Chapter 6
Everett
She stayed in the guest suite last night.
Second floor, down the hall from the main staircase.
Far enough from my rooms on the upper floors to maintain appropriate distance.
Close enough I lay awake at two in the morning, listening to the old building settle, wondering if that creak was her moving around or the brownstone doing what brownstones do.
She's in the kitchen when I come downstairs, barefoot, wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Her hair's twisted into the messy knot she favors, revealing the curve of her neck. She startles when she sees me, nearly dropping the mug she's holding.
"Sorry." She sets it down, apology already forming. "I made coffee. I hope that's all right."
"Sure." The word comes out harder than I intend. I soften my tone. "The coffee's for anyone who wants it."
She relaxes slightly, wrapping her hands around the mug. Watching her drink from it feels both odd and perfectly natural. Like being territorial over a coffee mug is ridiculous.
She nods, relief crossing her face. "Thank you. I know this was above and beyond—"
"The car service will be here at nine," I say.
"I'd like you to pack what you need for the next several days.
Once you have your phone back, text me your vehicle information.
I'll arrange for a duplicate car key to be made and brought here, or the service can wait while you retrieve your car from the theater. "
"Wow. You move fast."
"I don't see the point in waiting."
"Really, I'm okay once I get my car back staying at my apartment."
"I'd like you to stay here until the police finish their report. I'm also having a security system installed in your apartment. They can't get to it until Monday." I rinse my mug, set it in the sink. "I'll be out most of the day. Golf. I'll be back by three or four this afternoon."
"That's not necessary. The alarm. And I wasn't planning on coming back here. You don't need to rush back on my account."
"The security code is 4-7-2-9," I say, ignoring her point. "Memorize it. Panel's by the front entrance. I'll leave a key for you on the kitchen counter."
"Thank you." Her voice softens. "For all of this. I know it's more than the contract requires."
I should say something professional. Something about brand protection or merger optics or protecting company assets.
Instead, I find myself turning to face her. "The contract didn't account for theft. It accounts for it now."
She doesn't look convinced. She doesn't argue either.
I shower, change into golf clothes, make myself presentable. The routine is familiar, grounding. By the time I'm downstairs again, the two coffee mugs sit in the drying rack, evidence of the morning's conversation.
Evidence of someone else in my space.
I'm checking my phone when the doorbell rings – Rowan's particular pattern, three sharp bursts.
I open the door to find him grinning, dressed in golf gear, car keys dangling from one finger.
"Ready to lose spectacularly?" He brushes past me into the foyer, then stops. His gaze tracks to the kitchen, to the two mugs in the drying rack.
His eyebrows climb toward his hairline.
"You had company." Not a question.
"Golf starts at ten," I say, grabbing my jacket from the closet. "We should go."
"We're not leaving until you explain why there are two coffee mugs in your kitchen." He leans against the doorframe, clearly enjoying himself. "You live alone. You use one mug. You're compulsively neat about it."
"Someone stayed over."
"Someone." He draws the word out. "What kind of someone?"
I lock the front door, test the handle. "The kind who needed a safe place to stay."
"Ev." His tone shifts, concern bleeding through the teasing. "What's going on?"
We head down the front steps toward his car. I wait until we're both inside, doors closed, before answering.
"Remember the assistant I hired for the merger optics? Margot Bennett?"
"The one you pulled from the pool to be your event date?" He starts the engine, pulling into traffic. "Hard to forget. You described the arrangement in excruciating contractual detail."
"Someone grabbed her purse last night. Outside the children's theater where she volunteers." The words feel wrong. "She lost her phone, her wallet, her keys. Everything."
Rowan goes quiet. We stop at a red light, and he turns to look at me.
"So you brought her to your place."
"Her friend called me. Said Margot had been mugged, and I should know what happened." My hands flex against my thighs. "What was I supposed to do? Send her back to an apartment with compromised locks? Leave her stranded without a phone or money?"
"You could have sent a car service to a hotel. Paid for security. Put it on the company card."
"I did what made sense in the moment."
"You invited her to stay at your brownstone." He merges onto the parkway heading toward the golf club. "Not 'what made sense in the moment.'"
"And the fact you're already defensive about it?" He glances at me. "Nothing to do with how you actually regard the situation?"
"There are no feelings. This is a contract."
"Contracts don't require you to open your home to someone." His voice gentles. "You've had arrangements before. Dates for events. Companions when the board gets pushy about your image. You've never brought any of them home."
My jaw tightens. "This situation is different."
"How?"
"She needed help."
He pulls into the club parking lot, finds a spot near the clubhouse. Neither of us moves to get out.
He turns to face me. "Ask yourself why you didn't hesitate last night. Why, when her friend called, you didn't think twice about dropping everything to go help her."
He climbs out, then leans back in through the open door. "You, Everett Lockwood, notorious for delegating everything outside your direct control. You see why I'm concerned?"
He closes the door and heads toward the clubhouse.
I sit in the car, hands gripped on my knees, chest tight.
He's wrong.
He has to be wrong.
Margot is temporary. Part of a solution to a problem the board created.
The fact I can still see her this morning, barefoot in my kitchen, drinking from my coffee mug – that doesn't mean anything.
The fact I'm already calculating whether I can reasonably leave by two-thirty… That's planning.
Efficient. That's all this is.
I grab my clubs from the trunk and follow Rowan inside.