Chapter 2 #3
I wouldn’t have had to come back if my mother hadn’t purposely left my father’s things in the house. If I didn’t want them trashed, I had to come back for them.
I’m not going to tell Quinn that, though. I don’t want her to know that I wouldn’t have returned if I didn’t have to. I would’ve continued to act like they all didn’t exist because it was the only way to not miss them so much.
I veer around her worktable and snatch my cap off her head. “Aren’t you glad I’m back, though?”
“Hey!” Her hair comes tumbling down in front of her eyes.
I work on resizing it for my head. “You should be wearing a hair net anyway,” I tell her.
“But…”
I pluck a hot croissant off her pan. “Gotta go.”
“Hey!” she barks louder this time. “That’s two sixty-five.”
I pull apart the pastry and take a huge bite. “For flour and water?” I tease, knowing croissants are mostly butter.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s cheaper than Starbucks.”
She has her hands on her hips, and I almost can’t help but smile again. It’s like old times.
The savory, soft texture damn near melts on my tongue. “It’s really good.”
I start to leave, hearing her behind me. “What about my compass?”
“I’ll see you later.”
I don’t know why I just don’t tell her that she can have it back. A deal is a deal.
But I’m not ready. I’ve carried it with me every day for eight years. I never leave my apartment without it, much less the country.
I unlock and push through the back door, stepping into the alley before she can yell at me more.
“Good morning,” Isobel chirps, pushing her rectangular frames up the bridge of her nose.
I stand in front of the kitchen counter, tightening my tie as I glance at my assistant on the laptop screen. “Good evening,” I reply since it’s the end of day in Dubai where she is. “Shoot.”
She sets a file aside and looks at the screen, but not at me, as she reads away. “Al Mazrouei & Rao approved the suggested changes, but want a tour of the progress so far,” she tells me. “I scheduled them to meet you at the site on Monday.”
I nod, grabbing my suit coat. “I’ll be back.”
“It’s in your calendar.” She fingers a pen as she continues. “Also, Generation Industries is on board for the plumbing and mechanical for the Stewart multi-use.”
“Send me—”
“I already got with legal and finalized the contract,” she says. “The client has it.”
A text rolls in, and I pick up my phone.
Gym tonight? Lance asks.
“Julia Khan”—Isobel goes on—“called about her son again.” She looks at me point-blank. “Are you absolutely sure you wouldn’t like an intern?”
I start tapping out a reply to my friend. “I am absolutely sure you would like an intern,” I retort.
Eight PM, I tell him.
My assistant tsks. “I resent that. I was only aiming to help by adding to his view count.”
I throw her a smirk as I set my cell down, both of us remembering her being very interested in his social media when we first received his résumé.
Isobel Chen has worked for me the past five years, and while she’s impressive on paper—born in Shanghai, educated in Britain, speaks five languages, well-traveled…—I was nervous about being a single man and hiring a woman. I didn’t want her getting any ideas.
But I quickly realized I was too old for her. At only twenty-eight, even men her own age are too old for her, apparently. The girl is a hunter.
She goes on, “I finished the expense report and emailed an outline of the research.”
I click through my mail. “I see it.”
“Bill needs you to call him sometime tomorrow…or today”—she corrects herself, given the time difference—“and South Korea has decided the downtown lot is the best.”
I bring my mug of coffee to my lips. “Well, they’ll have an excellent view of the Burj Khalifa.”
“Prestige by proximity,” she sings in her posh BBC lilt.
“Precisely.”
“It could be worse.” She stacks another folder. “Their board could’ve decided on a glass curtain building.”
I chuckle. “I would quit.”
She smiles, knowing me about as well as anybody now.
I scroll messages, seeing if there’s anything I need to address with her before she leaves the office for the night. It’s already after seven there.
But then she inquires, “Why are you in a suit?”
At her accusing tone, I look up. I only brought suits. And exercise gear.
“You’re home,” she scolds, her eyes gentle like she’s talking to a kid. “I Googled it. Middle America, baseball, apple pie… Relax a little.”
“Yeah, I’m done talking to you now.”
She grins. “Have a good day, Mr. Morrow.”
“Keep me in the loop.” And I end the call.
Closing the laptop, I note the thumbs up from Lance to meet tonight at eight and start to text Madoc back. He wanted me to meet him at Jax and Juliet’s summer camp today, but I can’t imagine why.
Or rather, I know why, even though he won’t admit it.
He wants to reacquaint me with the town.
I haven’t been around much yet, but I can tell a lot is different.
More restaurants, bigger homes, a bustling downtown area…
Shelburne Falls is a quaint little stop for food and shopping while people are on their way to the lake or Chicago.
I half-suspect he and my mother are in this together, some plot to make me fall in love with home all over again.
I never stopped loving home. I just resisted thinking about it.
Every time my mind drifted away from the sun and the desert sand to the summer rain and black soil of the Falls, I’d stop myself.
It was hard at first. The bad memories were forefront—the stress and worry.
But now, it’s easy. My work has taken its place, and that’s my home now. My life has a routine.
Carrying my mug, I walk to the window and slip my phone in my pocket, the text to Madoc still not sent.
Branches sway in the morning breeze, the cloud-covered sky dark and threatening, and I slow my breathing, trying to calm my heart.
It’s been pounding off and on since I left the bakery this morning, and I’d love to believe it’s the three cups of coffee since.
Quinn.
I’d thought of her over the years. Every once in a while.
I’d brush my teeth and think, with a small laugh, about the time she asked how the stripes got in the toothpaste, or I’d look into the koi pond of the restaurant I’d taken a client to and remembered how she once wondered if fish get thirsty. So many questions.
I shake my head. I should’ve searched the family’s accounts and social media posts, even discreetly, just to check up on them. At least I would’ve known what she looked like last night.
So even then, at Frosted this morning—fully aware of who she was now—why did I still want to look at her?
And I can’t be the only one. This town is packed, summer traffic heavy, and someone’s going to be interested in her if they aren’t already. I guess that’s good. She should have someone. She seems on her own a lot. At the shop this morning and at the gym last night.
Guilt creases my brow, thinking about how I seemed to always be her other half when the family would go to theme parks or movies back in the day. I don’t want to think that no one has taken my place in the time I’ve been gone. That she’s been the odd one out.
I want her to be happy. She deserves all of it.
But…romances at her age rarely last, of course. Let her concentrate on her business. Life is a shitshow in your twenties anyway. She doesn’t need assholes, and every guy in his twenties is a dick. I’m glad her brothers look like they’re on top of it.
I set the coffee down, take out my phone, and send a text to Madoc.
Be there by noon.
Slipping my phone away, I pick up the mug again and lift it to my mouth, but then…I notice it.
A Traverse parked across the street.
I stop, tightening my grip on the mug as I study the dark figure in the driver’s seat. The army green SUV was there yesterday too. With a frozen figure lurking inside. I’d thought maybe they lived on the street, but…
Windows tinted, parking lights on… I charge for the front door, dropping the mug on a little table nearby, the cold coffee sloshing onto my hand.
The moment I step onto the covered porch, the car races past me, my heart stopping mid-beat as I watch it peel around the corner, giving me no clear view of the driver. I can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman.
Illinois plates. 7Q6…
Shit. It’s gone before I lock in the rest of the number.
“Dammit,” I murmur.
It could be nothing.
But it’s not. Why would they speed off otherwise?
I breathe in and out, staring after the SUV with the pulse in my ears too loud to hear anything else.
I wince at the pain in my chest. Was it him? He’s supposed to be gone.
Was it one of his thugs? How would they know I’m back already?
Fuck.
“Lucas Morrow?” someone says, nearly shouting.
What?
Finally, I blink, noticing the man standing on the sidewalk. About my height, he stares at me, dressed in a gray suit with a white shirt and black tie. His jacket is slung over his arm. I don’t recognize him. Was he driven here in the Traverse?
“Are you Lucas Morrow?” he asks, enunciating his words like he’s said it more than once. He proceeds down the path to the porch, holding out his hand. “I’m Paul Devney. How are you?”
I swallow to wet my throat. Paul Devney.
The real estate agent. Right.
I glance at the midnight blue Cadillac parked opposite the SUV that just left. That must be his car.
I exhale. “Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand. “Please, come in.”
I hold the door open for him.
“Thank you for the pictures,” he tells me. “I should have the listing up today. I understand you’re anxious to sell?”
I toss a glance back to the street, searching for any more sign of the Traverse. “Almost enough to let it go for free,” I say absently.
Paul Devney got busy, touring the house, taking some measurements and a few more pictures, scribbling down a record of past renovations. The carpet was ripped up a decade ago and replaced with hardwood. There’s new paint, a fenced-in backyard, and only a slightly dated kitchen and master bath.