Page 1 of I Want You

Chapter 1

Harper Brooks’ heels click against the marble floor of Velvet & Silk’s main hallway with the precise rhythm of a woman who knows exactly where she’s going, even as she’s struggling internally. She’s wearing an impeccably tailored brown blazer—perfect for the New York fall blazing outside the windows—and a smile she’s perfected after years of surviving on three hours of sleep and two shots of double espresso.

“Everything’s going to be fine, I’m sure of it. Everything’s going to be fine,” she murmurs tirelessly to herself.

At this hour of the morning, the newsroom is a hive of activity. Several assistants rush back and forth, clutching haute couture garment bags as if they were guarding million-dollar jewels. Design editors debate whether a serif font conveys too much “nostalgia,” phones ring nonstop, and the air is thick with the scent of the dozens of coffees everyone is drinking.

Harper cuts through the jungle with her chin held high. Four years. She’s spent four long years canceling dinners with friends, letting pizzas go cold, celebrating family birthdays on FaceTime from a taxi stuck in Manhattan traffic, and turning her vacations into forty-eight-hour getaways. Four years spotting trends before New York’s trend-hunters even knew how to pronounce them, defending daring cover shots, and smiling at millionaire advertisers whom, on more than one occasion, she would have loved to throw out the window on the forty-second floor.

All to arrive at this Monday in October. At the most important meeting of her life. At that corner office with a view that doesn’t yet bear her name on the nameplate, but which she’s been decorating in her head for months.

“Hey, take it easy. Ambition suits you to a T, but my shoes aren’t cut out for this kind of sprint.”

Solange Smith appears at her side like a whirlwind of equal parts style and drama. She’s carrying a folder under her arm, wearing giant sunglasses perched on her head, and sporting a look of such tragic suffering that Harper can’t help but let the corners of her mouth turn up.

“No one forced you to wear twelve-centimeter stilettos on a Monday at 8:30 in the morning,” Harper replies without slowing her stride.

“I’m the senior stylist at this magazine. And the dress code requires me to make painful aesthetic decisions.” Solange takes advantage of a human traffic jam to lunge at her, grab the lapel of her blazer, and brush an invisible speck of dust off Harper’s shoulder. “Hold still for a few seconds.”

“I look perfect, Solange.”

“You’re my best friend. And therefore, you’re never perfect until I give you the okay.”

“You’re neurotic, just so you know,” Harper protests.

“Maybe,” Solange agrees without batting an eye, inspecting her eyeliner. “But right now, you need someone to take charge of your life, because I’m sure you’ve been answering emails since a quarter past six. And today isn’t the day for that.”

Harper narrows her eyes, pausing for a split second by the water cooler.

“How on earth do you know what time I turned on my laptop?”

“Because you replied to my ‘cat in pajamas’ meme while I was on my way home.”

Harper lets out a hearty laugh, which washes away all her tension. She decides not to pry into Solange’s nightlife; at this hour of the morning, exploring her best friend’s list of conquests would take too much energy. So she continues her walk down the hallway.

“Harper, I’m serious,” Solange continues. “If they don’t name you Editor-in-Chief today, I swear I’ll burn Gucci’s new spring collection.”

Harper shakes her head, letting a broad smile light up her face. It’s impossible to stay serious with Solange around.

“Relax,” Harper replies, placing a hand on her shoulder. “This quarter’s numbers are indisputable, and Eleanor knows full well that there’s no one in this city with my level of dedication.”

Solange tilts her head and watches her in silence.

“That’s because you have no personal life,” she reminds her. And Solange doesn’t seem too happy about that fact. “Your last romantic date was with a bowl of whole-grain cereal at 3:30 in the morning in front of the TV.”

“Hey, it was a wonderful date,” Harper protests, adjusting her wristwatch. “No emotional ups and downs.”

“And what about the chemistry?”

“It was crisp, stable, and free of future expectations that might break my heart.”

“Your ideal partner, basically,” Solange adds.

Harper holds her smile for an extra second, fully aware that Solange knows her all too well. The stylist drops the playful tone and squeezes her arm just as they reach the imposing door leading to the boardroom.

“Seriously, Harper. You’ve worked harder than anyone else. That job is yours.”

Four words. Simple. But they make Harper’s heart skip a beat. She swallows hard, without taking her eyes off her friend. For weeks, she’s been shouldering the weight of the magazine, taking on tasks that weren’t hers with the promise that the Editor-in-Chief’s throne would soon bear her name.