“You go ahead with your meetings. I’ll drop my badge at the desk.” Renée reaches out to give my forearm a friendly squeeze. “And again, thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.”

“It was nothing. I’m glad it worked out. You should get an email with all the necessary paperwork from HR within the next few hours. If you don’t, call Mark and he’ll help straighten it out.”

She flashes one last beautiful smile and then strolls off toward the security gate, her heels clicking against the travertine.

My gaze catches on Kyle, his attention glued to the security camera monitors. I’ve lingered around Gus long enough to know those are the ones aimed at the parking garage. He’s standing, giving me a full view of that cut body and those muscular arms.

“So I just got off the phone with my guy from Jameson about the Marquee project,” Serge says, snapping my attention back to him. “Apparently he tried to set up a meeting with Tripp so we could go over the proposal and Tripp told him that we’ve decided to go in another direction.”

“He did what?” It comes out in a hiss, though the voice inside my head is screaming.

Serge takes a step back, as if he can see the rage ignite in my eyes. “I’m guessing you didn’t know.”

I take a deep, calming breath. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll take care of it.”

His forehead pulls together. “So that means we haven’t made any decisions on the construction contract, right?”

I force a wide smile. “That’s right. I will call Gary right now and make sure he knows that Calloway Group is still very much interested in their proposal.” A third-generation Jameson, Gary is a burly man who has an affinity for cigars and the Vegas strip, but he has always been a reliable partner. I can’t imagine the mood in his office right now. We’ve had dozens of conversations about the Marquee project already and all of them conveyed the same message—that Calloway Group had every intention of signing on with Jameson if the terms lined up.

Does my father know about this?

“Okay, I’ll just . . . keep the team working until you and Tripp figure out which direction we’re going.” There’s a hint of annoyance in Serge’s voice and I can’t blame him; I’m annoyed and I’m not the one managing all the finite details.

“We’ll have this sorted soon. I promise.”

Musical laughter carries from the lobby as Serge ducks into the elevator, holding me back from joining him.

Renée is leaning against the security desk, one leg crooked so only her toe touches the tile. Gus has just said something—charming, I’m sure—but her attention keeps shifting to Kyle.

Who is smiling down at her.

Not just a polite “have a nice day, ma’am” smile but that eye-crinkling, lip-curling one that used to make my stomach flip.

That flirtatious one.

Mark’s words echo in my mind then, about whether it was a mistake to introduce Renée to David.

Maybe the mistake doesn’t involve David at all.

A burn radiates in my chest and grows, as I start playing out a scenario before me—where Renée comes to work every morning, flashing that beautiful smile and saying hello in that sultry Southern accent, lingering at the security desk longer each day, until one Friday she mentions grabbing a drink after work and the next thing I know they’re moving in together.

And I’ve missed my chance.

“Holy shit,” I whisper under my breath, standing in the middle of the corridor, an obstacle for the people filing out of the elevator, jealousy gnawing at my insides.

I may not know how—and if—Kyle can fit into my life today, but I sure as hell know I’m not willing to lose my chance to find out.

The elevator doors open and out comes Tripp, a satchel over his shoulder, looking ready to leave the building.

“Piper. That’s a lovely dress,” he offers in a patronizing voice, flashing me a smarmy smile.

“Off to sabotage the Marquee project some more?” I throw back before I can bite my tongue.

His bushy gray eyebrows arch. It takes him a moment to process my words. “Excuse me?”

“Jameson.”

His lips twist as if working out a bitter taste in his mouth. “He called you? What did he say?”

“Does my father know you’ve basically set dynamite under our bridge with them?”

“Jameson can’t beat the bid KDZ is going to come in at. Kieran will agree with me.”

You mean the one that lines your pockets with half a million dollars?

I grit my teeth to hold back from accusing him right then and there. He’ll just deny it and without more evidence, I will look like an incompetent asshole.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.” He sails past me, his head high as he strolls toward the security gate.

Where Kyle is now stealing glances my way, in between Renée’s chatter, his sharp eyes narrowing at Tripp as he passes.

As much as I’d like to interrupt whatever is going on over there, I have a project and a long-term business relationship to save.

With that, I take the next elevator up.

Hoping Kyle doesn’t fall for Renée’s charms too quickly.

Chapter 16

 

THEN

2006, Camp Wawa, End of Week Two

“Finally, some sun . . . I was so sick of being cooped up inside.” Kyle kicks off his shoes and then wanders over to stand on the edge of the cliff and gaze out over the dark blue waters below. The early afternoon sun glimmers off the surface.

I’m not sure which has made the second week of camp harder—the three days of steady rain that forced indoor activities and caused cabin fever for everyone or our ten P.M. lockdown, thanks to our probation. On the plus side, I’m well rested.

“Hate to break it to you, but it’s supposed to storm later. At least, that’s what Christa said.” Though there is nothing more than a few wispy white clouds streaking the sky at the moment.

“And Christa’s never wrong about anything,” he murmurs sarcastically.

A speedboat races past, towing a female wakeboarder behind. Upon closer scrutiny, I realize it’s Claire, the waterskiing and wakeboarding instructor.

“She’s really good.”

Kyle watches her cut through the waves with ease, her muscular legs flexing. “She’s got some serious goals, that one. Wouldn’t be surprised to see her standing on a podium with a medal around her neck one day.”

I hesitate. “What about you?”

“I’m not much into waterskiing.” He reaches over his head to pull off his Wawa T-shirt, revealing two weeks’ worth of T-shirt tan lines and a smooth, sculpted back.

“No, I meant what are you going to do after high school? Like, do you have any colleges picked out?” Where will Kyle end up next year, and how far away will it be from me?

“Yeah . . . I don’t think college is for me.” He empties his pockets, casting their contents onto his favorite boulder.

“Really?” I frown. “So, then what will you do?” He must have a goal, something to work toward?

“Dunno? Get a job, I guess.”

“Doing what?” What interests you, Kyle? Besides jumping off cliffs and racing golf carts at night. In the two weeks that we’ve been here, aside from the topic of his family, our conversations have been light, shallow.