Ticket to You: An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy (Wonderings Book 1), page 1
Ticket to You
Florence Fields
florencefields.com
@authorflorencefields
Ticket to You is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Florence Fields, 2023
All rights reserved.
IBSN 979-8-9885725-0-3 (e-book)
IBSN 979-8-9885725-1-0 (paperback)
First Edition: July 2023
CONTENTS
1. Ophelia
2. Adam
3. Ophelia
4. Adam
5. Ophelia
6. Adam
7. Ophelia
8. Adam
9. Ophelia
10. Adam
11. Ophelia
12. Adam
13. Ophelia
14. Adam
15. Ophelia
16. Adam
17. Ophelia
18. Adam
19. Ophelia
20. Adam
21. Ophelia
22. Adam
23. Ophelia
24. Adam
25. Ophelia
26. Adam
27. Ophelia
28. Adam
29. Ophelia
30. Adam
31. Ophelia
32. Adam
33. Ophelia
34. Adam
35. Ophelia
36. Adam
37. Ophelia
38. Adam
39. Ophelia
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
PLAYLIST
I Can See You (Taylor’s Version) | Taylor Swift
Stubborn Love | The Lumineers
Ends of the Earth | Lord Huron
Summer Lover | Harbor and Home
So Alright, Cool, Whatever | The Happy Fits
Friday I’m in Love | The Cure
Baby c’est vous | Sylvie Vartan
I Want To Hold Your Hand | The Beatles
Hey Lover! | Wabie
Sweet Creature | Harry Styles
Saturday Sun | Vance Joy
Humbug Mountain Song | Fruit Bats
Cherry Wine | Hozier
Luv Note | chloe moriondo
I Like You | Ben Rector
For those of you waiting for your stomach-full-of-butterflies love.
1
OPHELIA
Ten years ago, when I was deciding what to wear to senior prom, my grandma drove me to Oklahoma City to the nearest Macy's and we prayed for a good clearance sale. I had saved every penny religiously since I got my first job on my fourteenth birthday. Even so, I refused to take more than fifty dollars from my "For New York" shoebox, its contents too precious to squander on a one-night event. My dress search was in vain, and we resorted to the familiar Rags and Tags thrift store in my podunk town.
I don’t have that problem anymore.
I lay out three designer dresses across my bed. Two still have their tags on. They’re a small selection from my overstuffed closet. I'm still a penny-pincher at heart, but these dresses—and the dozens more I have like them—are courtesies of being a fashion journalist for Atelier Today Magazine where designers do anything they can to get me to do a feature on them.
“What about the champagne one?” I ask Gemma, holding the first dress up and letting it swirl around me.
She purses her lips. “Too wedding-y. And the emerald one is too on the nose for a holiday party.”
I pick up the last dress, one that debuted at Dior’s show last summer. It hits right above my ankle, just high enough to show off a nice pair of Chanel heels. The dress’ baby pink fabric is dotted with groups of intricate red and white beads as if the dress is blooming in thousands of tiny flowers.
Holding the dress up in the mirror, I tilt my head to the side. “Is it too much?”
Gemma gives me her motherly smile, the one she saves just for me. “Ophelia, it’s perfect. Everyone goes all out for Hoffman’s holiday parties.”
Gemma moved from Atelier to Outdoorsy last month. Her old position at a fashion publication is a far cry from working on a magazine that has ads for bug repellent and protein bars. But thankfully, both Atelier Today and Outdoorsy are part of Hoffman Publishing, so Gemma and I can still share a coffee before work every morning and go to company events together.
I give my curls one last coat of hairspray while Gemma smooths out her silver-streaked bob, a style she swears Diane Keaton stole from her a decade ago. After I step into my dress, Gemma zips it up for me. Her hands linger on my shoulders for a moment, a mothering touch.
I secure my grandpa’s watch onto my wrist. It has a faux gold face and brown leather strap that is worn in two places—the hole where he fastened it, and the hole where I do. It’s old, the glass is scratched, and it doesn’t match my outfit in the slightest. But I don’t care. I need its luck tonight.
Gemma catches my eye in the mirror, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen with a smile. “How are you feeling about pitching your travel section idea to Jane Sommerland?” She says those last four syllables as if they alone could be a horror story, which makes sense.
Jane is far more bone chilling than any Stephen King character. her reputation as Atelier Today’s unforgiving editor-in-chief is enough to make anyone at Hoffman’s tremble. Even though I started as her assistant six years ago before I got my writing gig, she still intimidates me to no end.
I take in a heavy breath. “I’ve wanted a travel section at Atelier for years, and now I finally have the chance to make that a reality. How do you think I feel?”
“Not nearly as confident as you should. Maybe she wants to talk to you tonight so the other executives can see how put together her journalists are.”
“I think it would be more likely that she’s doing some kind of test to see if I can hold my own in front of the big wigs. Or maybe she wants me to fail for entertainment’s sake, like some kind of jester in front of Hoffman’s royalty.”
“I know your career is the most important thing to you—”
“More accurately, paying bills is slightly higher on my priority list.”
Gemma smiles grimly and nods. “But try not to be nervous in front of Jane.” She inspects her manicure, trying to hide a mischievous smile. “Besides, a party like this is the perfect opportunity to meet a special someone.”
“Of course you’re thinking about love at a time like this,” I say with an eye roll. “Keep dreaming.”
“You know I will.”
We walk outside over the thin, white blanket of snow. A puff of frozen mist flows from Gemma’s mouth, and the streetlight above us illuminates the drifting flakes. The snow lands on Gemma’s hair like a dusting of powdered sugar and melts against her tawny skin. Her sleek, bronze gown shimmers brilliantly as she hails the cab. She may have left the fashion industry, but at least Outdoorsy hasn’t stripped her sense of style. Gemma, at fifty-two, will be older than many of the employees that will be at the party tonight. Still, I know she will outshine them all.
The drive to Central Park is quick, but it’s only the beginning of our icy trek. We check in at the Hoffman’s Holiday Soiree sign and are directed to a horse-drawn carriage. It’s not high off the ground, but when the coachman offers to take my hand to help me up the rickety steps, my hand trembles a bit. Even a few feet off the ground, my fear of heights is relentless. Thankfully, as soon as Gemma sits next to me, I feel at ease and can appreciate the magic of the moment.
Gemma and I are smitten by the carriage ride, her because she’s the world’s biggest romantic and this is something straight out of a fairytale, and me because I’m in love with nearly everything in this city, including the Central Park clichés.
There’s a long line of carriages moving between the park entrance and the historic Loeb Boathouse restaurant, our venue for the night. Through the branches of the barren, frosted trees, the skyscrapers’ lights are on brilliant display like thousands of twinkling stars.
Not even my nerves about meeting with Jane can stop the grin from stretching across my frozen cheeks when the Boathouse comes into view. It’s my favorite place in the city and is even more beautiful in winter when the frost makes every window appear diamond-etched. We step down from the carriage and follow the sounds of laughter and music to the party. Overflowing florals, flickering candles, and many familiar faces fill the Boathouse. My frozen fingers tingle, the warm room coaxing life back into them.
Most of the restaurant’s tables have been moved out to accommodate the hundreds of people dressed in their finest formal attire. Women adorned themselves in elaborate gowns. Men dressed as if they’re a part of the city’s elite—some of whom, I suppose, actually are. The lights are low and candlelit, and the room is richly decorated with tasteful garlands and sprigs of holly and mistletoe.
The room smells of the holidays: cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, clove, and expensive perfume. A symphony of polite conversation and laughter pulses throughout the party, and the extrovert in me wants to squeal.
“There they are.” Gemma gestures to the far side of the room. A tight circle of Hoffman’s higher-ups is gathered like wolves circling prey. Though there’s nobody to sacrifice in the circle, at least not yet. “Ready to see Jane?”
My stomach flutters wildly. “What’s the worst that can happen? I make an ass of myself, and they question why they ever hired me?”
“That's the spirit, kid.” Gemma squeezes my elbow. “Remember, you’re an amazing writer. They’re lucky to have you.” Gemma is always diligent to maintain her professionalism, but I know if we were back at my apartment, she would be giving me a tight, nurturing hug right now. Still, the confident gleam in her eye is enough to push me forward.
I walk toward the group with my head high and shoulders back in an attempt to make it look like a casual saunter. It’s a good thing my dress is long enough to hide my shaking knees. I’ve built up a mountain of confidence in my six years at Atelier, but that’s pushed to the edge as I get closer and closer to Hoffman’s board.
I’m taller than all of the female executives—and many of the men, too—but as I approach, garnering their curiosity, it feels like they’re towering over me, studying me with a microscope. In the circle of the finest tailored suits and dresses that cost more than the average yearly American income, I find her.
Jane’s black bob is so sleek and blunt it could cut through paper. She, as always, is wearing bold patterns in a vibrant palette. Jane’s dramatic outfits aren’t akin to a butterfly’s wings—they’re like a poisonous frog’s colors, warning anyone approaching that she’s a dangerous force. Even after years of meetings and work trips with her, I’m tempted to double back when she does her trademark eyebrow raise. Once I get within ten feet of the group, Jane even throws in a tight, pursed lip, like she’s testing my determination. I falter for a moment, fiddling with the band of my watch before pressing on. I know I want to start the travel section. I know it would be successful. Now I need to prove it.
You’ve got this, Ophelia, I tell myself, propelling forward to close the last steps between Jane and me. But at that exact moment, it feels like I’m hit by a brick wall. Someone from the group turns to leave and crashes into me. His arm hits my torso, spilling his drink all over my dress. In a flash, we stumble back, and I trip over my heels. The guy tries to catch me, but his long legs tangle with mine. I fall ass-flat on the floor, my head striking the floor. He lands atop me, pinning me down.
“Shit!” I’m not sure if it’s him, someone else in the group, or even me who swears. My ears flood with the pounding of my quickened pulse.
Mumbling frantic apologies, we both try to stand, but that only makes matters worse as we continue to stumble over one another. After an embarrassingly long amount of time, we both make it upright. My body buzzes with adrenaline and my ears are so hot I worry they might be aflame.
I rarely meet a man who is taller than me in my heels, but I have to peer up to see this guy’s face. He has a square jaw, intense eyes, and features that look like they belong carved into marble. I recognize him at once: Adam Abrams. He’s a force in the journalism world. Even though he’s been with Outdoorsy for years, his work has landed him in at least a dozen other publications. He’s the face of Outdoorsy, though I’ve never seen him up close in person. Something about the candles and sparkling string lights amplifies his features.
Adam’s brows furrow low over his pale blue eyes. “I–I’m sorry.” His chest rises and falls quickly with shallow breaths.
His eyes are on my chest, and I follow his gaze. Thanks to the buzzing of humiliation coursing through me, I somehow forgot that Adam’s drink is the newest accessory topping off my look for tonight. I glance down, bracing for the worst, and I pretty much get it.
Naturally, Adam couldn’t have been drinking champagne or a martini or anything that stood a chance of blending into my dress. Instead, a deep burgundy splash of red wine marred the pale pink fabric. Remembering my grandfather’s watch, I dry it off furiously on the skirt of my dress. Sure, Dior is expensive. But this watch is priceless.
Jane is the first to break the long, tense silence. “Ophelia, are you alright?”
Looking at her for the first time since the spill, I pray the dim lighting is enough to mask my face, which must be scarlet. “I’m fine, thank you.” I shake my shoulders out and fix my posture, piecing together any dignity I have left.
I stick my hand past Adam, who is still frozen at my side, to offer it to Jane. She takes it hesitantly and flinches, though I’m not sure if that’s from the wine remnants in my palm or my light shaking.
I clear my throat twice. “Jane, do you mind if I steal a few minutes of your time? I want to discuss my idea for Atelier Today. You know that in the past, I’ve gone on quarterly trips with Atelier, and on those trips, I produced some of our most popular articles. Those travel articles consistently gain a lot of traction, and I truly believe that—”
“Ophelia?” Jane interjects, holding up a finely manicured hand. “We can talk. But you should get cleaned up first. That’s Dior, if I’m not mistaken.”
I nod once. “I’ll be right back.”
I give Jane my best No, I’m not flustered at all, I’m very professional, even when drenched in wine smile. I need a moment to collect myself—and a moment to try to salvage my dress. The feeling of Jane’s eyes on the back of my head is the only thing keeping me from breaking into a full sprint toward the bathroom.
2
ADAM
The last thing I wanted to do after half my team got laid off was to come to this damn holiday party. There are far too many people, fake smiles, and bland, overproduced holiday music. And now, thanks to supposed “budget cuts,” I can’t even suffer through it alongside the friends I work with—rather, used to work with—at Outdoorsy.
One of the hundreds of floral arrangements in here costs more than I spend on groceries in a week. A single tray of food costs more than my shoes. And if Hoffman’s didn’t care so much about putting on a show for their investors, they might stop with the lavish parties and could afford to keep their employees.
Not that I’m bitter.
My new editor, Gemma, convinced me to come to the party. She wants me to meet a friend of hers. But the main reason I came was to convince my editor-in-chief that dissolving so many positions at Outdoorsy was the wrong choice. I wasted no time stating my case after I arrived via a ridiculously ornate horse-drawn carriage. Frankly, I wasn’t doing a half-bad job at stating my case to my editor-in-chief. Until the collision.
And now, I’m following a step behind a woman who’s wearing a dress I probably destroyed, and I’m wondering if I’ll have to take out a small loan to pay her back for it. I try to observe the woman as much as I can from the back. Her hair is perfectly curled, and I can’t begin to imagine how long it took to style it. Her hands are balled into tight fists, and her entire body is rigid. If she knows I’m behind her, she doesn’t give any indication of such.
I feel bad about the dress and feel even worse about her hitting her head, but a bigger part of my mind is occupied by the faces of my now ex-coworkers. Still, I can’t be a total ass and ignore what just happened. “Hey,” I say to the woman, trying to sound softer than I feel, “I’m sorry.”
“So you said,” she grumbles in a raspy voice, not slowing down at all.
“How can I help?”
The woman keeps moving forward. She doesn’t even bother looking back at me. “You can look where you’re going next time.”
“You ran into me just as much as I ran into you.”
