1. CALLUM
1
CALLUM
“Did you swim across the pond?”
Liam Hayes is leaning back on the couch in his office, feet kicked up on the glass coffee table. Floor-to-ceiling windows are letting in the morning sun, reflecting off the surface of Lake Michigan.
“ Ha. Ha. ” I run a hand over my blond hair, sliding into a chair opposite him and unbuttoning my suit jacket, running my hands along my thighs. A yawn creeps out of me, mirroring my five o’clock shadow. I landed two hours ago, took a quick shower, and chugged an energy drink—I hate energy drinks—before heading into the office. “If we flew private, we wouldn’t have this issue.” And by issue, I mean three flight delays and a completely rearranged travel day to get to Chicago from London.
“You can’t control the weather, Cal.”
“Or maintenance,” Ben Campbell, Director of Operations for Hayes Hotels, chimes in.
“I thought we were on the same team.”
“Gotta appease the boss.” He shrugs, his smile still boyish. He’s five years younger than us, but light years ahead of us simultaneously. Ben was the first employee hired to work in the North American office of Hayes Hotels.
“Chatting me a link to that commercial last week was for what?” I rebuttal.
Liam arches a brow. Intrigued.
I might be the Chief Finance Officer, but he’s even more frugal with money. I’d never call him cheap. He’s cautious. How else would you be when you started a company that quickly snowballed into an international hotel empire? Everything he has built could vanish overnight. Liam Hayes isn’t na?ve about that.
We met at university. Suitemates, plus George Eaton, our other best friend. Liam and I were both in business school, while George was pre-med.
I have two brothers, but George and Liam, they’re my real brothers. The family I had craved for too long.
“Send over your latest inquiry, and once we get through this opening, I’ll reconsider,” Liam requests.
Once we get through this opening. Once we get through this opening, there will be another—we’re already planning the next seven. The company’s ten-year plan is becoming the five-year plan quickly.
It never stops. I don’t blame Liam; look where his drive and determination have gotten us.
In our second year of school, after a career-ending football injury and his mom passing, Liam approached me about buying a hotel. It’s a rent-free memory for the both of us, pints of beer—before he realized he preferred Negronis—and one too many games of him losing billiards to me.
The three of us had already traveled during our holidays from school. His love of travel and hotels was apparent, so much so that I wasn’t surprised. What caught me off guard was when he asked if I wanted to work with him. As a second year finance student, what did I know about numbers?
Quite a lot, actually.
Numbers. Math. They always came naturally to me, a constant and controllable study I often gravitated to.
By the time we finished our degrees, Hayes Hotels had one operating hotel in London and working on its second. We never stopped. Hustled our asses off, growing a team, a base in London—the hub for our European collection.
Last year, we decided to expand to Chicago. Our first hotel here, The Hayes, opens in September, only two months away .
Then, the cycle will continue. New city, hotel open, rinse and repeat.
I can’t remember the last time I relaxed or took time off. Even our yearly summer holiday has been confiscated by work.
Is this what being an adult is?
Wake up: Think about what you need to do at work.
Nine to five: Do said work.
Evenings: Harp on work—coworkers that annoy you, unfinished projects, maybe even keep working because if we are alike, you can’t stop.
Sleep: Dream about work.
I dig my fingers into my temple. My head is killing me.
“You good?” Liam asks.
“Try sitting next to a boomer who doesn’t understand the concept of headphones and has a bladder the size of a walnut. You’d be exhausted, too.”
“Okay, Cal. You get one more complaint, and I don’t want to hear it again. We have to be at the hotel in an hour to do a walk-through. . .” He keeps talking, but it all fades out.
I stare at my best mate, brother, and boss. His blue-green eyes move between Ben and me. I know his comment has zero ill intent, and he’s holding me accountable, but I can’t help sensing that I’m letting him down.
Never in our eleven years of friendship has Liam ever made me feel like a disappointment. I’ve always sought his approval—the need to know that me or my work isn’t subpar.
We leave for the hotel, the fresh air doing nothing to rein in my mind.
** *
“Ican’t believe you haven’t read that yet,” Emerson Clarke nags, bumping her shoulder into mine. “I’m clearing your Tbr. This has to be your next read.”
“Has to?”
“I don’t make the rules.”
This ‘must-read book’ is why we are at her flat after grabbing lunch. Holding the door open, she slips inside, and I take in how clean the place is. There’s nothing out of place except for a pair of black heels haphazardly on the hardwood floor and a coffee on the counter.
I think I’ve been here before. . .
I couldn’t. Have I?
Emerson Clarke and I haven’t seen each other in three years, not because of a lack of weekly phone calls. I live in London, she Chicago. We met six years ago in Lisbon while she was traveling for the summer.
The apartment is for sure hers. Photos I recognize as hers hang in a gallery on the walls, with neutral and minimal furniture except for the overflowing bookshelves.
So why have I been here before?
“I already told you. I’m beta-reading my aunt’s latest draft for her new book.”
“Which is unfair. Hello.” She waves her hand around her face. “Biggest fan. I’d also covet an early peek.”
“You can when it comes out in December.”
Emerson repeats my words mockingly, precisely as a little sister would. It’s no wonder she’s close with my little sister, Audrey.
That’s how I would describe our relationship: familial. We know our limits of shit-talking and when to dish out tough love. It’s been that way since the start, and in the past three years it hasn’t changed.
She hangs her purse on an over-the-door hook in the coat closet before leaning over the counter, pulling the paper coffee cup toward her and popping off the top .
“Mind if I use your bathroom?” I ask her.
Emerson nods, taking a sip. “It’s right there.” She points diagonally to two doors. “Other door is my bedroom.”
Her one-bedroom flat in Lincoln Park is quaint. Nothing compared to the place I’m sharing with Liam in the Loop or my home in London.
“Feel free to give yourself the ten second tour,” she adds with a smile, taking another sip of what I know is black coffee, her favorite.
I cover the distance to the bathroom in eight steps.
Before I can turn the handle, the door swings open.
Steam rolling out, a body within it.
A very naked female body.
Her mouth is agape, as if she was about to say something before slamming her mouth shut.
Wide, round eyes meet mine.
Pools of silver. Bright as the stars in a midnight sky. The ones bright enough that you wonder why there aren’t special sunglasses for nighttime, but can’t tear your gaze away from.
My gaze lingers longer than appropriate. Drifting from her dark brown hair that hangs around her shoulders to arms that are a canvas of black ink. Her hips are narrow, but she has curves in the best places. My eyes scan the smooth olive skin of her long legs. Retracing my path, I’m met with narrowed catlike gray eyes.
“I’d offer you a photo, but I think you already took enough.” Her head tilts, a strand of dark hair falling over a patch of freckles on her face. “You done? I need to speak with Emme.”
I glance over my shoulder where Emme is sitting, laughing. Hands covering her eyes as she leans on the counter.
“A heads up that you are bringing a guy over would have been nice.” She brushes past me, stalking over to her friend.
“As if you care.”
“Right, I don’t.” The bathroom guest shrugs. “We are all adults. We’ve all seen a naked body before. What’s there to be ashamed of?” She spins in my direction, head cocked to the side. “You have seen a naked female before?”
“Plenty.” I give her a curt nod.
“Happy to be another number on your list.” She raises a hand, delicate tattoos on her knuckles. Flicking them in my direction, she shoos me away to the bathroom.
I close the door, but their conversation still floats into the space.
“My landlord says the pipe should be fixed by Friday.”
“I don’t care, you can shower here whenever you want.” There’s the Emerson I know, always pleasing everyone. “I enjoy the company.”
“I enjoy this let-me-talk-about-my-emotions Emme. She might be my favorite.”
“Uh-huh. Care to explain the middle of the afternoon shower?” Emerson asks as I open the door.
I watch her shoulder blades tense, her dark hair shuffling across the rigid muscles. Her tongue runs across her front teeth. “It’s nothing. I’m fine,” she says sternly. Emerson is tossing the coffee and carrier into the trash, so she doesn’t notice her friend shut her eyes, inhaling deeply. “Seth didn’t book his flight.”
“Who’s Seth?” I jump into the conversation, alerting them of my presence.
She spins, narrowed eyes and a scowl that is way hotter than it should be. Everything about her is fit, and she’s cheeky. Not usually my type, but then again, my type is anything that’s a quick fuck and on their way.
“Who are you?” she spews.
“Callum Sullivan.”
“Well, Calvin—”
“Callum,” I correct her. She doesn’t care.
“It’s none of your business who Seth is.” She steps toward me, where I’m leaning against the bathroom doorway. “By the way, my eyes are up here.” A finger pulls my chin up. “You’re staring.”
“So are you. ”
I noticed the way she checked me out. More defensively than seductively.
“Golden rule. Treating you the way you are treating me. You get to look. I get to look.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s treat others how you want to be treated .” She glares at Emerson over her shoulder, one thick brow arched. Emerson puts her hands up in front of her chest. “Okay, yeah, no. Cal, stop gawking at her.”
“Sorry, Emme.” She has a momentary softness before she hardens, returning her focus to me.
“Need me to undress then?” I reach for the hem of my shirt, pretending that I’m going to take it off. She doesn’t react.
One of her shoulders hikes up and down. “Not worth it.” She pats the front of my shoulder, dragging her nails to the back, then shoves me forward. “Nobody wants to see that.” I stumble forward, the door catching on my heels.
“And that’s Chloe Henry,” Emerson sighs. “I would apologize for her, but that’s her. She’s an unlit firecracker. An overprotective Sour Patch Kid.”
I don’t think anything is sweet about Chloe Henry, but for some reason I’m eager to be proven wrong.