Chapter 20
RAINE
Ishut down the computer and stand in front of the alcove.
I’ve made progress today. Not that anyone would be able to tell by walking in.
But tomorrow, I’m going to start shifting things around, getting ready for the shelves.
I’ve been busy all day. Which has kept me from thinking about last night or what I overheard the night before.
Or the kiss with Evander and the way Roark hugged me.
I keep wondering what I would do if I didn’t feel I needed this job for the money and prestige. I’d be gone, right?
You don’t have your boss almost carry you off like Godzilla and then . . . I’m not sure what Evander is to Kieren. Roark’s the head of security, but the more days I spend here, the more that feels like a crock. How can you be the head of security when there’s no other security people around?
I’m still full of lunch and afternoon tea. Which is the best custom, and when I go back to New York, I’m definitely keeping it. Scones. So good.
I head to my room. On my computer, I watch two hours of garbage television and read a couple more articles on the Monet sale—ten paintings that were gathered quickly from a broker in Dubai. Which doesn’t mean they’re coming to Cloud Rift, I remind myself.
He didn’t hurt me; he wrote me an apology note and bought me a new phone. Granted, he didn’t find the time to come and talk to me today. But then how often does the owner of a company find the time to talk to a random employee? Even one he did something to.
It’s way past the dinner hour when I slip into the bath. I’m surprised Evander and Roark haven’t sought me out. But again, they don’t owe me anything.
I kissed Evander. So what? He’s an amazing-looking guy, and I’m sure he’s kissed lots of girls—tons of girls, in fact. I’m a number from the deli counter. That has me laughing: the thought of Evander or Kieren at the grocery store. I wonder if either of them has ever been to a grocery store?
Irinse and repeat for the rest of the week.
It’s crazy how the first few days are fading in my memory.
Even the scratch on my cheek from the bush in the maze is gone.
With Wren being on an Asia schedule, it’s hard to talk to her.
Still, she sends pictures and messages that I get every morning.
She’s working this trip with one of the girls from the apartment.
It looks like they’re having a blast. They’ve gone back and forth from Honolulu to Tokyo all week, and on their days off, I’m getting tons of food and beach pictures.
I just wish I could send her some photos of the art I’m unpacking.
The storage units are going to arrive on Monday.
And I’ve almost exposed the whole wall while taking inventory of the small pieces that aren’t packed in crates.
I go to bed exhausted, but I spring out of bed in the morning.
Sure, I might slow down in the atrium by Kieren’s office when I pass.
I’ve even considered stopping. I came as far as pulling the heavy curtain back from in front of the door and held my fist up to knock.
But then I chickened out and scurried away.
I make my way off to the dining room for a fast breakfast.
Leo emerges from the butler’s pantry, the perfect cup of coffee in his hand. “Good morning, Miss Fischer.”
“Good morning, Leo. Did you have a good night’s sleep?”
“Absolutely, how kind of you to ask.” He sets the cup down in front of me, and I automatically glance toward the door. I don’t know if I’m hoping to see them or if I’m still avoiding them. The one thing I know is that Leo’s afternoon tea service and lunches are larger every day after I skip dinner.
“Is there somewhere I should be eating with the staff?”
Leo, tidying up the breakfast buffet, straightens his back. “No, mademoiselle. Your position is one of the highest esteem, and you are to dine here. Unless you would like to take your meals elsewhere?”
“It’s just that, other than you, I haven’t really talked to anyone all week and it would be nice to . . . meet some other people.”
Leo’s eyebrow rises. “I see.” I’m not sure he’s keen on it. “I will talk to the gentlemen and get their opinion.”
I’m eating slower than I have all week, though it’s close to eight. And the “gentlemen” all seem like get-up-and-storm-from-the-castle kind of guys. “Thank you. Speaking of them, I haven’t seen any of them since . . . in a while.”
Leo takes a pause that tells me he kind of wants to ask me if I’m being serious. It’s his version of Gurl, wake up. “Miss Fischer, it’s not my place to say, but it does seem you have been trying to avoid them.”
He’s not wrong. “I suppose. I thought that Kieren, Mr. Alder, would come find me so we could talk it through.”
“Mr. Alder has been away from the castle for the last week.”
“Oh.”
“Would you like me to pass on a message to Mr. Lang or Mr. Slate?”
“Um, yes.”
“I will do so. Would you like to see them in person, or should they call you on your mobile phone?”
“Whichever they have time for.” I hold back a chuckle at Leo’s terminology.
I’m about to give Leo my number when I realize there’s zero chance they don’t already have it.
It occurs to me that . . . I pull out my phone and check my address book.
They’re both in it. Kieren too. “Oh, I guess I can send the message myself. But thank you for the offer, Leo.”
“Will you be dining in the dining room this evening, then?”
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
“And Miss Fischer, while you are on salary, you are not required to work seven days a week.”
“I really want to get the space ready for the new storage units I ordered.”
“Just so you are aware.” He inclines his head and vanishes into the pantry.
I’m not sure if it’s the hours I’ve been putting in or Leo reminding me that it’s the weekend, but when I get to the collection room, I end up spending three hours cataloging smaller paintings instead of cleaning and prepping the space.
Mentally, I’ve lost count of how many boxes I’ve opened, but I’ve got it written down.
I gently remove a canvas from a box. It’s small by the standards of the collection I’ve opened so far—two feet by eighteen inches.
But it’s stunning. I take a photo of it with the new camera that arrived on Friday.
The name on the bottom right is legible, but I don’t know the artist. T.
Fischer. Fischer—it’s my last name, too.
Fischer isn’t Smith or Jones, but it’s not uncommon.
The painting is adorable—a mountainscape with quaint cottages in the valley below—but the thing I’m so taken with is a section of field with little mushrooms in it.
The kind with the red cap and white dots.
It’s just precious. It’s well done, the colors are balanced, and the lighting isn’t overly dramatic in that way I believe can make a painting look cheap.
It’s just the sort of tongue-in-cheek landscape that I would paint, if I still painted anymore.
It’s killing me to not send a picture to Wren. But if I leave here before the six months are up, it’s going to be because I want to go, not because I fudged up on the NDA.
It’s like she can hear me thinking, because my phone rings, and Wren’s picture pops up.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hey back. I’ve got fantastic news.”
“What?”
“I was supposed to have next week off for my birthday. I thought I could come see you, but the flight’s full.
So . . . I did a swap. Now I’m working a trip to Zurich next Friday.
Then I have Saturday off. I have to report Sunday morning, but I looked it up and I could take the train after we land, clear customs, and be out to your village by nine a.m. on Friday.
We can spend the day together, then I take the train back Saturday midday so I’m ready to be at the airport at the ass crack of dawn on Sunday. ”
“You’re kidding?”
“No way, my favorite sister.”
“I’m your only sister.”
“Still my favorite, and you would be if I had another sister. Unless she was uber cool like Taylor Swift or Emma Stone or something.”
“How quickly I’ve been downgraded.” That instantly reminds me of Roark, and my chest tenses up.
“You’re doing good, right?”
“So good. This is my dream job. Living the dream, like Uncle always says.”
“He’s far from living the dream.” She laughs. “But you? You’re destined for greatness.”
“I’m not sure how you and I came from the same mother, but I’m glad you feel that way. I feel the same about you.”
“Currently I’m destined for my blackout eye mask and a rocking date with my pillow, for what I hope will be a good, solid ten-hour relationship before he breaks up with me, like all guys do.”
“You’re too good for that pillow, anyway. Love you, Wren. I can’t wait to see you.”
It’s going to be a fantastic week.