Chapter 1
The plane touched down in the morning, the sunlight beaming off the ocean in a punishing glare. I had faint memories of living here as a kid before my father decided to move the family across the county and traveling became financially impossible. Boston, and all of New England for that matter, now just seemed like a distant place relegated to the fuzzy history of my dad when he was still a person with feelings, friends, and interests. That’s why the thought of him having a best friend was almost as impossible to comprehend as this whole hare-brained idea of turning him into my keeper for the summer.
My father and Christopher Sullivan met 20 years prior when they were both freshman at Boston University. While I’m sure I had met him as a child, to me he was just a grainy photograph that hung on the wall in my dad’s office. When my parents got pregnant with me early and left to start their family, Chris stayed in the city, struck it rich, and apparently bought a lake house in New Hampshire. Which was to be my prison for the next three months.
While my father definitely fell into the category of over-worked and absent, my mother had always been around raising me and my brother, and outwardly suffered the most at what they called my “antics.” She had cried when she dropped me off at the airport, my dad sitting stoically in the car, refusing to even look at me.
“Three months isn’t that long of a time, honey. And just think of the reward that’s waiting for you at the end.” She squeezed me tight, kissed my forehead, and sent me walking into the Reno airport with a suitcase and a one way ticket.
The reward that was waiting for me at the other end… what a crock of shit. I shook my head as the plane came to a stop at the gate, my aisle-mates impatiently standing and checking their watches as they looked to the front of the plane. I lifted my curly shoulder-length brown hair and tied it up in a messy bun, gathering all of my things and trying to ignore the pit in my stomach that had made itself at home ever since my parents gave me this ultimatum. Spend your summer in remote New Hampshire, stay out of trouble, and we’ll discuss your future when you get back. Refuse, and you’ll be kicked out. Simple as that.
I filtered out of the plane with everyone else, feeling like I was being led by the executioner to my public hanging. Christopher Sullivan, according to my extensive Google searching, was no saint. Multi-millionaire-investment-banker-bachelor, and probably a host of other hyphens that could be added to the end of that. Prison-Keeper would be another to add after this summer was over. A series of successful business ventures, expensive penthouse apartments in the city, cars, and women seemed to dominate his online presence, and there were no shortage of local tabloids that loved doing a piece of Christopher Sullivan whenever the news cycle was slow. There were a few pieces about engagement speculation to some model or actress, but no one had any definite information. Probably a beard, if I had to guess.
As I was waiting at baggage claim, a text came through from a number I didn’t have saved in my phone.
Hi Harper. When you come out of baggage claim I am parked in a black Porsche Taycan. - Mr. Sullivan.
I snorted - I thought my dad was the only one who signed his name at the end of a text message. Must be all Men Of a Certain Age. I gave it a “thumbs up” and continued to monitor the belt for my suitcase. The baggage claim area was filled with happy reunions, hugs and squeals of joy, and I steeled myself against the pangs of regret it made me feel, and any further emotions that were clawing their way to the surface. The pit in my stomach could stay, but from here on to the end of August, I would be as cold and calculating as everyone knew me to be - I wasn’t called “Harsh Harper” by half the school for nothing.
Rolling my suitcase outside, I had one last nagging thought telling me to bolt. Boston was a big city, I could find some way to make money or sustain myself. Work in a cafe, or a restaurant… but one mental image of Oliver had me smother that thought and look around for a Porsche Taco, or whatever the fuck it was called.
It was easy to spot the small, sleek black car, and even easier to spot the tall man leaning lazily against it, a bored expression plastered on his handsome face. He looked nothing like the photograph in my dad’s office, but my prior research had confirmed that this beacon of Bostonian Elitism was Mr. Christopher Sullivan. He wore a casual yet perfectly tailored grey suit, the coat unbuttoned to show a black v-neck tee and a thin gold chain around his neck. Arrogant sophistication rolled off him in waves, and I had to struggle to contain the eye roll I so desperately wanted to give.
Cold and calculating, give him nothing to hold over you, I reminded myself. So instead, I allowed my full lips to curve into a disinterested smirk as I stopped in front of him.
“You must be Mr. Sullivan,” I said flatly, giving him and his car an indifferent once-over.
To his credit, he gave me a smile as he took me in - the first thing that seemed genuine about him. “Wow, I cannot believe you are the same Harper I’ve seen grow up over photographs. Do you remember meeting me? It must have been… 14 years ago?”
“Well, I would have been four, so I can’t say I do.”
“Ah, of course. Well, it’s nice to officially re-meet you, Harper.” I couldn’t bring myself to say it back, so I wordlessly let him place my suitcase and got into the passenger seat.
I started silently out the window as we meandered through airport traffic onto the highway, the skyline of Boston stirring some distant memories of living here before we moved to California. I was just 5 when we left and truly remembered next to nothing of living here, but part of me couldn’t help but stare at the beautiful, bustling city and feel a pang of longing to live here again instead of the rural mountain community I had grown up in. I wasn’t stupid enough to think that trouble wouldn’t have found me in the city - that went without saying. But at least here, it wouldn’t be all anyone knew about me. You could blend in, disappear, in a city like Boston. In Portola, my impressive history of fuck-ups and mishaps followed me everywhere I went.
“Not much of a talker, I see,” Mr. Sullivan said, interrupting my useless train of thought. I shrugged silently, and he laughed. “Point taken. We’ve got about a three hour drive ahead of us, so do you mind if I put some music on if we’re not going to be talking?”
I allowed myself a few side glances over at him as we drove along in silence. While he had the whole money thing going for him, he certainly also had looks. A full head of hair, strong jaw, long straight nose… This guy won the life lottery. So far he had treated me with respectful amiability, and he did actually seem like a decent person to get to know. Unfortunately, this was a person I could treat as no better than a spy - I was certain he had been directed to tell my dad about everything I did and said for the entire summer.
There would be no getting to know Christopher Sullivan.
