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At first, Catherine wanted to be at my side to answer questions, but after four days she realized she could trust me to express her messages about gender equality and body autonomy with the same passion she has.
And, although she lost the bet that would have had me devouring her every night for six weeks, we negotiated a compromise that makes us both happy.
The sound of scaffolding rolling across the lobby tells me it’s quitting time. One week down, five to go and Catherine has never been a minute late with my daily release. My suspended nest time is now just twelve hours a day, not twenty-four. The other twelve we spend together, sleeping in her small suite.
She greets me with a quick kiss once my feet hit the ground. I nod to the security guard at the desk to let him know he can put the ladder to bed for the night.
“Did you get my text?” she asks. “You didn’t reply.”
“Sorry. Phone on airplane mode. Totally forgot.”
“Well, we’ve been invited to dinner with the Powers. I hope you’re good with a change of plans.”
Frankly, the last thing I want to do is spend three hours with the brothers and what will no doubt be a shit ton of ribbing me. My less than enthusiastic expression must give me away.
She mirrors my scrunch face. “Mrs. Power is hard to say No to.”
“Mrs. Power? Dinner with the guysandMrs. Power? Where?”
Catherine shrugs. “In the penthouse. Colt will come and get us.”
Interesting. I’ve been friends with Colt for over a decade and I’ve never been invited to the top floor of the building. Catherine must be making one hell of a good impression to have made it into the inner sanctum of the family.
“Do I have time to shower?”
“We have time to shower, get dirty and shower again. Not expected until seven,” she says with a seductive lick across her top lip.
“I can live with that.”
An hour later, there’s a knock at Catherine’s door. We’ve done some aerobics, showered, and each had a glass of wine. She lets Colt in.
He and I bump shoulders and punch biceps—the same way we’ve greeted since we met in our late twenties.
“Prepared for some Power-level grilling?” he asks.
I cringe. “You’re not talking about steak, are you?”
“Grilling about the project? Is she upset about something?” Catherine looks concerned.
Colt laughs from deep in his belly and shakes his head but doesn’t answer. “Time to rock and roll.”
We head to the elevator and Colt uses a card to access a floor that doesn’t even have a number on the panel.
“You know, for as far back as I can remember, Mother has never had anyone other than family or trusted staff in her suite. Not sure why you’re being given this special treatment, but it’s got us guys wondering if we should book her for a cognitive assessment.”
I laugh, but Colt scowls. Apparently, he’s serious.
The elevator door slides open to a large, carpeted foyer. The space is bright thanks to a dome skylight that covers the entire ceiling. My engineer brain starts doing calculations as I stare up at this architectural marvel.
Catherine squeezes my elbow and I look down. Mrs. Power is leaning against an arched doorway, studying me.
“Stunning, isn’t it? William was told it couldn’t be done but he refused to believe it. He insisted he just had to find the right person to make it happen,” she says. Before I can ask who did the work, she continues, “Catherine, lovely to see you again. I’m absolutely delighted about the coverage you’re getting forNestrogen.”
I can feel Catherine relax. “I’m so glad.”
Mrs. Power leads us to a living room with a wet bar. Will greets us with an offer of “red, white, or hard?” He subtly tilts his head toward a bottle of Glenfiddich with a “30” on the label.
Hell, yeah! Catherine obviously catches the look, too, since we say in unison, “Scotch, please. No ice.”
