Longing For Him

CHAPTER 2: The Plan

Jennie

Okay. I might have sounded over confident when I said I knew exactly where to start.

Over the past four years, I've been doing what any perfectly normal girlfriend would do after being separated from her boyfriend for four years.

Keeping tabs on him.

Okay.

Stalking him.

On the internet.

There. Happy?

I prefer to call it research.

And, technically, I have every right to do it. Because, in a perfect world, and against all odds, I'm still his girlfriend. We never actually broke up. There was just me disappearing to another continent without saying a word.

Which, admittedly, isn't exactly the strongest foundation for my argument. But still. No breakup. Therefore, girlfriend.

Anyway, my extensive and completely non-invasive research has established one very important fact:

He's still single.

Which, naturally, is how I justify referring to myself as his girlfriend.

It's also how I know his social media accounts, his company website, several interviews he's given, and probably far too much about his life for someone who hasn't spoken to him in four years.

In my defence, the internet makes stalking remarkably easy.

Turns out while I was busy surviving university, my boyfriend had been busy doing something considerably more productive.

He became a billionaire.

Yes.

A billionaire. With a B.

As in, has-more-money-than-he-could-possibly-spend-in-several-lifetimes billionaire.

I wish I could say I handled that information with grace.

I did not.

I stared at my phone for a good fifteen minutes, wondering when exactly the boy who used to steal fries from my plate had acquired a private jet.

Apparently, somewhere between me crying over missed calls and him ignoring every attempt I made to contact him, he decided to become obscenely rich.

Which brings me to my current problem. I'm flying home to find my boyfriend. Who is now a billionaire. And who, as far as I know, still has absolutely no idea that I'm coming back.

I already have a plan. A very good plan, I think. I have an interview at Sterling Group on Monday. His company.

Yes. I applied. Before you judge me, hear me out. Sterling Group is one of the biggest investment companies in the country, with interests in real estate, private equity, infrastructure and about a dozen other things I had to pretend I understood when I sent in my application.

I applied for the position of Director of Real Estate Investments at Sterling Group. And before anyone asks, yes, I am qualified. More than qualified, actually.

I have a degree in Real Estate Finance and Investment from London, four years of experience working with some of the best minds in the industry, and a CV that has made more than one recruiter ask whether I'm actually as good as I look on paper.

I am. I'm annoyingly good at what I do.

My plan is simple.

I get the job. I show up every morning. He sees me. I see him. We talk. I do my job exceptionally well. And then, everything falls back into place.

Simple. Flawless.

The best part is that I get to prove something to him. That all those years in London weren't wasted.

Of course, there is one tiny flaw in my otherwise brilliant plan. I haven't actually been hired yet. I still have to pass the interview. I only hope he does not concern himself with the hiring process. I can't help but think that if he were to find out about my interview there is a real possibility that my grand plan to casually walk back into my his could end with me being rejected by his company before I even get through the front door.

I arrive at my parents' house at a quarter to ten. I'm late but no one seems to care. Everyone is already a few glasses of champagne in by the time I arrive. The house looks exactly as I remember it.

The familiar marble floors. The enormous chandelier hanging above the foyer. The scent of my mother's expensive candles drifting through the house. Soft music playing somewhere in the background. Laughter spilling from the dining room. For a second, I just stand there.

"Jennie!"

My mother reaches me first.

She pulls me into a hug before I can even put my bag down. Her arms wrap tightly around me, and she holds me for a moment longer than necessary.

"My baby."

I laugh softly against her shoulder.

"Mom."

She pulls back, both hands immediately going to my face as she looks me over.

"Look at you. You've lost weight."

There it is.

I smile. "Nice to see you too."

She laughs and pulls me into another hug.

My father is waiting behind her.

He doesn't say anything at first. He simply looks at me. For a moment, his expression is unreadable. Then he opens his arms.

"Come here."

I walk into his embrace. His hug is different from my mother's. Quieter. Firmer. He pats my back once, then holds the back of my head the way he used to when I was younger.

"Welcome home, sweetheart."

"Thank you, Dad."

"Look who's finally back!" I turn just in time to see Auntie Louise making her way towards me, champagne glass in hand.

She hugs me so enthusiastically that I nearly lose my balance.

"My goodness! Let me look at you!"

"Auntie—"

"London has been good to you."

"Very."

"Too good, apparently. You've become so sophisticated."

I laugh. "I don't think I've changed that much."

She gives me a pointed look.

"You're wearing heels in the house."

I glance down at my shoes. We both burst out laughing.

Someone behind her calls my name. It's Riley, one of my oldest friends. She comes rushing towards me and throws her arms around my neck.

"You're actually here!"

Someone turns the music up. My uncle is arguing with my father about football. Auntie Louise is already on her second round of gossip. Riley drags me towards the dining room while demanding every detail about London.

Champagne flows freely. The table is overflowing with food. There are flowers in the centre of the table. Everything is beautiful.

I tell stories about London. I let everyone tease me about my accent, even though I insist I haven't developed one.

My mother keeps touching my arm whenever she passes me, as though she needs to reassure herself that I'm actually here.

My father raises his glass.

"To Jennie."

Everyone cheers, "To Jennie!"

I smile and lift my glass.

"To coming home."

The champagne touches my lips. For a moment, I let myself enjoy it. The laughter. The warmth. Then my eyes drift towards the window. Beyond the glass, the New York stretches into the night. Somewhere out there, he exists. I take another sip of champagne.

I'll worry about it tomorrow. Tonight, I'll enjoy being home. And for the most part, I do.

I spend Saturday sleeping. When I finally drag myself out of bed, it's almost two in the afternoon. I shower, change into something comfortable and spend the rest of the afternoon doing absolutely nothing productive.

I sit with Mom while she goes through old photographs. I help Dad in the garage, which mostly involves me holding things while he tells me how much I've forgotten about New York.

Riley comes over in the evening, and we spend hours talking about everything and nothing. She tells me who got married, who broke up, who became insufferable after getting promoted and which people from high school somehow still haven't grown up.

For a few hours, I don't think about Monday. Or him. At least, I try not to.

Sunday is quieter. I sleep in again. I unpack the last of my things, reorganise my wardrobe and spend far too long deciding what to wear on Monday.

By six, I'm sitting on the edge of my bed with my laptop open, going through Sterling Group's latest reports. I scroll for an hour and eventually close my laptop.

I go downstairs for dinner. I watch a movie with my parents. I laugh at Dad's terrible jokes. Mom asks me, for the hundredth time, whether I'm sure I have everything I need. I tell her yes. I don't tell her that what I need isn't something she can put in a suitcase.

Monday is tomorrow. My stomach twists. I stare at the ceiling thinking about the interview. And him.

I turn onto my side and pull the blanket over my head.

~Monday 7:34 a.m. ~

I take a cab. I didn't take my car because I didn't trust myself behind the wheel this morning.

Between the traffic, my nerves and the fact that I had spent the entire ride rehearsing answers to questions nobody had even asked me yet, I figured it was better to let someone else deal with New York traffic.

The cab pulls up outside Sterling Group. I step out and adjust my blazer. My black Chanel heels click against the pavement. I look up and there it is.

STERLING GROUP.

The words are displayed in enormous silver letters across the glass facade of the building, catching the morning light. Forty floors. I know because I looked it up.

The building is exactly what I expected from one of the most powerful companies in New York. Towering glass walls, sharp steel lines, polished stone and an entrance so imposing that even the revolving doors look expensive.

I take a deep breath. My outfit suddenly feels very deliberate. A black ankle-length skirt with a modest slit at the back. A fitted black blouse tucked neatly into the waistband. A tailored black blazer that fits perfectly across my shoulders. Simple gold earrings. My hair is pulled back neatly, and my makeup is understated.

I hear my heart thudding against my ribcage it could almost burst. It takes everything in me to not turn around and get back into the cab.

I stare at the building. Somewhere on the fortieth floor is him. I straighten my blazer once more and take another breath. Then I start walking.

Click. Click. Click. Clack.

My heels echo against the pavement as I walk. After what feels like an entire runway show, I finally reach the entrance. I take one last deep breath, lift my chin, and walk in.