by K. A. Tucker
“Kyle? What are you doing here?”
“Picked up an extra shift from the weekend guy.” He stands from behind the desk, his gaze drifting over the silver lace evening gown I chose last minute for tonight’s event. “What are you doing here?”
I throw a hand toward the bank of elevators. “Forgot my shoes upstairs. I’m just going to run up.”
He nods dully. “Okay.”
It takes several more seconds before I can break free of my delighted shock and turn my attention to the other guy dressed in jeans. I feel my eyebrows arch in surprise. “You must be Jeremy.” He’s a more slender version of Kyle, but with green eyes and no ink in sight. Still, the resemblance is uncanny.
The guy grins, showing off deep dimples. “And you must be the reason I’m living in Lennox.”
Kyle spears his little brother with a flat glare, but Jeremy’s not paying any attention, his gaze shifting downward, over my figure-hugging dress, stalling on the plunging neckline, and then on the high side split. He gives his head a shake, as if catching himself, and then takes a few steps and sticks a hand out, his expression more somber. “I’ve heard a lot about you over the years. It’s nice to finally meet you, Piper.”
Over the years?
My heart flutters as I close the distance slowly to accept his warm, callused fingers. “Likewise. I mean, I heard a lot about you over that summer.”
“I can imagine.” Jeremy’s lips curl into a secretive smirk and it reminds me so much of the younger, playful version of Kyle from camp, I’m left gaping at him.
He turns to Kyle. “What time are you off tonight?”
“Eleven.” Kyle gives his brother a tense look. A warning. For what, though?
“ ’Kay, I’ll text to let you know where we’re at so we can meet up.”
“Sounds good.”
Jeremy takes a step backward. And grins. “Unless you want to swing by and meet Kyle when he gets off, Piper? ’Cause I know he wants you to.”
“I . . . uh . . .” I stammer a moment, caught off guard. My gaze flips between Jeremy and Kyle, who looks ready to leap over the counter and strangle his brother. “I have a charity gala thing.”
“No worries. Come by our place sometime. We’re at Seventeen Cherry Lane. Number Seven-one-seven. Easy to remember. Seventeen cherries. Seven-one-seven.”
“You’re kidding me.” My memory begins churning. “Kyle was in Cabin Seventeen at Wawa.” And the cherries . . .
“Must be a sign.” Jeremy laughs at the daggers Kyle shoots from his eyes. “Have fun at your charity gala thing, Piper.”
“I will. Thank you,” I murmur, my gaze following him out. He doesn’t have Kyle’s sleek walk; his gait is more bouncy. Still . . . “I can’t get over how much you two look alike.”
“We take after our mom. So does Max. Ricky is more like my dad,” Kyle says calmly, as if his brother’s gentle ribbing hasn’t fazed him.
I glimpse the waiting black sedan outside, reminding me that I have somewhere to be. “I guess I should grab those shoes.”
His gaze drifts over me, much like his little brother’s did. “You look . . . good,” Kyle finally offers in a stilted voice, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow.
And for a moment there, I remember what it felt like to be sixteen, to have my heart flutter from Kyle’s undivided attention. His adoration.
“Thank you.” A satisfied smile touches my lips as I swipe through the security gate. Suddenly the hours of primping with hair and makeup appointments don’t feel like a waste of my time, if it means leaving Kyle nearly speechless.
“Really good!” he hollers just as the elevator doors are closing on me, as if finally finding his tongue and his courage.
I rush upstairs to my office, kicking off my heels and sliding on the silver Manolos, excitement coursing through my veins where there was only dread before. This feels like kismet. That’s what Ashley would say. It’s kismet that we’ve crossed paths. Kismet that we can’t seem to stay away from each other. The universe wants us to pick up where we left off, to erase the damage my father inflicted upon our young hearts.
Clearly, I’ve been spending too much time with Ashley. Yet, I can’t deny that any excuse I can find to ditch this benefit altogether and linger in the lobby for the rest of Kyle’s shift is tempting.
When I head back downstairs, Kyle is exactly where I left him.
He watches me approach and, I swear, his chest sinks in a long, slow exhale, as if taking a calming breath. “Find what you were looking for?”
I hook a finger along the split of my dress and pull the skirt back to model the crystals on my toes, knowing damn well that the move is flirtatious. My heart races with the thought of flirting with Kyle again. “Better, right?”
His lips part as if to answer, but stall as his eyes drift over my bare leg. He swallows. “So much better.”
“You can’t tell the difference, can you—”
“Not if my life depended on it,” he admits, dipping his head with his smile.
“So you’re working until eleven tonight?”
“Yeah.” His steady gaze lifts to meet mine again. “Why?”
I shrug nonchalantly. “I might have to stop by again later. You know . . . to grab another pair of shoes.”
His lips twitch with amusement at my pathetic lie.
Is what Jeremy said true? Does Kyle want to see me later tonight?
It’s a long moment before he gives me an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ll be here.”
“Have fun.”
“You, too.” A tiny, crooked smile answers me.
With that, I turn and head for the exit.
“You look really good,” he calls after me.
“You already said that.”
I’m grinning as I climb into the town car.
“You’re not yourself, Piper.” My dad nods at Roy Molson, a hedge fund exec who we’ve met with on more than one occasion in our hunt for investors. “You’ve barely said five words to me. You ignored Larry Muntt—”
“Don’t worry, he was too busy staring at my breasts to notice,” I throw back. That’s what the slimy old man—another Wall Street type—does every time we cross paths at these things.
Dad grunts. He knows as much. “And I don’t think you’ve smiled once in the last half hour.”
I turn to give him a wide closed-lip smile that is forced and not at all friendly.
His brow tightens. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. Tired,” I mutter, taking a long sip from my flute of champagne.
“Learn to put on a good front.” He waves down a passing server to pluck a shrimp cocktail from the silver platter, before dismissing him entirely. There are times when my father’s high-pedigree upbringing translates into shockingly poor basic manners—such as when he fails to acknowledge wait staff as human beings.
The older gentleman holds the platter in front of me. “No, but thank you,” I make a point of saying, and then let my gaze wander over the chic art gallery and sea of faces—most familiar, if only by sight—as an excuse to avoid further eye contact with my father.
“You haven’t eaten anything tonight,” Dad notes with more displeasure.
“I never eat at these things. Only men eat at these things.” I used to, until I spent thirty minutes smiling and staring into the eyes of a prominent city council member while we talked, acutely aware of the piece of spinach stuck between his front teeth and doing my best not to let my gaze veer downward. He took it as a sign that I was interested and invited me back to his hotel room. Since then I’ve drawn the line at food and deep talks with politicians.
Dad studies the crowd. From our vantage point in the corner, he can oversee the goings-on of most of the room—who’s here, who’s talking to whom. Exactly how he likes it. “Gary Jameson left me a message earlier about the Marquee.”
“As I expected he would.” You can’t tell a longtime business partner that you’re cutting his company from th
e equation on a $250 million construction project that you’ve been discussing together for two years and not expect him to go straight to the top.
“You should have called me as soon as you heard.” There’s accusation in his tone.
“I couldn’t. I was busy calling Gary to smooth things over with him.” A.k.a. getting yelled at for a good twenty minutes before he finally calmed down enough to accept my apology for the gross “miscommunication.”
“Well . . . it seems to have worked. He doesn’t want to hang me by my skin just yet.” Dad peers into his glass a moment before tipping it back. “Good job.”
“I’m sorry, what? I must have misheard you. Did you just tell me that I did a good job?”
Dad smirks. “Still, I don’t think they’re going to be able to match KDZ’s numbers. I scanned their construction proposal and it looks solid.”
I pause mid-sip, blood rushing to my ears. “What proposal?”
Dad frowns. “The one Tripp sent us last night. Didn’t you get—”
“No, I did not!” I snap before I can help it.
Dad gives a tight-lipped, apologetic smile to a nearby couple who glanced over at my outburst as he digs into his tuxedo jacket, fishing out his phone. “I’m sure he just wasn’t thinking,” he murmurs, scrolling through his email. “The team is going through the details right now, but Tripp’s not expecting them to find anything of concern.” He hits the keypad. “There, you should receive it shortly. Review it over the weekend and let me know what you think.”
I don’t believe it. That son of a bitch stepped right over me to go to my father—again—and my father acts as if it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Maybe it’s my anger with my father over Kyle fueling me, but I find I don’t care to choose my words cautiously. “What I think,” I pause, struggling to regain my composure, “is that if I’m to earn respect in this industry, then it needs to start with you showing respect to me.”
My father frowns, and it makes his normally severe expression look downright insidious. “What are you talking about? Of course I respect you. I would never have made you point person for all of Calloway’s operations had I not thought you competent.”
“Yes, I am supposed to be point person for our current projects, freeing you up to focus on setting up the next five to twenty years for us. And yet I have been undermined by Tripp at every turn, and part of the reason is because you have allowed it.” I refuse to look away from my father. “This whole KDZ thing stinks of something, and I’m not quite sure what yet. But the proposal should have come to me. He knows it, you know it, and yet you didn’t bat an eye at the idea that he can’t show me enough decency to even copy me on the email. It’s a two-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar construction contract, not an invitation to a goddamn corporate barbecue.”
Dad opens his mouth, but I cut him off.
“I may still have a lot to learn, but I can’t do that if you allow guys like Tripp to treat me like a token figure, like I’m optional. This ends right here, right now, or there is no point in me continuing on in this role.” Adrenaline is racing through my veins as I brace myself for whatever verbal missile my dad is about to launch at me.
Dad sighs heavily. “You’re right.”
“I . . .” I frown, replaying those words to make sure I understood them. “I’m sorry . . . what?”
“You’re right. I just thought . . .” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what I thought. I guess I keep making excuses for Tripp. For years, he reported directly in to me, so I assumed it was just habit. But, even if it is, it isn’t right.” His jaw tenses. “I will make sure to remind him of the new chain of command when I see him next.”
I study him intently, and with confusion.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” he finally asks, irritation in his voice.
“No reason. I’ve just always wondered, when aliens abduct a human, do they undress them before infecting the host body or were you still wearing your suit?”
Dad shakes his head but chuckles. Sliding his arm around my waist, he pulls me into him in a quick fatherly embrace that he hasn’t given me since the night he announced my promotion and future succession.
For a moment, I forget that I’m furious with him.
For a moment, I forget how he broke my sixteen-year-old heart. If I try hard enough, I could probably convince myself that he did it with the best of intentions.
But the road to hell is paved with good intentions, my gramps always said. He had that quote printed and framed on the wall in the living room, above the piano. Mom said he hung it the day my parents announced they were getting married. Gran insisted that was mere coincidence, but the thing about Gramps was, he never cared for wealth and nothing was ever mere coincidence.
As soon as Dad releases me from his grip, I slip my hand into my clutch to check my phone. Eight fifty. Kyle is working for another two hours.
“What? Do you have other plans for tonight?”
“We’ve paid our five grand a plate and mingled long enough for people to know we were here.”
“Right. I suppose you’re off the— Oh, before you go,” he calls out to a man passing by. “Lloyd?”
The man stops and turns, his gray eyes shifting from my father to me—to linger one, two, three beats before shifting back. “Kieran, it’s good to see you again.” I’d put him in his late thirties, with sandy-brown hair that’s dusted with gray around the temples. He’s attractive in a classic way, with a strong nose and a square jaw.
My dad gestures to me, as if presenting a prize display. “Have you met my daughter, Piper?”
I stifle my groan as I realize his intentions.
Lloyd’s eyes are back on me. “I haven’t, but I’ve heard wonderful things. Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He smiles and holds out his hand.
I plaster a polite smile on my face and accept it.
“Lloyd is a named partner at Sternum and Oakley.”
“Really . . .” I feign interest, though it is interesting that my father would be trying to set me up with our law firm’s main competitor. “So you are . . .”
“The breastbone.” Lloyd flashes a bright, easy smile and then winks. “You wouldn’t believe the number of jokes I’ve endured.”
“I think I can imagine.” He’s charming, I’ll admit. And if I weren’t already spoken for, I would probably be wondering how I could get his number.
Already spoken for.
My God.
But I have already decided.
I want Kyle back.
“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but you caught me on my way out. I have another function that I have to make a speech at in exactly”—he checks his flashy Rolex—“ten minutes.”
I hold my hands up in the air. “Please don’t let us keep you, then.”
“A pleasure to meet you, though, Piper. I hope our paths cross again. And soon. Kieran.” He nods at my father and then continues on.
“He separated from his wife about a year ago, but I hear he’s dating again.”
“You should ask him out, then. You two would make a cute couple, and he looks about the age you prefer.”
Dad gives me a flat look.
“What’s wrong? Finally giving up on my reconciliation with David?”
“Is it likely?”
“Yes, right after I set myself on fire.” I tip back my glass and finish off the champagne.
He sighs. “I do want to see you happy.”
“As long as it’s with a man like David or this Lloyd Sternum.”
“Well, you’d keep your last name, obviously. The man is smart, successful, and driven. He’s the kind of man you’ll need in the years ahead—”
“I don’t need a man.”
He rolls his eyes. “What I mean is, when you do decide to settle down with someone, it will need to be with someone self-assured enough to handle being married to a woman as powerful as you will be.”
“And what would guarantee that, Da
d? A big bank account? A private jet in the family?” My anger with him flares. “God forbid I date a blue-collar worker who just loves me for me.”
My dad snorts. “Isn’t that too idealistic, even for you?”
“Just because it didn’t work out for you and Mom doesn’t mean everyone else is doomed.”
An unreadable look flashes through my father’s eyes. “Your mother never understood the kind of pressure that I faced. She wanted romance and vacations and all these things that I didn’t have time to give her. She didn’t understand because she didn’t grow up in this world.”
“But that architect from LA understood, did she?”
He scowls. “That’s personal and not a topic I ever want to revisit.”
“Let’s make a deal, then. I’ll stay out of your personal life if you stay out of mine.”
He gives me a bewildered look. “It was a harmless introduction, Piper! I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”
“Because I don’t want you interfering with my relationships, even if you don’t approve. So don’t ever do it.” Ever again. My voice is calm and low but no less severe. With that I stroll out of the art gallery, my head held high, a small sense of victory humming through my bones. I may not have confronted my father about his past betrayal—yet—but I’ve made my position on any future ones as they relate to me—and to Kyle—clear.
And now it’s a matter of finding out if there even is a future.
“Thank you. You can leave,” I tell the driver, my gaze on the darkened office windows in the Calloway building. Oddly enough, I’ve always found the emptiness on the weekends comforting, as if all the weekday guests have left and I finally have the house to myself.
My chest is tight with anticipation as I climb the steps. My stomach stirs with hope as I swipe my card to gain access through the exterior doors again.
My nerves electrify as I try not to appear too eager strolling toward the security desk. I don’t know what to say, but I hope I don’t say the wrong thing.
Kyle flashes me a smile that makes my feet falter. It’s a smile I’ve seen many times before, but not in years. “Come back for those other shoes?”