Chapter 34
Some Conversations Didn't Need Exhibits
JULIETTE
The white oak floors held the night’s cool beneath my feet. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, the pool reflected a pale strip of morning sky, silver-blue and still. Palms edged the limestone patio, damp and unmoving in the Florida heat already gathering before sunrise.
My half-unpacked Tumi stood near the hallway. The laptop stayed closed on the quartz counter, dark screen catching the kitchen lights, while steam curled above my favorite BOOK NERD mug beneath the espresso spout.
Everything was exactly where I had left it.
I was not.
I poured the espresso, added nothing, and took a sip before it had cooled enough to be pleasant. The bitter heat hit my tongue, sharp and civilized. Mara Khaya’s coffee had tasted darker, rougher, smoke at the back of the cup and dust on the rim. Mine tasted expensive, imported, and obedient.
Unsettling.
I set the mug down beside my phone.
Nick’s name wasn’t on the screen, and the empty space had the nerve to look smug.
Good.
Terrible.
I hadn't opened my laptop yet. Whatever Summer had done with the security proposal could wait until business hours, or at least until the sun demonstrated a stronger commitment to the day.
My thumb hovered above Nick’s contact profile.
I could have waited.
Survived South Africa just to be bullied by a phone screen.
I didn’t.
I pressed call.
The line rang once. Twice.
Pressure tightened beneath my ribs. Unhelpful.
Then the call connected, and his background noise hit first: a muted rush of voices, a radio burst cut short, the low vibration of a diesel engine against an open line. Mara Khaya, awake and moving without me.
“Juliette.”
Not hello. My name, low and rough with exhaustion worn down to the grain.
The kitchen went entirely too still around me.
“Checking whether you slept,” I said.
“No.”
“That wasn't an invitation to be proud of yourself.”
A breath moved through the line. Almost a laugh. Not quite. Nick Mercer rationed amusement like medical supplies after a flash flood.
“Are you home?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Pieter got you through check-in?”
“He did.”
“Any issues?”
“None.”
“Good.”
I wrapped one hand around the mug. The ceramic had already cooled at the rim. “You have now completed your airport logistics checklist.”
He took a second with that.
“Noted.”
“I assume there’s a second form?”
He laughed under his breath, brief and inconveniently effective.
The background noise shifted. A heavy door opened or closed on his end, muffling the ranger voices and yard chatter. His breathing changed when the room went quiet around him.
He had stepped somewhere private, an extremely inconvenient thing for my pulse to notice.
“Your house quiet?” he asked.
“Too quiet.”
“The reserve isn’t.”
“I know.”
A pause moved through the line, long enough for the espresso machine to click off behind me.
“I noticed,” he said.
“That it’s loud?”
“That you’re not here.”
My fingers tightened around the ceramic handle. Heat remained trapped near the base, against my palm, but the rest had gone lukewarm. Outside, the first hint of sunrise had begun to gather over the dark palms.
“Good,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’d hate to be forgettable.”
A grunt. “Not your problem.”
“Did you call every guest who left the reserve yesterday, or am I receiving enhanced service?”
“You called me.”
“Yes. And somehow you still found logistics first.”
“That surprises you?”
“No. I found it reassuring.”
A low sound moved through the line, more exhaustion than humor.
“What are you doing right now?” I asked.
“Standing outside the operations office.”
“Because?”
“Fewer ears.”
My stomach tightened, low and precise. “Nick.”
“I answered your sister,” he said.
My hand went still around the mug. “You did?”
“Yes.”
“Professionally?”
“Yes.”
Of course he had.
“What did you say?”
“That I’ll be in D.C. next month for Sofia’s homecoming. If useful, I can schedule a separate business stop in Maris Key afterward to meet with her and Vaughn.”
My bare toes curled against the cool floor. “That was the right answer.”
“It wasn’t the whole answer.”
I didn't move.
“I was coming toward you either way,” he said. “The proposal gave me a route that respected the work, the reserve, and Sofia. It also gives us a way to find out what this is without wrecking everything around it.”
The espresso had gone cold in my hand. I set the mug down before my grip became evidence.
“That's a lot of words, Nick Mercer.”
“Needed saying,” he said. “And it still doesn’t make this simple.”
“I don’t remember asking for simple.”
The line stayed quiet long enough for the sprinkler to rotate back across the lawn.
Then he said, “I have reports to finish. Police follow-up. Contractor gate rebuild. Six weeks modified alert before I’ll call that boundary stable.”
“Then do it properly.”
“I won’t leave them exposed.”
“I wouldn’t trust you if you did.”
He exhaled once through his nose. The sound was small and controlled, but I heard it anyway. I wanted his mouth against my temple. His hand at my lower back. His voice in a dark room where neither of us could pretend restraint had been doing all that work for moral reasons.
Instead, I stood in my kitchen with cold tile under my feet and a calendar waiting to punish me.
I set the mug down, straightened, and made my voice behave. “The proposal is real.”
“I know.”
“I am executive sponsor, not your handler.”
“Shame.”
My eyes closed. “Nick.”
“Noted.”
The word slid across the distance between us, low and dry and entirely too aware of what he was doing to my composure.
I opened my eyes again. Morning had softened the pool to pale blue. “I won’t use my company as an excuse to pull you closer.”
“I know you wouldn't, Juliette.”
“And I won’t pretend your expertise is irrelevant because wanting you makes it inconvenient.”
No sound came through the line. My grip tightened around the mug before I could stop it.
“You want me?” he asked.
My pulse touched the base of my throat. “Don't sound surprised. It’s insulting to both of us.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Then what are you?”
His answer came lower. “Interested in what you plan to do about it.”
I stared at a heron beyond the glass. “Shut up, Mercer.”
“No.”
The word was quiet. Unhelpful. Devastating.
A door shut somewhere on his end. Farther away this time. Someone called his name—Daniel, likely—but Nick didn't answer him.
I turned my back to the glass and leaned against the edge of the island. The quartz pressed cool through the thin fabric of my silk pajama top.
“D.C. first,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Then Maris Key.”
“If the meeting makes sense.”
“It does.”
“You haven’t seen my terms.”
“I know what Maris Key makes possible.”
A pause.
“Closer,” he said.
“Yes.”
“So what are we doing?” he asked.
The question should have sounded reckless. It didn’t.
“Starting with the truth.”
“Which truth?”
“That I want you in Maris Key for the work.”
He didn't answer.
“And I want you in Maris Key for me.”
The line went quiet enough for my own breathing to become inconvenient.
I had started pacing without realizing it. Two steps away from the island, one back. Bare feet on cool wood, phone pressed too tightly to my ear. My reflection caught in the glass doors: silk pajamas, sleep-tangled hair, one hand at my mouth like I could hold the words in.
I dropped my hand.
“It won’t be Mara Khaya,” he said.
“No.”
“Real life gets louder.”
“Then we’ll see if we can still hear each other.”
A pause.
“Nick, I run an international company, survive five sisters with freakishly intelligent opinions, and manage vendor contracts across three continents. Loud doesn’t scare me.”
His voice went flat. “Juliette.”
“I’m not finished.”
He went quiet. Wise man.
“You have Sofia. Mara Khaya. A team that needs a proper handover. I have Wilder Horizons, clients who think money makes gravity optional, and a calendar that looks like it was designed by someone who hates women.”
“So no easy.”
“No easy. No clean. Accurate, or nothing.”
“There will be distance.”
“There already was.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.” I slid one thumb along the handle of the mug. “This time we decide what to do with it.”
Outside, the first bird called from the palms, thin and bright and entirely unimpressed by human complications. Nick stayed quiet long enough that the silence began to feel less like hesitation and more like math.
“If I come,” he said, “I come as a consultant first. Defined scope. Written terms. Gabriel in the room.”
“Yes.”
“And after the meeting?”
My throat moved once. “That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you still want the unofficial part once the official one has rules.”
“I already know that answer, Juliette.”
I gripped the edge of the island. “Then say it.”
A radio cracked somewhere behind him. Nick ignored it.
“I want to see you,” he said. “Without a breach. Without a transfer schedule. Without half my team outside the door.”
My mouth went dry. “That was almost a normal sentence,” I said.
“Don’t get used to it.”
I looked toward the closed laptop. “Summer can keep the process clean. Gabriel can protect the internal chain. You can finish what needs finishing there.”
“And you?”
“I’ll be here.”
His breathing changed. “That a promise?”
“No. A location.”
“Juliette.”
“Yes?”
“It’s both.”
My fingers tightened around the counter edge. “Good,” I said. “Then don’t hide one behind the other.”
“I’ll be there,” he said.
The words were quiet, with no reach for drama. That was why they reached me.
“For the meeting?” I asked.
“For the meeting.” A pause. “And after.”
I braced one hand against the island, letting the cold stone steady my pulse. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“I know.”
The call should have ended there, before either of us mishandled the evidence.
Instead, Nick said my name.
My fingers went still around the phone. “Yes?”
“This would be easier,” he said, “if I couldn’t still hear the way you breathed when I touched you.”
My nails pressed half-moons into my palm. “That is wildly unhelpful.”
“I wasn’t trying to help.”
“Evidently.”
Heat moved under my skin, quiet and exact. I looked out at the pale pool because looking at anything else felt like admitting defeat.
“You should go before one of us says something irresponsible,” I said.
“Too late.”
“Nick.”
“I’ll call after the reports. After I sleep,” he added, before I could object. “Accurately.”
Then the line ended.
I stood in my kitchen with the phone still in my hand.
Morning had moved fully into the house while we talked.
Pale light filled the edges of the minimalist cabinets and laid itself across the countertop.
Water clung to the patio stone in dark patches from the automated sprinklers. My coffee had officially surrendered.
I lowered the phone and opened the laptop.
Summer’s email waited at the top of my inbox.
Subject: Mercer Response Received
I clicked.
Nick’s formal reply filled the screen. Every sentence did exactly what he had said it would do. D.C. first. Family commitment. Possible Maris Key meeting afterward. Scope, access, timeline, conflict boundaries. A meeting to determine fit.
Professional. Restrained. Accurate.
My mouth curved before I gave it permission.
Below Summer’s message, my calendar waited. Vendor calls. Staff reviews. A security meeting with Gabriel. A finance check-in with Annie. A life already full before Nick Mercer had ever stepped into it.
I added one note to the empty block after the security review.
Mercer consultation: prepare terms.
Then, after a moment, I added another line beneath it.
Buy better coffee.
My phone buzzed before I could close the calendar.
NICK: One condition.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
ME: For the consultation?
NICK: No. For after.
ME: State your terms, Mercer.
The reply came before I could set the phone down.
NICK: Personal terms. Not professional.
NICK: Dinner first. Then I want you behind a door I’m allowed to lock.