colombe.

Oh no. This wasn’t happening. Vivian Carlisle was not going to cross her mind again until Jules had to return to New York.

Easier said than done. Everyone wanted to know about her exciting job working for a fashion publication in Manhattan. When she went out for a few drinks with college buddies, when she helped her sister set the table, even when she was hanging out with extended family at a party, Jules found herself trotting out the same old stories about busy days, late nights, designers, and celebrities.

And influencers. Her two younger cousins were excited about Jules getting to meet people with popular Instagram accounts and YouTube channels, and they wanted to know if Jules had any tips for growing their own audiences.

“I don’t do a lot with social media,” she tried telling them. “I’ve got a Twitter account, but I don’t have time to update it much.” She also hated Twitter. As a hustling writer, that was a cardinal sin, but she couldn’t help it. Her life was already full of frenetic activity—no need to add constant online chatter to the mix. “Mainly I’m a writer.”

“Where?” her fourteen-year-old cousin Madison asked. “Do you write for Du Jour?”

She’d be laughed out of town if she tried. “Maybe I will someday, but right now I’m just trying to break in. It’s tough. In fact, I’ve submitted to—”

Her twelve-year-old cousin Daniel looked at Madison. “Do you have the Switch? I want to play Mario Kart.”

“Let me get it,” Madison said with a clear expression of relief. “That’s, uh, really cool, Jules. Bye!”

Jules could take a hint. So much for the youth. In the meantime, The Cut still hadn’t gotten back to her, so Sigourney Weaver hadn’t been a good bet either.

Onward, then. Vox should be her next stop. At least she could try more serious fare.

Something had to land eventually.

* * *

On the morning before Christmas, Jules and her mother were drinking coffee at the kitchen table. “So,” her mother said, “any boys in the picture? Men,” she amended quickly.

Jules sighed. Surprising that her mom had waited two whole days. “Not unless you count Vivian’s driver,” she said gloomily. “I think he wants to ask me out.”

“Is he nice?”

Jules glared at her. “You’re the one who told me never to get involved with anybody I work with. You always said it was bad news.”