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She’s got enough on her plate. She’s ferociously independent. I don’t want to be responsible for making her day worse at the ass crack of dawn or making her feel that much more helpless.
I soften what I actually send.
Just let me know the plan for tomorrow, whenever you’re able. Is the attorney working out? Let me know.
A reply comes back quickly in two messages.
Thanks, Nick. Millie is a handful. Thank you for the car seat...I’m going to pay you back at some point but it wasn’t a bad idea. At least I’m not stranded this way.
Oh, and again...thank you for everything. I should be back soon. Really.
It’s just words on a screen. But even from plain white letters in a cloud of blue, I can tell she’s upset. Scared.
I wish I could do more.
No problem, I type back. Am I still Nick the Prick?
...you’re a work in progress. I’ll let you know. She adds a devil emoji to the end of that sentence, damn her.
At least she’s honest.
In fairness, work in progress might be the nicest way anyone’s described me in a long time.
If the other texts from Mr. Birdshit are true, I know what I’ll always be, in her eyes and everybody else’s.
Whatever. Only one way to make sure that doesn’t happen, even if it seems goddamned hopeless.
I unglue myself from the bed and face the day.
* * *
Half a day later, there’s a knock on my office door.
“It’s open,” I call out, hoping for Reese, as unlikely as it seems.
Paige Brandt strolls in, combing a hand through her blond hair. “Ward says a lot of packages are piling up outside his office with your name on them. What should I do with them?”
I scowl, loving how hard it is to keep secrets around here—especially when too many of our mail people assume anything big and important goes to the wrong Brandt.
“Thanks for letting me know, for one. Since you don’t work here anymore, I’ll move them.”
“Ah-ah,” Paige says, urging me to stay sitting with a flick of her hand. “Just because I’m running my own art studio doesn’t mean I’m above moving a few boxes, Nick.”
I smile.
“If you insist, take them to Grandma’s office, please.” I stand. “Actually, a couple of them might be pretty heavy. Leave those for me.”
“All right.” She doesn’t turn to leave. She stands and stares at me like she’s expecting more, a bright pain in the ass that reminds me why she’s a perfect fit for Ward.
“Something else?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
“Can I ask why you’ve got a whole stack of packages coming here?”
“Oh—they’re for the office.” I tell her. “I probably didn’t follow protocol, but whatever. It’s stuff I didn’t even think about needing until this morning. But if it makes a difference, I paid for them, not the company.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Having been an assistant, I feel for whoever’s signing for them. In a building with this many people in it, it’s a security issue to accept random packages taller than a person. Also...you’re not going to tell me what’s up, are you?”
“I’ll make sure you know the next time,” I say, conveniently ignoring that last question. “Please don’t encourage Ward.”
She sighs and heads out the door. I follow her over to the EA’s desk outside Ward’s office, where a Christmas-like stack of tall boxes has formed since morning.
Only the loft bed weighs a ton.
I cart everything to Grandma’s vacant office and decide it’s best to start with the loft. The place looks like it did the day she left—a green space of vines and glassy modern magnificence no one had the heart to claim once she retired.
Nudging a few chairs around, there’s just enough space to set up everything I need.
I’ll start with the big stuff first. It takes me the better part of an hour, cursing and flipping off the horribly written instruction sheet several times.
Bit by bit, the bed comes together. I just have the slide left to attach when Ward comes in, slamming the door behind him. There’s an icy pause before I turn around.
“What the hell are you building in here? An amusement park?” he growls, taking a stride forward.
I hold out a hand.
“Perfect timing. Stay there for a minute. You can help me set this thing straight and slide it over the desk after I screw the slide in.”
“The slide?” His dark eyebrows flick up. He doesn’t berate me, though, just leans against the wall and watches me secure the last screw before saying, “That looks like a badass bed. I’ll give you that.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. Just wondering why in God’s name Grandma’s old office needs a bed with a slide,” he spits, shaking his head.
“I needed something that would fit in here without messing with Grandma’s old desk since we’ve decided it’s basically a museum piece,” I throw back. “A kid needs a way up and down. All lofts have steps, but the slide seemed like a quicker way down. More fun, too.”
