Chapter 49
HARPER
My phone pings.
ALEX:
How are you doing? Any news?
ME:
She’s out of danger.
Alex’s number flashes up as an incoming call.
“Hey,” he says. “Have you been able to speak to her?”
“No, she’s pretty out of it with all the medication they’re pumping into her. Hopefully later today or tomorrow, according to Mum and my brother.”
“I’m glad she’s out of the woods.” The sincerity in his voice touches something inside me.
There’s a pause.
“Thanks again for last night. You really helped to take my mind off it.”
“How are you feeling today?”
“Embarrassed,” I say.
“Why on earth would you be embarrassed?”
I can hear the confusion in his tone.
I sigh.
“I’m usually self-sufficient,” I admit, which is true.
“It’s not a crime to need support.”
“Maybe not, but usually it’s my family offering it.”
“Not your boss?” he says.
“Not my boss.”
I think back to waking from my nightmare and the way he held me, wrapped in his arms, the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath my ear, soothing my frayed nerves. I remember my body pressed to his, my thigh resting against his…
“It’s because I’m your boss that you’re embarrassed?”
“No… Yes. I know I’m being silly. Thank you for being there.”
“How about this? Last night I wasn’t your boss. I was your friend. Does that help? Be honest.”
I stare at the wall.
“A little,” I admit.
The thought of Alessandro Bianchi being my friend has butterflies dancing in my stomach.
There’s a pause. “Do you have many nightmares?”
The elephant in the room. I should have known he wouldn’t ignore what happened.
“They’re not as frequent as they used to be,” I admit. “But lately…”
Why did I add the last bit?
“Have you talked about them? Do you know what triggers them?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“I had years of counselling, but it never truly got rid of them. It’s the night my father died,” I whisper, shocking myself when I add, “He was on his way to collect me from a party.”
There’s silence. “I’m sorry, Brooke. How old were you?”
I think back to The Seamstress’s little book. The book says my dad is dead, but not how he died.
Fuck it.
“I was seventeen.”
“You were young.”
“It is what it is. I’m luckier than some. I had him for seventeen years,” I say. “Thank you. Last night you chased the dreams away.”
“You’re welcome. Isn’t that what friends are for?”
“Apparently so.”
I’m treading on dangerous ground. He’s heading to London next week, my home city. According to Caleb, the missing heiress is not currently front-page news, but then again, it only takes an anonymous tip-off. Would Alex recognise me? I decide to change the subject.
“Did you find everything you need for next week?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound sure?”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Alex,” I warn. “I’m your PA. What are you missing?”
“The packs need updating. Something came out of the initial meetings, something we need to change. It’s fine, I can talk around it.”
“How many pages?”
“Three.”
“We have tonight and the whole of tomorrow,” I say.
“It’s a couple of hundred packs.”
“And…we can get the London Fashion Week ones changed this weekend, and I can do the Milan and Paris next week while you’re away.”
“It’s the weekend.”
I laugh. “When has that stopped you? You’re rubbing off on me, which I’m not sure is a good thing, but I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing,” he says, his tone firm.
“Would you have had me make these changes yesterday?” There’s a pause. “The truth.”
“I…”
“The truth, Alex,” I repeat.
“I was going to mention it.”
“Instead, you spent the afternoon comforting me,” I state. “How about I meet you at the office? We can make the changes and update the packs.”
“It’s five o’clock. I also have all the packs here.”
“Here?”
“At my apartment. I’m going straight from here to the airport on Monday morning.”
“So, I come to you. I know you have a printer in your home office.”
“This is above and beyond.”
“Give me your address. Isn’t that what friends do? Help each other out?”
“Touché,” he says with a chuckle. “If you’re sure, I’ll send Keith. He can be with you in twenty minutes.”
“See you soon.”
* * *
As promised, Keith is waiting for me.
“Evening, Ms Brooke.”
“Evening, Keith. Sorry to drag you out.”
“Not a problem. It’s going to be a quiet month with Mr Bianchi away,” he says.
“Of course.” The realisation hits me. Alex is going to be away for the next three weeks. First in London, then Milan, then Paris, which closes out the big four. That means, I’m going to be holding down the fort alone.
The building we pull into is stunning. A glass skyscraper, with sleek, clean lines. The opposite of the chunky office buildings of the business district. Caleb, as a developer, would love this. I must remember to send him the details.
Stunning doesn’t even come close when his private elevator lets me out on Alex’s floor.
“Wow, this is… words fail me,” I say.
He smiles.
“You could fit my apartment in the corner of this room.” I grimace at the reminder that he spent half the night sleeping on my sofa.
He gestures for me to follow him to the living room.
I move toward the window. The space spans one entire side of the apartment building. Floor-to-ceiling glass frames unbelievable views of the New York skyline, and a large balcony offers outdoor space. How can he leave it every day?
A set of stairs leads to the second floor. This is opulence.
As if sensing my unspoken questions, he moves to stand next to me.
“There are four bedrooms and two staff quarters. Greta, my housekeeper, sometimes stays over if I’m entertaining, but I prefer my own space. Gabbi stays here when she’s in town. She’s commandeered one of the bedrooms.”
I step out onto the terrace. The sky is unbelievably clear for the middle of February, although the chill in the air lets me know it’s still winter.
“It’s like being on top of the world. Someone could almost forget their worries up here,” I say.
“It’s why I bought it,” he says, coming to stand next to me.
“Let me guess. Escape the craziness of Manhattan without a commute?”
He turns and smiles, my stomach clenching. This is Alex relaxed, stress-free.
“Shall we get started?” I say, turning around and walking back inside.
* * *
We walk through the apartment to a round office on the other side of the building.
“Okay, how do you not work from here every day?” I say, stepping inside the circular glass room.
“Too many meetings,” he says with a smile.
A large desk sits in the centre of the room, along with a sofa, an industrial printer, and filing cabinets. A number of fashion illustrations and flats are pinned to a freestanding whiteboard.
Alex motions to the four boxes. “Fifty in each,” he says, reminding me why we’re here.
“We’ve got this. You print. I’ll switch out the pages and rebind.”
I move to the side where a binding machine sits. Alex deposits one box next to me.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
I open the box the printers sealed over a week ago, take out the first file, and attach it to the binding machine. I open the spiral coil and remove the pages, just as the printer behind me whirls.
* * *
“That’s enough,” he says as I close the spiral binding on the thirty-sixth booklet. “I don’t know about you, but I need some food.”
I glance at the clock on his desk and then at the now dark sky. We’ve been at this for three hours, and we’ve only just scratched the surface.
I stretch, my back giving a satisfying pop.
“Come on, let’s see what Greta has left for dinner.”
We enter his kitchen, a space clearly designed for large-scale entertaining, with all the top-of-the-range appliances.
Alex moves to the double fridge-freezer, opens it, and stares inside.
He pulls out a ready-made lasagne and places it on the side, then turns back to retrieve an enormous mixed salad.
He turns and grins.
“Greta’s lasagna, I can promise it’s delicious.”
“Perfect,” I say. I notice the Post-it stuck to the top.
40 minutes.
I move to the oven and switch it on. We wait while it heats up, then Alex places the lasagne inside.
“Wine?”
“Is that wise? We’ve only completed thirty-six out of two hundred in three hours.”
Alex groans. “Don’t remind me. I think I’ll need a glass so I don’t lose the will to live.”
“You could have had someone do it when you arrived in London,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I hate stepping into a situation unprepared and relying on strangers to get the job done, on time and to the required standard. I’d rather go knowing everything is perfect when I arrive. It’s why I take them with me rather than ship them.”
He takes in my smirk and returns it with one of his own.
“Meticulous, with a capital M,” I say.
“I can’t help the way I am.”
“We wouldn’t have you any other way,” I say, laughing as I take the glass he’s holding out. “To monotonous tasks that lead to sound minds,” I say as a toast.
He clinks his glass to mine.
“Thank you for giving up your evening. I could have left them as they were, but now we’ve started discussing the change. I’d rather…”
“It’s not a problem. I was only going to be staying in and washing my hair,” I say, taking a sip of the wine, watching him over the top of the glass.
We make our way back into the living room while we wait.
Alex asks me questions about my family. I stay as close to the truth as I can. I’ve kept my distance from most people, and those I have befriended have never really asked about my life in England, preferring to talk about the here and now.
The buzzer on the oven sounds, and we make our way back into the kitchen.
I refill our glasses while Alex serves.
“Here you go,” he says, placing a plate down on the table.
I help myself to salad, and we tuck in.
“How many do you think we’ll get through tonight?” he asks.
“We were getting faster. I got the time per booklet down from ten minutes to five. I think we can reduce it further… How many do you need?”
“Definitely a hundred. I carry spares as our clients often ask for extra copies, but if they aren’t updated before I leave, I can get someone in Enzo’s office to make the changes during the week.”
A long night awaits.
* * *
Three and a half hours later.
“One hundred,” I say, lying back on the carpet and throwing my hands above my head. “Oh. My…”
“I owe you big time,” he says, sitting next to me, his knees bent.
“No, you don’t. Isn’t that what friends and PAs are for?”
“You’re right, how could I forget?”
I turn my head to face him, bringing my arms down by my sides, my hair falling over my eyes.
He leans forward and sweeps it behind my ear, his hand hovering beside my face.
My breath hitches, and we sit in silence until he pulls away.
“Sorry. Look at the time,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I say, sitting up. “We got the main set done. I can come back, and we can finish the rest tomorrow.”
“It’s one in the morning,” he says. “You can stay here. There’s plenty of room. Gabbi’s room is fully kitted out, an entire St Clair wardrobe sitting there untouched, and I know the bathroom is full of supplies. She won’t mind. My sister is incredibly fond of you.”
“The feeling is mutual. I don’t want to put you out. I can get a taxi… sorry, cab, then come back in the morning,” I say.
He frowns. “It’s no trouble. The room is sitting empty, and I’d feel happier knowing you’re safe and not catching a cab in the middle of the night.”
“If you’re sure,” I say, not really wanting to venture out into the cold February night.
Alex smiles. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
We head up the internal spiral staircase.
“You have a pool?” I say, stating the obvious, as we reach the top step and look out onto a second balcony, this one housing an infinity pool.
“I do. It’s heated if you want to brave it. I personally prefer it in the summer months.”
I pause. As someone who could swim almost before I could walk, I find the idea incredibly tempting.
That was the joy of having an older brother who competed at national level and came close to competing internationally.
I was never one to be outdone. By the time I was seven, I was competing as well, but it was never my dream, so when Elijah stopped after his accident, I did too.
We walk to the far corner of the apartment.
“I think I’ll pass for tonight,” I say.
“Here you go.”
We step into the room that must be directly above his office, as it’s also a circular glass room. One side looks down onto the terrace below, the rest offering a panoramic view of New York.
“I’m not going to say ‘wow’ again, but ‘wow!’”
Alex chuckles behind me, so I turn to face him. “I’m supposed to sleep with all this to distract me?” I say.
He presses a button on the wall, and the glass becomes opaque.
“Nifty trick,” I say.
“The glass is tinted so no one can see in but making it opaque stops the sunlight from waking you at dawn, especially in the summer months.”
“You have a beautiful home,” I say.
“Thank you. The bathroom is through here. There are clean towels and new toothbrushes. Help yourself to anything you find.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll bid you goodnight. Sleep tight.”
“You too.”
His gaze is intense. My stomach flips, and my heart rate increases, but before I can acknowledge either, he turns and leaves.
I hit the button on the wall and allow the view to reappear.
Stepping towards the glass, my eyes bulge, and my stomach jumps as I look at the ground, the cars below, little more than specks in the distance.
Yet, despite the fear, the views and the tranquillity of being forty-three floors above the hustle and bustle of New York streets are magical.
I hit the button again and watch the view disappear. I make my way to the wardrobe, sliding open the enormous doors. Alex wasn’t lying when he said it was full of St Clair items. There’s everything from evening gowns to nightwear, most with their labels still attached.
I scour the shelves and find a camisole-and-shorts set.
I pull it out and remove the tags, then enter the bathroom to take off my makeup and clothes.
I jump in the shower. It’s a routine I’ve found helps me sleep.
When I get out, I make my way into the bedroom.
I grab my phone and send Mitch and Dan a quick message, letting them know my plans.
Putting my phone away, I look around.
No water.
I always sleep with water by my bed. I know Alex has a refrigerator stocked with bottles.
I let myself out and pad down the stairs.