Mark knocks on my office door at six P.M. I beckon him in with a wave of my hand.
“Need anything else before I head out?” He’d stay here until midnight if I asked him to, and likely never utter a complaint.
“I’m good, thanks. I’m leaving soon anyway, to meet my brother for dinner.”
He hesitates. “Any follow-ups for me after your call with Kieran?”
Yeah. Start looking for a new job for the both of us. I plaster on a fake smile. “Nope. All good.” I called my father in LA and point-blank asked him if he gave Tripp the go-ahead to work a deal with this unknown KDZ company. “I told Tripp to see what they had to offer,” was his answer. For a split second, I felt immense satisfaction, knowing Kieran Calloway would tear a strip from Tripp’s hide for misrepresenting his wishes.
And then he proceeded to tear a strip out of me, for letting Tripp walk all over me.
By the time we ended the call, I was wavering between running home to hide for the rest of the day and hunting down Tripp to wrap my hands around his stocky neck.
“All right, then. Good night.” Flashing one last smile, Mark throws his satchel over his shoulder and strolls out.
Finally alone on this corner of the floor, with nothing but the soothing hum of white noise to keep me company, I fold my arms across my desk and lay my forehead on top.
And release a loud groan.
What the hell am I even doing in this job? Maybe Tripp is right! Maybe I am just a twenty-nine-year-old spoiled tart. Maybe my father has indulged me for far too long.
It’s always been that way. At six years old, when I asked him if I could design our new house, he sent me off with a box of crayons and a pad of paper. Of course, my design was grossly off-scale and a few things weren’t practical—the seven stories, the slide from the top floor to the kitchen, the pool in the living room, the dolphin tank in the main bath—but he took my better ideas and transformed them into my childhood home, the house my mother still lives in. She has always said that if Kieran Calloway has a weak spot, it’s me, and I’m beginning to think she’s not wrong.
He should have left me quietly managing projects for the next ten or fifteen years, until I was old enough, experienced enough, to perhaps deserve a place among the men.
It’s a silent admission that curls my stomach with disgust.
A knock on my door has me snapping upright, my mind spinning with excuses as to why it might appear that I was napping at my desk.
Until I see Kyle standing on the other side, a brown package in one arm.
Smirking at me.
Every one of my problems evaporates as my heart begins pounding and my lips curl into a sheepish smile. I wave him in, the revelation from Gus lingering in my mind.
“This just arrived for you.” He still has that slight swagger, I note, as he strolls forward to set the box on my desk, where my head was resting. It lands with a dull thud, marking its weight as substantial.
I clear my throat, not trusting my voice. “Security isn’t expected to hand-deliver packages. But thank you.”
“Your assistant was leaving for the day, so I said I’d bring it up.” His gaze roves my glass office—the framed pictures and degrees sitting atop my filing cabinet, the purses dangling from my coatrack, the extra pairs of heels I keep at the office, in case I feel the need to switch.
I frown curiously at the label on the box. It’s another package from Rhett. I’m meeting him in an hour. What did he feel the need to send me ahead of time? “When do you finish your shift?” I ask, running my pair of scissors across the seams of the box.
“I’m done now. Heading home.”
Home to his wife? His girlfriend? He hasn’t come out and said it yet, and I don’t have the nerve to ask. Or, more likely, I don’t want to. It’s easier to deny reality that way.
The small, rectangular name badge on his shirt catches my eyes. “So it’s Stewart now?”
“Yeah. My mother’s maiden name. I thought it was a good idea given my family history.” His jaw muscles tense, his gaze flickering to my Persian rug.
“Right. I guess that makes sense,” I murmur, digging into the box. How much do Gus and Rikell know about Kyle’s family? Are Kyle’s brothers and father still in prison? I can’t remember how long he said they’d be away. I have so many questions to ask, I wouldn’t know where to begin. My instincts warn me off asking any of them. For now.
He’s finished his shift and yet he lingers, watching me.
“What the . . .” I feel my brow furrow as I pull out the wood-and-metal contraption. It’s a lamp, quite obviously, made of industrial pipes and a wire cage, the hefty base a block of wood. There’s a card included, with my brother’s store logo at the top, and a list of where the various materials were sourced from. “Wow. This was part of a railway tie.” I tap the wooden base.
There’s another small box nestled safely inside, containing a vintage Edison bulb. I fish it out and set to screwing it in. “My brother made it.”
“The one who took off to Thailand?”
“I . . . yeah. That one.” A wave of nostalgia washes over me. “You remember that.”
Kyle’s gaze is now out the window, on my view of the downtown core. “Gus mentioned it.”
Somehow I doubt that. Gus is a lot of things, but a gossiper is not one of them. I decide not to challenge him, though. “I’m meeting Rhett for dinner tonight,” I say, gingerly unwinding the twisted black cord. “He’s back now. From Thailand, I mean. He and his wife live an hour outside Lennox. They opened up this little store that sells up-cycled things. And some days I really envy him.” I’m babbling now.
I feel Kyle’s eyes on me as I map out the best way to plug in this desk lamp.
“Here.” He drops to his knees in front of my desk and takes the plug’s end from me. Our fingertips graze for just a moment, sending a shock of awareness through me—those hands that spent a lot of time on various parts of my body, oh so many years ago—and then he’s feeding the cord through the electrical opening in the top right corner and down to the plug panel beneath. “There’s one open plug left,” he murmurs, and I hold my breath, hyperaware of how close he is to my bare legs beneath the desk, with my skirt reaching just above my knees.
His head pops back up. “Try it now.”
And I’m momentarily lost in his beautiful golden eyes, staring back at me.
I clear my throat and flip the simple silver toggle switch. The bulb explodes with light. “I guess my brother actually knows about electricity.” I settle back into my chair to admire it.
Except I can’t keep my gaze there for long. I never could, on anything else, not when Kyle was around.
Kyle stands, smoothing his uniform’s shirt collar, though it’s perfectly straight.
Can he hear my heart pounding right now? I feel like I’ll explode if I hold the question in any longer. “Why did you request to transfer here—” I begin to ask at the same time that Kyle asks, “You and Tripp Porter don’t get along, do you?”
“What? . . . No. We don’t, actually.” I frown curiously. “Why? What have you heard?”
His lips twist as he seems to consider explaining. “I was behind him earlier today, when he was heading down to the parking garage. He was on the phone, talking to a guy named Hank about a contract that’s as good as his. He said he has Kieran Calloway’s ear and not to worry about you sticking your—” Kyle purses his lips together, cutting off whatever words he was about to repeat. “That you won’t be blowing up this deal.”
My ears begin to pound. “Really . . .” This must be about the Marquee. But who the hell is this Hank guy? On impulse, I quickly type “Hank KDZ Boston” into my search engine. And shake my head as a profile of the president of KDZ Construction—Hank Kavanaugh—appears. “Son of a bitch. What the hell does he think he’s doing?” I mutter, more to myself, feeling my cheeks burn with rage.
Kyle folds his arms over his chest. “How aboveboard is this Tripp guy?” he asks in a way that makes me think he has an opinion.
“I haven’t had reason to suspect he isn’t. Why?”
“Because, just before he ducked into his car, I heard him say he wanted his five hundred in the account the same day the ink dries or he’ll kill it.” Kyle watches me calmly as I process his claim.
“Five hundred . . . What five hundred? Is he talking about money?”
Kyle gives me a knowing look.
“Are you saying that Tripp’s taking a kickback for this contract?” My voice is eerily steady in contrast to the storm brewing inside me. Five hundred . . . thousand?
“I’m telling you what I heard. Thought you’d want to know what he might be trying to pull behind your back. For what it’s worth coming from me . . . yeah, he’s definitely up to something.”
And Kyle always had a knack for distinguishing between fact and fiction.
He moves for the door. “I’d really appreciate it if you don’t pull my name into this. I doubt it would help with credibility, if you take this to your father.”
“No . . . probably not.” How would my father react if he knew Kyle was working in our building?
Kyle opens his mouth to say something, but then seems to change his mind. “Have a good night, Piper.” He’s out the door and strolling along the hall before I notice that he finally called me by my first name and not “Miss Calloway.”
“ ’Night, Kyle,” I whisper into the silence.
As if hearing my words, he turns to catch me staring at him, and then he disappears.
Leaving me to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with this information. If Tripp is lining his pockets with money by securing this construction contract for Hank Kavanaugh, why was he dragging his feet on getting the Marquee off the ground less than a month ago?
Something doesn’t add up.
Also, I never got an answer to my question.
Why have you come back into my life now, Kyle?
“You’re not as smart as I’ve given you credit for.” Rhett sucks the edamame beans out of the shell before tossing it into the discard bowl.
“How so?” I swat his hand away as he reaches for another helping. He showed up to this trendy tapas-style vegetarian restaurant—that he chose—twenty minutes late, and now he’s eating double his fair share.
He leans back in his chair with a grin, brushing aside his blond hair. It’s perpetually six months behind for a haircut—intentionally. The guy is the epitome of ease and in stark contrast to me, right down to his worn metal concert T-shirt and frayed jeans, his Birkenstocks, and the fair trade satchel made from recycled bike tires and plastic bottles that dangles from the back of his chair. “Come on, Dad probably has a series of prerecorded messages so he can run the company postmortem.”
I shoot my brother a glare.
His hands go up in surrender. He knows I don’t like death jokes, especially after Dad’s heart attack. “All I’m saying is, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Not by choice, anyway. And he’s going to run his company the way he always has, even with you there as his sidekick. It’s worked well for him so far.”
“And for you.” I give him a pointed glare. Rhett can afford to spend his days making functional art out of trash because of Dad’s unrelenting work ethic and tenacious drive to succeed.
He rolls his eyes but then acknowledges my point with a sigh and a nod.
“Anyway, if it were up to me, I’d fire Tripp’s ass tomorrow. It makes my blood boil that he could be so disloyal to Dad.”
“Do you really think the guy would take a bribe for a construction contract, though?”
“It would surprise me,” I admit. But Kyle’s confidence is hard to ignore. Though maybe it’s because I want to believe him. Maybe that would be the silver lining to Tripp’s deception—a stepping-off point for Kyle and me to begin talking again.
To what end, though?
“Sounds like you’ve had quite the day.” Rhett’s hand moves fast, snatching three bean pods as if it’s a game.
He doesn’t know the half of it. “I can’t go to Dad with this. He’s already thinking he made a mistake promoting me.”
“Kieran Calloway doesn’t make mistakes like that.” Rhett smiles sympathetically. “He wouldn’t have put you there if he didn’t know you could handle it.”
I snort. “You didn’t hear him shred my eardrum over the phone earlier. I think maybe he’s changed his mind.”
“Doubt it. And, besides, you’re his only option if he wants to keep the business in the family.”
“Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way,” I mutter sarcastically, stabbing at a deep-fried cauliflower bite. There are days where I am envious of my brother’s laid-back lifestyle. Days where I sit in my office and wish we could swap roles, so he could take the burden of continuing our father’s legacy off my shoulders, even just for a little while.
But the truth is, I wouldn’t gain any more satisfaction from weaving electrical wire through pipes to make things light up than Rhett would at the helm of the team that’s going to build a thirty-two-story condominium.
We are both exactly where we’re meant to be.
“Please. If I told him tomorrow that I wanted back in, he’d tell me he’d rather dissolve the company than give me a chance. And I don’t, by the way, want anything to do with that world.”
“That’s because you’re too busy smoking pot and playing with silver spoons.”
He grins. “Mock me all you want, but do you know how many of those phone holders we’ve sold? Probably enough to pay for a pair of those ridiculous, overpriced shoes.” He waves his fork toward my Manolos. “What were they, a grand? Two?”
“Funny, I seem to recall a time when you only dated girls who wore ridiculous, overpriced shoes.”
He smirks. “And then I saw the light.”
My brother used to be the archetypal wealthy city-boy type—stylish gelled hair, a taste for expensive clothes, fast cars, and high-society blondes. Moderately entitled, but tempered by my mother’s influence; quick to anger when he didn’t get his way, though he was for the most part disciplined and eager to please my father. He was interning at CG during his summers, being groomed for an executive position.
And then it was like he woke up one day with a new personality and a one-way ticket to Thailand. In truth, there were probably signs that he would one day snap, but the six-year age gap between us made it hard for me to see them.
“Yes, that light is awfully blue and sparkly.” I stare pointedly at the signature robin’s-egg-blue Tiffany bag peeking out from his satchel. It contains a diamond pendant that Lawan had been eyeing online one day but would never dare ask him to buy for her. “I wasn’t mocking you, by the way. I loved the spoon sculpture. And the lamp that just arrived.”
“Yeah?” His eyes twinkle with delight. “And what’d Dad say?”
“He . . . uses it daily.”
Rhett bursts out in laughter and I can’t help but grin. He’s always had a big laugh, but somewhere along the way, it evolved into a hearty, booming sound.
“I hesitated too long, didn’t I?”
“You’re a shitty liar, Piper.”
“It did grab his attention, momentarily, if that means anything.”
“Whatever. I gave up on pleasing him years ago. And I’ll tell you, it was liberating.” He sighs heavily. “Okay, enough about Dad and that place. Tell me what else is going on in your life, so I know you have a good excuse for not coming out to visit us for eight months.”
I cringe. “Has it been that long?”
“Since our store’s grand opening. Lawan’s trying not to take it personally.”
“I’m sorry, really. It’s just been so busy with work, and then the whole breakup and moving and all that . . .”
He tips his bottle of Corona toward me. “Best decision you’ve ever made, shedding those two hundred pounds, by the way. Not gonna lie: I may have cracked a bottle of champagne after Mom spilled the news.” To say David and Rhett did not click is an understatement. The moment we pulled up to their house in David’s Maserati and David stepped out in his polished leather shoes and suit for a casual weekend, Rhett had made his mind up. David only validated his opinion of him when he point-blank told Rhett he was an idiot for not signing a pre-nup to protect his money from Lawan, an especially prickly thorn in my father’s side as well.
It’s the only time I’ve ever seen the pre-Thailand version of my brother: seconds away from knocking my fiancé’s teeth out.
“How’s the condo?”
“Besides the psychotic Siamese cat that was sitting on my nightstand watching me sleep the other night?” I fill Rhett in on my new living situation.
“I really need to meet these camp friends one day.”
“If you weren’t already married, I’d be setting you and Ashley up. You’d be perfect together.”
“Happily married,” he corrects with a warning look.
“Whatever. Just make sure you let me know when Lawan runs off with the gardener and half your money.” A scenario my father offered up when trying to convince my brother to sign the pre-nup his lawyers had drafted, the day before their wedding.
I’m only teasing, of course. I’ve never seen a more content and loving couple than Rhett and Lawan. He makes her tea every night and drives to a bakery one town over every Saturday morning for her favorite almond croissants; I’ve never even heard him raise his voice to her.
Rhett takes a swig from his beer. “And what about you? Dating yet?”
“Not yet.” It’s funny, just a few weeks ago, that answer would have been more along the lines of “Hell no,” and punctuated with a bitter laugh. Now, though, the second Rhett asked, my mind instantly veered to the lobby at work, and to the man behind the security desk.
“Don’t worry, someone decent will come along soon enough.” He adds in a grumble, “Preferably as opposite to Worthington as possible.”
“He definitely is that,” I mutter under my breath as I take a sip of my wine.
Too loudly, it seems.
Rhett leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Okay, spill it. So there is someone?”
“No . . .”
“An architect.”
“No.”
“Investor.”
“No.”
“Tennis pro?”
I cringe.
“Masseuse?”
“Stop it.”
“The gardener?”
I laugh and joke, “I don’t want Lawan’s sloppy seconds.”
Rhett’s knowing eyebrows arch as he waits expectantly. Another Calloway trait he’s inherited is tenacity. As in, the rest of our dinner will be hijacked by this one topic until I give in.
I groan. “Okay, but don’t tell anyone. Especially not Mom.”
I wait to get his nod of agreement.
“Do you remember that guy I was with at summer camp? I’m sure Mom must have told you about him. Kyle?”
“I don’t think . . .” His mouth curls with a frown and his brow tightens with concentration as he struggles.
“He was from Poughkeepsie.” I hesitate. “His father and two of his brothers were in prison.”
“Oh yeah!” Recognition fills his face, as I knew it would eventually. “Daddy’s sweet Princess Piper got caught with her pants down on the wrong side of the tracks that summer. Finally took some of the heat off me. Especially when you got fired.” He starts humming Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Anyway, I kind of ran into him.” I explain.
“He’s working as a security guard at Calloway?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. That’s something.” He frowns. “If I remember correctly, you guys got into some serious trouble together. Wasn’t there some kind of accident with a kid?”
“With one of the counselors, yeah.” My stomach tightens with the memory of that night, with how lucky we were, how bad it could have been.
Rhett’s fingers draw along his chin, scratching at the day-old scruff, as he processes. “Does Dad know this guy is working there?”
“No.” I shake my head to emphasize this.
A wide grin slowly splits Rhett’s face. “So, are you two—”
“No.”
“But you want to?”
“I don’t know what I want.” Is that even true?
My brother’s curious frown tells me he knows it isn’t.
“I want to know why he disappeared like that on me. It was a jerk thing to do.”
I want to know when exactly he stopped caring. Was it right away or over time? Or did he never really feel anything at all?
Was I just being naïve?
I grind my teeth with the thought that Kyle might have fed me adoring lines and intimate touches to get what he wanted from me before summer was over.
“Huh. Small world, I tell ya,” Rhett murmurs.
“That’s the thing.” I relay what Gus told me about Kyle requesting the transfer to our building. “What do you think that means?”
“That he wants back in your life. Obviously. And damn, wouldn’t that be something. Daddy’s princess with the building security guard? One with a bunch of convicts for a family?” He chuckles. “I might be back in Kieran Calloway’s good books once he finds out.”
“So glad you’re entertained,” I mutter. “But he doesn’t want to reconnect. He’s been avoiding me for the most part. Plus he’s living with someone.”
His lips purse with thought. “So what are you gonna do, then?”
“I don’t know! But he keeps getting into my head, messing up my day. I can’t concentrate.” Heat climbs up my neck. “It’s embarrassing! I’m all wrapped up in this. In him. It’s like I’m sixteen all over again.” Except I’m not. I’m twenty-nine years old and getting sucked into nostalgia when I should be focusing on my career, on these projects worth billions of dollars!
“So then there’s only one thing to do—you confront him.” Rhett shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
“You make it sound so easy.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” He squeezes the bridge of his nose like he’s in pain. “Didn’t you once walk out of a meeting owning a building that the guy didn’t even want to sell?”
I roll my eyes. “That idiot couldn’t negotiate worth a damn.” A perfect example of where a guy had no business inheriting Daddy’s empire and was too stupid and arrogant to realize it.
“And didn’t you sit in a lecture hall and lob argument after argument for an hour straight until your professor finally yielded to you?”
“He was a misogynistic ass! I mean, who debates a room full of women about women’s reproductive rights? And how do you even know about that?”
“Mom. She was so proud of you, she forgot about the time difference and woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me about it. My point is, you’re Piper Fucking Calloway! So get this security guard in a room and get your answers. Because there is a reason for him wanting to work in your building, and it has to do with you. And hey,” he raises his hands in a sign of surrender, “say what you want about making unfair assumptions, but given this guy’s family and who you are, there’s fair reason to be worried.”
“Kyle’s not there to hurt me.”
Rhett gives me a flat look.
“I guess I could ask him to meet—”
“Ask? No, you tell him to meet you. Because you are Piper Fucking Calloway.” He emphasizes each word with a jab at the table’s surface, earning my laugh.
“Fine, I will.”
“Good. Let me know how it goes.”
“I will. But. . . .” I lift a finger in warning.
“I know, I know.” He rolls his eyes and mock-zips his lips closed. “Have you talked to Mom lately?”
“A week ago. She’s redecorating at Martha’s Vineyard.” Again.
“ ‘I’m glad to see she’s still enjoying the fruits of my labor,’ ” Rhett murmurs, imitating our father’s bitter, deep tone.
“Right?” I shake my head. “I can’t even remember them ever liking each other anymore.”
Mom ended up doing a lot of “thinking” over that summer while I was at Wawa, with the help of a twenty-nine-year-old tennis instructor. The affair ended whatever meager efforts my father might have been making toward reconciliation and instead earned his wrath. They’ve been officially divorced for twelve years now. As much as I dreaded the inevitability at the onset, as much as I despised the both of them for their roles in tearing apart our family, by the time the ink was drying on the legal paperwork of the ugly, high-profile divorce, what I felt more than anything was relief that they’d finally go their separate ways, until the wounds healed and civility might arise. Maybe even friendship.
I’ve long since let go of that delusion.
The last time my parents were in the same room was five years ago, at Rhett’s wedding at Naka Island in Thailand. It took months of me needling to convince my father to make the trip, a seeming victory that turned into a living nightmare when he arrived at the hotel with a stunning twenty-eight-year-old model who he’d met at a fund-raiser just weeks before. Clearly a woman who served only one purpose there. Well, two, if my father’s intent was to burrow deep under my mother’s fifty-two-year-old skin. And, boy, did he ever, if her toast, delivered after too many glasses of Cristal and with at least a dozen not-so-subtle jabs thrown his way, was any indication. Poor Lawan got a good glimpse of the family she’d married into and an even better understanding of why my brother chose to stay on the other side of the world for as long as he had.
The server comes to clear our plates and deliver the tab, which Rhett grabs before I have a chance to even reach for it. “I’m so glad we did this, Pipes.”
“So am I. You know, you’re the only one I can talk to frankly, about anything,” I murmur. “You never judge.”
“I’m a huge stoner, remember? Stoners don’t judge.” He winks. “What are you going to do about this security guard?”
I sigh heavily. “I don’t know, but I have to do something and soon. Like, tomorrow.” I can’t continue on like this, my mind muddled with the past. Otherwise I’m going to start deserving whatever belittling nicknames Tripp wants to label me with. “Any advice?”
He grins. “You’re Piper Fucking Calloway.”
Arriving to work at seven A.M. has its advantages.
Namely a quiet lobby, ripe for confrontation.
“I’m Piper Calloway . . . I’m Piper Calloway . . .” I mutter under my breath as I march toward the security desk, my heels clicking with purpose, my chin held high as I stare straight ahead.
“Morning, Miss Calloway,” Gus croons. “How’s my boy Rhett doing?”
I clear the sudden nervousness from my throat. “He’s good. He asked that I pass along his greetings.”
Gus’s faces splits with a wide grin. “I hope he makes it in here again one day. It’s been a long time. He was still in college, the last time I saw him.”
“I’ll be sure to let him know.” I shift my focus to Kyle, who’s leaning back in his chair, watching the exchange through curious eyes. “Good morning, Kyle.”
“Good morning, Miss Callow—”
“Please meet me on the eleventh floor, in conference room C, at ten A.M.”
Something unreadable flashes in his eyes—resignation, maybe?—and there’s a few seconds’ pause before his golden gaze shifts to Gus. “Is that okay?”
“No problems here.” Gus holds his hands up. “What the boss lady says, we do. Gladly.”
Kyle sighs heavily and then nods once. “Okay,” he mumbles, reluctance in his tone. “I’ll see you later.”
“Ten A.M. sharp. Eleven C,” I repeat. “You know where it is; you’ve been pacing past it enough times.” With that, I wave my badge and head to my office, trying to ignore the rush of nerves churning in my stomach.
Mark’s eyes are on me the second I step into the executive wing, his brows raised in curiosity. No doubt because of the email I sent him last night, asking that he be in as early as possible, seven A.M. at the latest. I’ve never asked that of him.
I’m not in the mood for exchanging pleasantries right now. “I need you to find out everything you can on Hank Kavanaugh from KDZ. Where he lives, who he’s married to, where he went to school, their construction projects, everything. I want to know how Tripp knows him, and every meeting they’ve had. See what Jill can tell you. On the down-low, of course.”
Mark eagerly jots down notes, his mouth working over questions he’s dying to ask but knows better than to, just yet. Finally, he dares murmur, “So you have a plan?”
“Oh, I have a plan.” I can feel the vicious and defiant smile stretch across my lips. “We’re going to lance a giant boil.”
