22. Elliot
ELLIOT
It was as if everyone was out to get me. And no, I was not being a ‘dramatic crybaby’ like Rowan suggested. I was a man who had grown accustomed to not being told no, and suddenly every fucking person in Chicago had decided no was their favourite word.
No, Elliot. No, you can’t have her number. No, I don’t know where she is. No, I won’t pass along a message. No, I cannot confirm when or if she’ll be returning to Chicago.
No.
No.
No.
No.
The word had become to feel like a personal attack.
Timothy was especially enjoying himself.
I had asked to speak to Harper so many times that the receptionist at her old firm no longer bothered pretending she didn’t recognize my voice.
She simply transferred me to Timothy, who answered with the kind of professional brightness that made me want to commit a felony.
“Mr. Vale,” he said on Tuesday morning, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “How can I help you today?”
“You can put Harper on the phone.” I huffed.
“As I’ve mentioned, Ms. Lane is no longer with the company.”
Yes, he had mentioned that, and every time he had, it had felt like a knife twisting in my gut. Harper left her fucking job.
“Then forward me to her,” I demanded.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Can’t or won’t?” I ground out because this little routine was getting exhausting.
A pause, then, “Both.”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Timothy.”
“Mr. Vale.”
“I need to speak with her.” Was I whining? I am going to say no, but Timothy probably would have a different opinion.
“So you’ve mentioned.”
“I need five minutes.” I pleaded.
“I cannot help with that.”
“One minute.” Negotiations were supposed to be my strong suit.
“No.”
See that fucking word.
“Thirty seconds.” I tried again.
“No.”
“Are you enjoying this?” I finally asked, because I truly felt like he was.
Another pause, then calmly, “No, I am not enjoying it.”
Liar.
I knew smug when I heard it. So, by Thursday, I stopped calling and simply showed up.
That felt more productive, like maybe my charm worked better in person.
It did not.
Timothy’s office was best described as bland beige, like oatmeal trying to be fancy.
Glass walls, a clean, minimal desk, and one plant that looked fake but apparently was not.
Oh, and let’s not forget, a framed certification hung on the wall like he wanted people to know he had credentials beyond irritating me.
He sat behind his desk with his hands folded, wearing a charcoal suit that matched his stupid glasses and the expression of a man who had read every email from Harper, saved them in colour-coded folders, and likely slept well at night because he had never destroyed a woman who showed up for him.
I hated him.
“Do you need me to go over the Northwell documents again, or perhaps we can talk through some options for your PR plan,” he said.
“I don’t want the documents, and I sure as fuck don’t need you telling me how to improve my image.”
“Then, unfortunately, I’m not sure what I can do for you.”
“I want Harper.” The words came out before I could make them sound less pathetic.
Timothy’s expression shifted. Not enough for most people to notice. I noticed. A small flicker of satisfaction spread across his face. You cannot wipe that look off his face, Elliot…
“Ms. Lane is not available.”
“She is to you.” I rebutted.
He leaned back slightly. “Even if I had a way to contact her outside professional channels, which I am not confirming, I would not provide that information to you.”
“Why?” I asked and was trying really hard not to run my hands through my hair in exasperation or throw my phone at the man behind the desk.
“Because she did not give me permission to.” He replied with a smug little look on his stupid face.
“Come on.” I pushed away from the chair and paced once across the room. “I’m not asking for her bank records, just her phone number.”
“You’re asking for access to someone who has made it clear she does not want to give it to you.”
That line particularly hurt, so I ignored it and doubled down on the stupid in the room, “I’ll pay you.”
Timothy blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Name your price.”
“Mr. Vale.”
“What do you need? A vacation, promotion, or maybe a better office. Whatever you want.” I said, and at this point, my hands may have been flailing a little.
He stared at me as if I had just stripped naked and started reciting poetry. “You are attempting to bribe me?”
“I’m attempting to solve a problem.” I corrected, because how had this gone so bad? I dealt with people for a living; I was the charm, the face of Northwell.
“You are the problem,” he replied.
My jaw flexed, and Timothy’s eyes widened slightly, like he knew he had gone too far.
Maybe he had a survival instinct after all.
My gaze dropped to his phone when it lit up on the desk. A message, but he turned the screen face down before I could read it, and suddenly every rational thought in my head evaporated.
“Is that her?”
Timothy’s hand moved toward the phone. “Mr. Vale…”
I reached for it, and he snatched it back. Which obviously meant it was her.
“Give me the phone,” I growled.
“No.”
“Timothy.”
“No.”
That fucking word.
I leaned over the desk; he leaned back, and for one ridiculous second we both froze, staring at each other across the glossy surface.
Then I lunged. Not my finest moment. But that seems to be what I have been reduced to lately.
There was a scramble of limbs, a sharp curse from Timothy, the sound of his chair rolling back, and then my hip hit the corner of his desk hard enough that his monitor tipped sideways and his keyboard crashed to the floor.
The office door opened, and Rowan stood in the doorway. He looked at me half sprawled across Timothy’s desk, at Timothy clutching his phone to his chest, at the keyboard on the floor, and then looked back at me. His face was … well, you can imagine. I was fairly sure I had finally broken him.
“Is this where we are now?” he asked.
Timothy adjusted his jacket with what I felt was unnecessary dignity. “Unfortunately.”
“He has her number,” I said, pointing at Timothy like a child tattling on a sibling.
Rowan sighed, a full-body, soul-leaving sigh. “Elliot.”
“He does.”
“I know,” he agreed.
“He’s hiding it.”
“I know,” he repeated.
“Make him give it to me.”
Rowan looked at Timothy. “Timothy.”
“Yes?” Now he looked scared, well, you should be…
“Continue hiding it.”
“Of course.”
I gaped at Rowan. “Traitor.”
Rowan jerked his chin toward the hall. “Out.”
“No.”
“Out.”
“I’m not a dog.” I totally freaked out, desperately trying to keep my composure.
“You’re acting like one.”
Timothy made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh. I pointed at him. “You’re on my list.”
Rowan grabbed the back of my jacket and hauled me out of Timothy’s office before I could say something that would get Northwell sued. Or before I tried for the phone again.
Honestly, it could have gone either way.
The elevator ride down was silent, not peaceful silence. The kind where Rowan was clearly deciding whether murder was worth the paperwork.
Finally, he said, “Are you done embarrassing yourself?”
“I wasn’t embarrassing myself.”
“You tried to steal that man’s phone.”
“He is blocking me from Harper.”
Rowan turned his head slowly. I hated when he did that. It made him look like a disappointed gargoyle.
“She left,” he said.
The words hurt more than they should have, because I fucking knew she left. “I know that.”
“No,” his voice was flat. “You know she physically left. You still haven’t accepted that she gets to stay gone.”
My jaw tightened, and the elevator numbers dropped slowly.
“I just need to talk to her.” I pleaded.
“You keep saying that,” Rowan said while turning his attention to his phone.
“Because I do.”
“And what exactly are you going to say?”
The question irritated me, mostly because I didn’t have an answer that didn’t sound like begging. What could I say to fix what had happened? I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared at the doors.
“I don’t know.”
Rowan’s expression shifted. “Then maybe figure that out before you tackle your PR consultant.”
I glared at him; he looked unimpressed. The doors opened, and Rowan stepped out. I followed because apparently this was my life now. Being escorted out of buildings like a drunk uncle at a wedding. A new low for me? Yes. An all-time low? No, that came the next day.
Because the next day, I drove to Harper’s townhouse. I told myself I was not stalking; I was simply checking, and there was a difference. Probably.
I parked across the street and stared at the building for ten minutes before getting out of the car.
The townhouse was exactly like her. Elegant, but understated in a way that made people who knew better look twice.
I hated that I had never been inside. Not once.
She had always come to me. My apartment, office, events…
My world. The realization twisted in my gut before I could ignore it.
I crossed the street, knocked, and Thomas opened the door. He looked at me. Then started closing it. Apparently, everyone was on ‘team be an asshole to Elliot’…
“Wait.”
“No.”
I planted one hand on the door before he could shut it entirely. “Thomas.”
“Mr. Vale.”
Oh, so he definitely knew who I was.
“I need to know if she’s okay.”
His expression didn’t change, not even a twitch. “I imagine she is considerably better than she was.”
That landed with enough force that my hand slipped slightly on the door. “I just want to talk to her.”
“She does not want to talk to you,” he countered.
“You don’t know that.” I definitely whined.
“I do.”
My chest tightened. “Did she tell you that?”
Thomas stared at me, giving nothing away. Like a vault. A smug, well-dressed, impossible vault.
“When is she coming back?” I tried a different tactic.
“I don’t know,” he replied. Did he just check his cuticles? Like I am boring him...
“That’s a lie.” I ground out.
“Yes.”