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Cal’s sitting behind his desk in a purple vest layered over a blue shirt. A silk tie is knotted at his neck. His leather watch—a match for mine—reflects the sunlight as he reaches up and tugs off his glasses.
“My boy.”
He stands and circles the desk, grasping my face so he can kiss my cheek. This is the greeting I expected from him the other night, but he was upset I was late for dinner. Now, he looks proud of me, no doubt because I’m going through with his plan.
“Did you have training this morning?” he asks, patting my back before pointing to the worn leather chair across from his.
“If you want to call it that.”
I take a seat and breathe it in: fifty years’ worth of life lived. Worn leather, old books, the dredges of his morning coffee. The scents settle somewhere deep.
“And was it informative?”
A part of me wants to tell him no, but that’s a lie.
“I’ve already started compiling a list of changes I’d like to implement, new hires. I think there should be a photographer’s assistant, to cut down on delays. Small tweaks in the flow of the meet-and-greet itself.”
He grins. Apple, tree. He and I are cut from the same cloth.
Work discussion bleeds into other topics. He asks if I miss London.
“Some. Not the weather. It’s already cold and rainy there.”
“And your townhouse?”
“I decided not to sell it. The rental market near Hyde Park is doing well. I’ll lease it for the time being.”
“I supposed there’s no sense in discussing Laurie?”
Though it should, the name doesn’t move me.
“Not really, though I think she’s doing well.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear you’re getting settled in. I’m considering having a dinner party on Friday to celebrate your return. Nothing big. There’s a new chef at Étoile. I thought we could have him come here and do a tasting menu.”
I know “nothing big” means at least twenty people, and not just park executives. Cal surrounds himself with other creatives. Art inspires art, and Cal believes that more than anyone.
“Fine, but I’d like you to invite Whitney.”Chapter EightWhitney“How do you feel about Derek being back?” Carrie asks me at lunch.
“Must we?”
“Fine. Bury your feelings. That’s served you well for eight years.”
“Oh?” I lean forward and continue in an angry whisper. “And how’s Thomas? Confessed your undying love for him yet?”
A French fry smacks against my open eye. Salt burns my retina.
“Hey!”
“Could you keep it down? Someone might hear you!”
God forbid.
Carrie is the pot calling the kettle black. She’s had a crush on Thomas—a manager in the Entertainment Department—for years and has never done a damn thing about it. Together, we suffer, though now I wonder if it’s been unhealthy. Without me, Carrie might have acted on her feelings ages ago.
“I’ll have you know we rode an elevator together just last week.”
My brows arch. “Oh? Did you speak to him?”
“No. There were several people between us and I don’t think he knew I was in there.”
“Wow. I expect a proposal will come any day now.”
A second fry hits my face, and now she’s just wasting perfectly good food.
“How about you just keep your dirty little secret and I’ll keep mine?” she suggests.
I smile. “Is it a secret if we both know the truth?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know the truth about me, but I have no idea what’s going on in that brain of yours. Are you freaking out that Derek is back? And what about Ryan? And that guy who gives you the free fudge?”
“It’s difficult, let me tell you—basking in all these potential lovers. How can I possibly choose?”
My blasé attitude doesn’t fool her. “You might have thought you were interested in other guys over the years, but we both know who you’re really in love with.”
“Love?!”
The word doesn’t belong in this conversation. It needs to be snatched up and punted clear across the cafeteria.
My apathy has been replaced by wide-eyed panic.
“Love is the last thing on my mind.”
“Oh? Because there he is, the man you love.”
I glance over my shoulder and sure enough, across the cafeteria, Derek stands with a coffee cup in hand, talking to the Head of Maintenance. He’s no longer in costume, but he’s no less handsome. My stomach twists at the sight of his profile and I fear I’m about to throw up the first half of my lunch. Please God no. Deli turkey with aioli mayonnaise will not reemerge pleasantly.
Derek laughs and my attention stays on him like he’s got me reeled in on a line. Under the fluorescent lights, he should look sickly like the rest of us. Instead, his olive skin glows warm and hearty. Can a man look hearty or is that adjective meant only for cans of soup? Here I am, considering that very thing, when Derek glances over and catches me watching him. A good spy I am not.
