19. Jamison #4
I could stop there. That would be respectful. One words that had never once looked comfortable beside my name.
Instead, I typed:
I need to see you soon.
Then deleted it because apparently some instinct inside me understood that need was not the same as right.
I tried again.
When you are ready, I would like to speak to you properly.
I stared at it. Properly. Disgusting word. Made me sound like I owned a cardigan and believed in mutual understanding.
I sent it anyway.
Sienna read it on the feed, she lowered the coffee, looked down at her phone. My phone buzzed. Sienna.
Okay.
Another okay.
If she kept giving me those, I was going to build a religion around the word and make Harrison officiate out of spite. I read it five times. Then put the phone down.
Picked it up again.
Put it down.
Sienna stayed outside on the feed, finished the coffee, while speaking to one of the younger dancers. She looked cold. I disliked that immediately.
“Reeves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why is she cold?”
There was a pause from the office line.
“Because she is outside, sir.”
I looked at the screen. “I did not ask for a weather report.”
“I’ll have someone bring coats.”
“No.”
The word left me too fast.
Reeves went quiet on the line, which was wise. Silence was a survival skill. More people should develop it before speaking to me.
On the feed, Sienna tucked one hand beneath her opposite elbow and shifted her weight off one foot. Her wrap sweater was thin. Pretty, of course, because the woman could make impractical clothing look like a religious experience, but absolutely fucking useless against Harlan weather.
Poor thing was freezing.
Because the building was incompetent. Not because I had evacuated it. That was an important distinction.
My eyes moved over the pavement. Someone laughed near her. A man from the office block held a coffee and stared too long at the line of girls waiting on the curb.
I zoomed the camera in.
His face filled one corner of the screen.
“Who is that?”
“Checking now, sir.” Reeves answered immediately.
“He’s looking at her.”
Another pause. “He appears to be looking in the general direction of the evacuated crowd.”
“He is looking at her.”
“Understood.”
“He has three seconds to remember his life has value.”
“Sir.”
“What?”
“He has turned away.”
I watched the man step aside and pretend to be very interested in his phone.
Sienna shivered. She pulled the sleeves of her sweater farther over her hands and smiled at another dancer like nothing was wrong.
“Reeves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it rational for me to go down there with the coat myself?”
There was a silence long enough to become offensive.
“Reeves.”
“I’m considering the safest answer.”
“That was not the question.”
“No, sir. It would not traditionally be considered necessary for you to personally deliver a coat during a building evacuation you are monitoring remotely.”
I stared at the screen. “That was too many words for no.”
“It was a carefully structured no.”
“Wrong.”
“Of course, sir.”
“She is cold.”
“Yes.”
“She is my fiancée. I am allowed to be concerned.”
“Yes.”
“Then it is rational.”
Reeves breathed once, very quietly.
“Would you like the car brought around?”
“No. The studio is eight minutes away. I’ll drive.”
“That seems less rational.”
“I am done consulting you.”
“Understood.”
I ended the call.
Then I stood there for three seconds, watching Sienna freeze on my wall of surveillance feeds, and felt something hot and ugly crawl up through my chest.
She was standing outside because of me.
No.
Because of faulty electrical compliance.
Still, I had made the call…forced the evacuation. For communication.
A normal courtship tactic, provided the courtship was taking place in a city where everyone had lost their mind and I happened to own most of the emergency exits.
I grabbed my jacket.
A normal coat would not do.
I opened the secure wardrobe attached to the office and looked through the emergency items Reeves kept there for public events. Umbrellas. Men’s overcoats. Cashmere scarves. Gloves. A ridiculous amount of black fabric because apparently all my contingencies dressed for funerals.
I called Reeves back.
“Yes, sir.”
“I need a coat.”
“You have several.”
“For Sienna.”
“I had one sent.”
“No. I need one that doesn’t look like it came from a supply closet.”
“Sir, I have access to the boutique two floors below. They carry women’s clothing.”
“Luxury?”
“Yes.”
“Not just luxury. Very luxury.”
A pause.
“Very luxury.”
“Do not repeat it like I invented the concept.”
“Of course. Size?”
I looked at Sienna on the screen. Small. Fine-boned. Wrapped in the useless little sweater.
“Her size is in the styling file.”
“Color?”
I looked at the feeds again. Pale sweater. Black hair. “Cream. Or soft grey. Something warm.”
“You hate cream sir.”
“Not on her.”
“Understood.”
“And no fucking logo.”
“Obviously.”
“Fur?”
“Real or faux?”
“Do I look like I care about public opinion?”
“You care if Miss Bellemere cares.”
I hated that Reeves was right.
“Faux. The best one. If it looks cheap, I’ll know.”
“Yes, sir.”
I left the office before he answered. By the time I reached the private lift, Reeves was already stepping out of the boutique level with a garment bag over one arm and the expression of a man who had sprinted while pretending not to.
He handed it to me.
I unzipped it.
The coat inside was pale grey cashmere, long, soft, lined in silk, with a high collar. Good. Ridiculous price tag still tucked inside. Better.
“She’ll drown in this,” I said.
“It is the correct size.”
“She’s tiny.”
“Yes, sir.”
I looked at him.
He corrected smoothly, “The coat is proportioned for Miss Bellemere.”
“Fine.”
“Should I send security ahead?”
“No.”
“Sir.”
“I am not arriving with an army to hand my fiancée a coat.”
Reeves said nothing.
I narrowed my eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“It may already appear somewhat dramatic that you are personally attending a minor evacuation with a luxury coat in hand.”
“It is concern.”
“Certainly.”
“Deep concern.”
“Of course.”
“For a safety incident.”
“Yes.”
“That I noticed through ordinary channels.”
Reeves’ face did not move. Credit to him. He was an artist of not dying. I took the coat and headed for the car.
The drive took seven minutes because Harlan traffic understood me better when my hand stayed on the horn.
By the time I reached the Arts Quarter, the street had become a neat little chaos of dancers, office workers, marshals, building staff, and useless men in reflective vests pretending they had authority because someone had given them a clipboard.
Security had already cleared a parking space without being asked.
I got out with the coat folded over one arm. Several heads turned. Let them see a concerned fiancé arrives at scene after safety issue involving future wife.
Very respectable.
Very normal.
Not at all the behavior of a man who had caused the safety issue to create an opening for emotional communication, then immediately decided emotional communication was too slow and bought a coat instead.
Sienna saw me after everyone else did. Her eyes found mine across the pavement. Then a gust of wind caused her to shiver again.
My anger found a cleaner target. The weather. Men with clipboards. Excellent. Plenty to work with.
I crossed the pavement toward her.
People moved out of my way. That was one of the few reliable pleasures left in modern society.
Sienna’s hand tightened around the strap of her ballet bag.
“Jamison,” she said.
“You’re cold.”
She blinked, then glanced down as if I had accused her of something. “I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
Her mouth parted slightly.
I held out the coat. “Put this on.”
“Oh.” She looked at it. Then at me. “You didn’t have to—”
“Put it on, Sienna.”
The words came out sharper than intended. Her shoulders tightened. My jaw clenched.
Wonderful.
I had been in front of her for nine seconds and already sounded like I was giving orders to a hostage negotiator.
I forced my voice lower.
“Please.”
She stared at me for a heartbeat, then carefully took the coat. I moved before she could struggle with it.
“Here.” I stepped behind her.
I held the coat open, and after a small hesitation, she slid one arm in, then the other.
Mine.
I pulled the coat carefully into place and belted it at her waist before I remembered normal men did not dress women they had not properly apologized to in the middle of a pavement while pretending this was not the highlight of their day.
Too late.
The belt was tied. She looked utterly perfect in it. Warm. Very fucking mine.
“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.
I should have said, So are you. Instead, I looked toward the building and said, “This place is a fucking liability.”
Close enough.
“They said it was just the alarm.” She murmured.
“They always say it is just the alarm before the building kills someone.”
A dancer nearby stared.
I stared back. Do not interrupt my emotional communication time with my fiancé. The dancer had no idea how costly this moment was going to be for other people.
She looked away.
Sienna’s mouth twitched. “It probably won’t kill anyone,”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” she admitted. “I don’t.”
“Exactly.” I looked down at her. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did anyone touch you during the evacuation?”
Her brow creased. “No.”
“Did anyone push you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone speak to you in a way I would dislike?”
She paused. That pause nearly ruined several lives. I scanned the area memorising possible targets before they scattered like rats. Then looked back at my baby.
“Sienna.”
“No,” she said quickly. “No one did.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You hesitated.”
“I was thinking.”
“About?”
“Well you dislike most ways people speak.”
Then, against my will, something in my chest shifted. A dry little spark of the girl who used to talk to me without measuring every syllable.
I looked at her mouth.
Do not stare at her mouth on a public street while pretending to conduct a safety inspection.
I looked at the building instead.
“Most people speak badly.”
“That seems harsh.”
“Most people are badly made.”
Her mouth did it again. The tiny twitch.
Jesus Christ.