ChapterOne
Oliver
The intercom on the corner of the desk beeps. “Mr. Nichols, Miss Fox wishes to speak with you.”
I lift my bored gaze from the steady stream of numbers flowing across the screen and frown. “I already spoke with Finley this morning. What does she want now?”
The last conversation we had was pointless. Finley updated me on how the cabins for the camp instructors were nearly complete, contracts for the rest of the renovations confirmed, interviews in progress, and the student quarters were on track to be finished by the end of summer—all of which I knew and I didn’t care about anyway. The worst part of the interaction was when Archer, my childhood acquaintance and business associate who now lives with Finley, thrust his way into the conversation between me and Finley to “see how things are going.” Things being code for my emotional well-being.
“Fine,” I said, the best answer I could muster.
He then proceeded to update me ad nauseam on the status of all his personal and professional accomplishments of late. By all appearances, and by his own declarations, Archer is happy living in a run-down house in the middle of nowhere with Finley Fox and her chaotic family. A fact I find both annoying and mystifying.
“It’s not Finley,” Carson says. “It’s Piper. Can I send her in?”
My surroundings brighten subtly, the world coming into sharp focus.
This morning started like every other Tuesday. I got out of bed at five. Drank a high-protein smoothie before running on the treadmill for an hour. Showered. Went down to the third floor to work by precisely seven a.m. Ate avocado toast and egg whites prepared by my chef at nine a.m. It was all typical. Normal. Expected. Ordinary. Gray. Boring.
My whole life has become a series of incremental steps and chores that don’t have any meaning and do nothing to hold my attention, yet at just the mention of Piper Fox’s name, suddenly I’m off the hamster wheel, where I’ve been running in a dark room, going nowhere, and am thrust out into the sunshine with the breeze and the trees and limitless possibilities.
Foolish. Ridiculous. Irrational.
Why is she here? We had a tacit understanding to avoid each other after the last time.
I shove the thought away. I can’t think of that now, not when I’m about to be confronted with her presence for the first time in three months and eleven days.
“Should I tell her you’re busy?” Carson asks.
Piper is out there, listening to the entire conversation, so I resist the urge to snap at Carson. To anyone else, he would sound professional and uninterested, but he’s teasing me. I appreciate that he doesn’t grovel or behave obsequiously, and I enjoy his brash honesty, annoying as it may be. It’s one of the reasons I stole him from his last employer and paid him extensively for the defection.
“Send her in.” I glance around my office.
This won’t do at all. The room is cold, sparse. No personal photos, all business. The desk is devoid of paperwork and has only a laptop. The whole setup—the stark colors, the size, the raised podium where my desk is, the way my chair is slightly elevated—is arranged to put me in a position of power, not in an obvious way but just enough that the guest subconsciously knows I’m the one in charge.
But using these kinds of nonverbal cues on Piper rubs me the wrong way. It doesn’t give me the pleasure it would with anyone else. Quickly, I move out from behind the massive black desk to the sitting area closer to the door. I reposition a file from the table to the chair, and just in time, I sit on the couch, leaving the spot next to me as the only reasonable seat left.
Piper enters, the door shutting behind her. I take a moment to drink her in, keeping my face impassive. I’ve been a fan of her artwork for many years, and my admiration has leaked into our acquaintanceship. She is petite with delicate sprite-like features. Dark hair frames her oval face, and her eyes are large and expressive. On the surface, she isn’t out of the ordinary, but her work has absorbed my interest since the very beginning. She sees things in a way that that tugs at all the emotions I’ve managed to eliminate to get to where I am today.
I want her in a way that I can’t define. It’s a pointless, impractical, annoying desire. I built her up in my mind before we even met, when I had seen her art. That must be the reason for these feelings: artistic respect, nothing more.
“Mr. Nichols. Thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry to drop in unexpectedly like this.”
Mr. Nichols? She spent almost an entire night wrapped in my arms, and she calls me Mr. Nichols?
“You cut your hair,” I say.
She fingers the dark strands, which now fall slightly below her shoulders. “I’ve wanted to for a while, but I couldn’t before because…” She falters, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, I just couldn’t.” She glances away.
My mind takes her words and body language apart and turns them over, examining their deeper meaning. Ben, her controlling ex-boyfriend, likely has something to do with her new hair preference and why she didn’t change it when she wanted to.
“Please. Have a seat.” I gesture to the couch next to me.
She walks over and perches on the edge of the seat, a white-knuckled grip on the strap of her purse.
My gaze sharpens on the delicate shadows under her eyes. “You haven’t been sleeping well.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Have you?”