Chapter Three – Day One

Sarah

“Can I take your bags, Miss Kennedy?”

I step out of the limo, looking at the Carringtons' fifty-year-old chaffeur, George.

“Oh, George, you don't have to,” I say.

He smiles at me.

“I'd be pleased to, Miss,” he says.

Even though I don't have much of a smile in me, I return one.

“Fine, George,” I say. “But you should stop working so much.”

“Keeps me young,” he says with a grin, giving me a slight wink. I laugh as I step out onto the sidewalk and he closes the door behind me.

As he steps behind the car to open the trunk and grab the first of my five bags, I take off my sunglasses and prop them on top of my head, staring up at the huge house in front of me. I sigh.

I feel like I've sold my soul to the Devil.

And of course, the Devil wears Prada – because the Devil is Katherine Carrington.

For the past three days, I've done nothing but let everyone who knows that I'm moving into this house know that I'm doing it by force, not by choice. Of course, all those who know I'm doing this think I'm doing it to win a bet with Katherine to soothe my aching pride and huge ego. In reality, I'm doing it for a much more dire situation – money – but they don't have to know that.

I thought the whole situation was one big joke when she came to visit me that day at my office, contract in hand.

“No!” I yelled, throwing down the papers on my desk, not caring whether I lost my job for making a scene in front of all the clients or not. “No way, Kate! No way in hell...”

“Now, calm down,” she said, her hands up defensively. “It's not worth having a fit over.”

“Having a fit?” I yelled. “You want to see me throw a fit? I'll show you a fit...”

After my boss, one of the partners, came out of his office to ask me to keep it down or move it to one of the empty conference rooms, that's where I spent the next five minutes listing to Katherine why her little “scheme” wouldn't work.

But in the end, she won – because she was the one who had me pinned into the chair as she leaned down into me over the large table.

“You need money, Sar,” she said. “And you're going to do this. You're going to do this because you need money. You're going to do this because it's better than any other options you have. And you're going to do this because you know I'm right about the two of you, and it's not going to be half as bad as you think it is. So deal with it.”

That's Katherine. Always so caring and loving, with a soft spot for her friends and their welfare. I want to barf on this green, freshly cut lawn.

But unfortunately, she's right. My stubbornness is the only thing that keeps me from doing this gratefully. I know I'm getting a free pass. My options are slim, and this is a lot more dignified than picking out my best teddy and my new stripper name.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath in through my nose, letting the damp air and salty waters of Long Beach calm my spirit. Whether I like it or not, this will be my new home for the next hundred days.

“Can I get the door for you, Miss?”

I'm startled out of soaking in the beach environment by George. He's standing next to me with two of my heavy bags, one in each hand, attempting to hold them up while being chivalrous.

“Oh no, no, no,” I say. “George, please. Don't pull out all the punches for me. Let me carry a bag, open the door for myself. This is not me, I'm not Katherine. Please.”

He smiles. “Very well, Miss.”

“And please,” I beg. “Stop calling me Miss. It drives me crazy.”

I walk away with a smile as I take one of the bags from his hand and he follows me up the stone pathway to the door.

Somehow, Katherine wrangled her dad's beach house out of him for the whole ordeal – which is a miracle seeing as it's April and prime vacation time will fall right in the middle of our three months here. But I suppose being a high-power businessman, with who knows how many other summer houses, he can just choose to vacation in another location.

I'm not complaining. This is my summer vacation. I haven't been back to Long Beach in five years, and I certainly can't afford to rent my own beach house now. I'll take it.

In stark contrast to what I'm sure he's used to, I open the door for George, and he graciously nods at me as he carries my bag in, taking it right up the stairs to what will be my room. I, on the other hand, sit my bag down by the door and take in my surroundings.

It's an absolutely gorgeous place; high ceilings, open space, calming colors. The decorating is minimalist, with creamy white walls, modern white suede couches, and a few paintings on the wall. The staircase winds through the living room up into the second floor, the bright gold railing outshining the simple white carpeting. I can barely see the kitchen from where I stand.

And then there's the fireplace. The huge, white cobblestone fireplace. It's like heaven.

I listen. It's quiet. I'm alone; he's not here yet.

I sigh, smiling, and breathe in the air again. I know it won't last, but I'm satisfied.

And then...as if God was smiting me, I hear a tune start playing from the kitchen.

Sweet Jesus. It's Whitesnake.

I stand a moment, mourning my five seconds of peace, before I steel myself and walk through the living room to the kitchen where I hear the music coming from. As I get closer, I hear someone singing along to the tune, “Here I Go Again”.

I'm just about to cross the threshold of the kitchen when the guitar breaks into the main chorus line – and he barges out of the kitchen reliving his youth, singing wildly to the song, bumping right into me.

I scream and jump back when his head butts into mine, and he jumps back himself, surprised and confused.

“Lance, what the hell!” I yell, holding my palm against my forehead.

“Sarah, oh my God, I'm so sorry!” he says, yelling over the music. “I didn't know you were here, I thought I was alone! Are you okay?”

“No!” I yell. “No! I'm not okay!”

I storm away into the kitchen, holding my head still, and I can hear him follow me. I walk to the clean counter where the stereo sits, and instead of bothering to shut the thing off, I reach for the plug and yank it out, effectively ending his solo dance party.

“Hey, I was listening to that!” he yells.

“Do I look like I give a shit?” I ask. “You nearly killed me!”

“Oh, way to be dramatic,” he says, following me into the living room. “Just like you, a little goose egg and you think you're going to die. I apologized!”

“Not even five minutes!” I yell, stomping my feet. “Off to a great start, aren't we?”

We're interrupted by George, who apparently heard my scream and the kerfluffle that followed after, running down the stairs as if someone yelled fire.

“Are you okay, Miss?” he asks, stopping halfway down the staircase.

“Oh, yes, George,” I say, brushing him away. “We just had a little...collision, of sorts. Can you show Mr. Bass to the limo? He will get the rest of my bags.”

When I glance at him, he's not pleased, but I'm not pleased with myself enough to smile either.

“Leave them by the staircase,” I practically spit before heading up the stairs. “I'll be in my room. Please, feel free to leave me alone.”

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George is long gone, and I've spent the last hour of my time here so far locked up in my room, sitting on my beachside balcony outside my door.

My head has stopped throbbing, at least.

The sun is about to go down, and our very first day is already looking like it will come to a disastrous close. Right now, I swear, if I could spend every hour of the next ninety-nine days hiding out on my balcony, I would.

I close my eyes but a few seconds later I hear a knock on the balcony door, coming from the inside. I open them and look up from my chaise lounge to see him peeking through the door.

“I apologize for coming in your room,” he says automatically, holding a hand up in the air defensively. “And I swear this is the first and only time I will ever do it. I just...” He pauses, opening the door further. “I had to bring you a peace offering.”

He shows me his hands, and he's holding two glasses and a package of frozen vegetables, with a bottle of what looks like wine tucked under his arm.

“I couldn't find a real ice pack,” he says, holding the package out to me. “Apparently, all the money in the world and Ken still can't even buy a real first aid kit.”

I grab the package from him, even though my head doesn't really hurt anymore.

“I also, uh, brought this,” he says, lifting the bottle up by the neck. “1978 Chateau Cheval Blanc. Yeah, I have no idea what that means.”

I try to resist the smile, but I can't. “It's French. '78, it was a...well, a pretty good year for Cheval. It's not really a vintage, but it is over $400 a bottle.”

His eyes grow wide. “Four hundred fucking dollars?” he says. “For sour grapes?”

“Fermented,” I say.

“Whatever, spin it how you want, it's thirty-year-old grapes,” he says.

“Aren't you a regular oenophile,” I say.

“I don't know what that word means, but it doesn't sound good.”

I can't help but laugh. “It's a wine connoisseur, you moron.”

He smiles. “I know...but I got you to laugh.”

I roll my eyes, wanting to smack him, but his humor and the relaxing beach environment has loosened me.

“May I sit down and share a bottle of fermented grapes with you?” he asks. “As a peace offering?”

I know I'll probably regret it later...but I can't help it. Wine sounds divine, and his company doesn't sound bad either.

“As a peace offering,” I say.

He smiles slightly as he closes the door behind him and sits the glasses down on the small table beside me.

“I don't know about you,” he says as he pulls out a small wine corker, “but this is my way of saying screw Kenneth Carrington and his fancy-ass $400 wine.”

“Here, here,” I say.

He pops the cork out of the bottle quickly, and pours two glasses about halfway, picking up one for himself and handing one to me.

“A toast,” he says, holding up his glass, “to tight-ass Ken Carrington.”

“And his ridiculous, yet beautiful Long Beach house that we will call home for the next hundred days,” I say, holding up my glass.

“And to the next hundred days,” he continues. “To hoping that by the end of it we're not insane, and haven't tried to kill each other, accidentally or on purpose.”

I smile as I clink my glass with his. “To the next hundred days.”