A hum vibrated in his chest. A hum that sounded a lot like he didn’t believe her.
She opened her mouth, hoping something snarky manifested, but it simply hung there useless. Her thoughts tangled, a fly caught in a spider’s web. Whenever he was near, she reverted to a twenty-three-year-old version of herself.
She stripped the towel from his arms and used it to wipe at her eyes as she stomped away, slamming the door behind her.
“You’re welcome for the towel,” he called.
His laugh, bright and clear, haunted her all the way downstairs.
The rest of the house was still, quiet save for the sound of aniPhone game chiming six inches from Sheila’s face. The intern slumped on one of the microsuede sofas, body contorted into a horrible C shape that would give chiropractors nightmares.
“Morning,” Fletcher offered half-heartedly as she smoothed her hand over the sofa’s plush fabric. “Did I miss breakfast?”
“I don’t think so,” Sheila said. “No one’s come out of the kitchen yet. Do you think I should sell my golden chicken to get a super-mega-blaster?”
“What? No. I don’t care.”
In the silence between sound effects, Fletcher listened for signs of life. The estate was missing the low-volume chatter it had yesterday before dinner when staff members fluttered between rooms. There was no popped champagne or crudités. No sweet smell of syrup or freshly brewed espresso.
Slowly, the others trickled downstairs. Joplin’s pink curls were wrapped in a silk scarf, Opal still had her rollers in. Melv was fully dressed, his wing tip loafers clicking against the parquet floors. Did he sleep in chinos? It wouldn’t surprise her.
Talk of sales-enablement campaigns and the ethicality of influencer marketing eventually drowned out the sounds of the waking safari. Both things Fletcher didn’t have the headspace for before her first cup of coffee.
When the massive analog clock on the wall struck nine, Fletcher’s stomach grumbled. Breakfast should be served by now. Did she spend all those hours curating the itinerary for nothing?
“Has anyone seen Dyer this morning?” she asked the room.
Most of the group was still bickering about margin percentages and hashtag uses. But most of the group wasn’t responsible for knowing the CEO’s schedule inside and out. For greeting him every morning after tai chi with a palm full of multivitamins recommended by his cardiologist. Had he remembered to pack enough?
See,thiswas why she should have always been invited.
“I’ll go check on him quickly,” she said to no one in particular. It wasn’t like anyone was listening to her. Her role was always best performed on the sidelines. When she did her job right, she vanished entirely, an unseen force allowing operations to run smoothly for everyone else.
Following the vaulted ceilings down a hallway with a built-in saltwater aquarium, she found the executive suite situated at the far end of the east wing. Fletcher squeezed through the massive oak doors and latched them behind her.
Inside, there were pressed-linen curtains and handwoven rugs, a sitting area with a suede chesterfield sofa in front of a mammoth bookshelf stuffed with clothbound books, and a teak coffee table stacked with magazines fromJet-Setter’s backlog.
“Mr.Cartwright?” she called. All the lights were off. Maybe he was still asleep.
A set of double doors separated the bedroom from the lounge, one cracked open. Fletcher inched toward it on quiet feet.
“Dyer? Are you awake?”
No response.
Behind her, the door to the suite opened with a click, and Fletcher yelped in surprise. If Dyer wasn’t awake before, he was now. Her heart thumped somewhere around her jugular as Waylon waltzed in, a loose cotton shirt half unbuttoned and his chest still damp.
“Sorry, I was—” She didn’t need to explain herself to him. Besides, she freaked herself out for nothing. So why did her ribs feel too tight around her lungs? “What are you doing here?”
“My dad asked me to join him for coffee this morning,” Waylon said, raising his hands next to his head in the picture of innocence. “Shouldn’t I be askingyouwhy you’re in his suite? Unless you’re sleeping with him. Donottell me if you’re sleeping with my father.”
“Gross, no. I would never. I’m just trying to do my job.”
Which. Ordinarily would have included knowing every minute of Dyer’s calendar. It wasn’t her imagination—something definitely wasn’t right. The realization must have manifested on her face because Waylon’s brows dipped, something like concern etching through them.Likeconcern, but decidedlynotconcern, obviously. This was Waylon Cartwright, after all.
The look left as fast as it came, being replaced easily by his usual pompous snark. “And we both know your job primarily involves skulking around.”
“I do notskulk.”
