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“Where is he staying?”
Carson sighs. “At the Walker Hotel in Greenwich.”
My jaw clenches. Too close. There is no good reason for Ben to be in New York, staying that close to Mindy’s apartment. I don’t like it.
“I want Arnold to follow her when she leaves Mindy’s. Tell him I need daily updates by five and immediate updates if anything changes.”
Carson pauses, watching me. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.” I glare at him.
We’ve already had this conversation. I agreed not to overreact and have her tailed unless there was just cause. I have more than just cause in the form of a stalking, narcissistic ex-boyfriend. Carson insists it’s a terrible idea to have her followed without her permission, but I have to keep her safe. It isn’t a choice—it’s a compulsion. Besides, it’s only to keep an eye on her when she’s out and about. Arnold is off the clock once Piper is safely in Mindy’s apartment and not alone.
Carson lifts his hands defensively. “You’re the boss.”
I rein in my reactions and focus on the tasks that need to be accomplished. Something I can control. “How is work on the studio space?”
“On schedule. It should be done by tonight.”
“Good.”
Piper emailed an extensive list of requirements. I wasn’t sure even Carson could handle it, but I should have known better. Carson lingers in the doorway.
“Did you need something else?” I don’t hide my exasperation.
He sighs. “I guess not.”
I shouldn’t put up with the insubordination, but he processes twice the amount of work in half the time my last ten assistants needed.
Carson finally disappears from the doorway. The distant sound of typing reaches me as he gets back to work. I open my laptop and pretend to review quarterly numbers, but instead, my mind returns to Piper.
Work is boring. The constant chase for more wealth and new business ventures has lost its appeal. But Piper… she isn’t boring.
The rest of the day is a blur of phone calls, meetings, and errant thoughts about Piper. Carson leaves for the night, but I keep working—pretending to work—in a futile attempt to wear myself out. It doesn’t work.
Years ago, I got involved in art dealing, and while I made some money, I never really understood it. I had to hire someone to explain to me what was good and bad. People would spend millions on scribbles of paint a cat could have created, while a decent rendition of a sunset or skyline would be called trash. It defied logic.
Then I saw one of Piper’s pieces and was truly struck by what art could be—what it could represent and the emotion it could evoke. It was like someone had torn into my very soul, ripped out all my hidden vulnerabilities, and gave them physical form.
And then I met her in person. She wasn’t what I’d expected, yet I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Piper is a threat to the self-discipline I’ve honed into a sword. At the same time, she’s like the finest jewel that I want to take and hoard.
I look up from my laptop. The windows are flush with darkness, broken only by city lights. These conflicting emotions are precisely why I need to stay away from Piper Fox.
I call security to let them know I’m done for the night, turn off the lights in the office, and take the elevator to the top floor, vowing to not think about Piper Fox for the rest of the evening. Even if I have to pound the treadmill for six hours to run my body into exhaustion, I will wrench my control back.
I exit the elevator and follow the hallway into the open-concept kitchen and living room. Everything is stark and white and blank, almost like a canvas, except for where the interior designer strategically placed plants, expensive artwork, and lighting. I open the oversized stainless-steel fridge and grab one of the prepared nutritionally diverse meals left by my chef.
My phone rings. Arnold.
I answer on the first ring. “Status update.”
“I lost eyes on her. She’s gone into a private event,” Arnold says.
“Is she with anyone?”
“Her sister.”
A beat of relief pulses through me.
