Laughter and jeers explode around the circle as I settle back down next to Kyle, my blood still racing through my ears, my eyes on the flames, unable to gather the nerve to meet his gaze.
Darian begins addressing the group—reminders for where to be tomorrow and when—but I dismiss her instantly. With Christa as my bunk mate, I basically have a walking, talking agenda anyway.
“You do not have a turtle farm,” Kyle mutters.
“I didn’t say I did.”
“Yeah, you . . .” His words drift as he realizes his own error.
“We have two snapping turtles living in our pond at home. They’ve been there since April.” My mother has tried to have them relocated, but they’ve somehow eluded the animal control guys so far. “But thank you for the idea. I never would have remembered them.”
He shakes his head in disbelief, and a soft curse slips from his lips.
“So . . .” I swallow away my nervousness. “Was that shocking enough for you?”
Kyle leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees again, making it impossible for me not to look at him, short of turning away. “Well, let’s see . . .” He uses his fingers to count out. “The most fucking convenient truth, if I’ve ever heard one . . .”
I giggle.
He hesitates. “ . . . a pretty ballsy admission . . .” But by the soft smile touching his lips, I’d say one that he’s pleased with. Is that a slight flush in his cheeks? “ . . . and then your lie.” A frown touches his brow. “So who was he, then?” He tilts his head to meet my gaze, and for the first time I see a genuinely somber look.
My breath hitches at the beauty of it. “Captain of the rugby team,” I admit. “How’d you know that part was true?”
He shrugs. There’s a long pause. “Sounds like he was a real dick.”
“You’re perceptive.” Please don’t be a dick, like him.
Kyle’s face splits with a wide smile. “So I’ve been told.” His gaze dips to my lips.
I feel the overwhelming urge to find out if Kyle is as good at kissing as he seems to be at guessing lies, and the brazenness to make sure I find out on my first night at Wawa. “Hey, so do you want to—”
“Miller! Rematch time!” a guy yells out, pulling Kyle’s attention away from me. A group of guys are jogging toward the nearby field, where a bright overhead light has been turned on to illuminate the grass. A guy bounces a soccer ball off his knee.
“Oh, you mean Eric. I don’t play soccer!” Kyle hollers back.
“What? You scored five—umph!” Eric’s words cut off when Kyle elbows him in the ribs.
“These guys don’t know what they’re talking about,” Kyle dismisses, then stands and stretches, his T-shirt lifting to give me a glimpse of a narrow but chiseled waist and dark hair trailing south of his belly button, his jeans sitting below the elastic waistband of his navy-blue Calvin Kleins. “But you know, I should, uh, head over there to, you know, console all those crybabies.”
I laugh. “Right.”
“I mean, I don’t play.”
“No, of course not.” I mock-frown.
He begins walking backward, away from me, grinning. “Because I’m not a crybaby.”
“You’re not. And by the way, did you want those ten sour apple Fun Dips with breakfast or lunch tomorrow?”
He gives me a gritted-tooth smile. “Canteen opens at ten thirty.”
“Mid-morning sugar rush it is.”
“Can’t wait.” He saunters away, Eric jostling him playfully.
“Oh my God!” Ashley squeals, sliding down to me. “I can’t believe you actually said that in front of everybody!”
“I know. Me neither.” And a quick glance around the group, namely at Avery’s and Olivia’s tight expressions, tells me they aren’t exactly pleased by it. But I guess when the new girl strolls in and basically stakes claim to the boy everyone else wants on the very first night, that’s bound to happen.
Crap, did I just guarantee myself enemies for an entire summer?
“I knew you liked him, by the way.” Ashley playfully jabs my ribs with her finger. “I could just tell.”
She could tell, but she doesn’t seem bothered or annoyed by the fact that I lied. She seems genuinely . . . giddy for me. It’s at that moment that I decide Ashley is a friend I need to have this summer.
Christa sits next to Ashley. “Seriously? Kyle Miller?” Her voice drips with disapproval. Her expression isn’t much better.
I’m immediately on the defensive. “And what’s wrong with him?”
“He’s a jerk.”
“Not to me, he isn’t.” I give her a knowing look. Judas.
“He’s irresponsible, he lies, he thinks everything’s a joke,” she says, listing Kyle’s supposed faults on her stubby fingers. “He shouldn’t have been allowed back here.”
“But he was.” I flash Ashley a wide-eyed “What the hell?” look.
“Something bad is going to happen one day, and it’ll be because of him. Mark my words.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Mark your words? What are you, ninety years old?”
“So . . .” Ashley leans forward to effectively block Christa’s face from mine and end a brewing confrontation. “What did you two talk about?”
I struggle to shake off my growing irritation with my new roommate. “Just . . . stuff.” As if I’m going to divulge anything within Christa’s earshot. “We made a bet, to see if he could guess my lie.”
Her eyes flash with excitement. “Who won?”
I look to the field in time to see Kyle peer over his shoulder at me, the sly smile touching his lips as infuriating as it is sexy. Ashley was right, he’s just . . . different, and I can’t put my finger on exactly how.
But I’m quite certain that I’m done for.
“Definitely me.”
Chapter 5
NOW
“Five copies, single-sided, two staples in each, a half-inch apart.” Mark’s voice is thin as he relays David’s scrupulous instructions sent to him last night.
“Ignore it. He can email the presentation to them.” David has had weeks to hire a new assistant and he’s dragging his feet. There is no way in hell I’m letting him dominate mine anymore.
I pause mid–pen stroke as the red light on my office phone flashes, indicating an incoming call. I muted the ringer long ago, the sound of it grating on my nerves.
“A. Calloway,” the display screen reads. It’s just like my mom to still dial the office line instead of my mobile. She’s no doubt following up on her email from last night to discuss the merits of damask versus brocade window treatments. She got the summer house in the divorce settlement and has taken to redecorating every three years. While I always enjoy talking to her, now is not the time for that thirty-minute conversation. Not when I have no valuable input to offer anyway.
Not when I’m anxiously waiting on an update on the city planner meeting from Tripp, hoping my power play has paid off.
I let her call go to voicemail.
“You know Tripp always has Jill call me to check your schedule, right?” Mark hovers over my desk, smoothly collecting one check requisition after another as I sign and approve payments to the various suppliers and contractors. “That way he can wait until you’re tied up in a meeting and just leave a message.”
I did not know that, actually, though now that I look back, he’s always leaving me voicemails. That way he doesn’t have to feel like he’s answering to me. I shouldn’t be surprised. Coward. “So he knows I’m going to be at The Port Room over lunch?”
“I’m sure Jill will tell him.”
The Port Room is a private members-only establishment of rustic wood floors and broad leather seats, where I sometimes like to hold meetings for its comfort. The downside is that phone conversations while inside are forbidden.
And Tripp knows that.
“I guess I’ll have to make sure to answer my phone then, won’t I?” Because I want to hear what the weasel has to say, l
ive. “And, let me guess, he’s taking the afternoon off?”
“Jill moved his tee-time to one.”
In my rush to pass the requisition on, the corner of the sheet catches my skin, slicing through. I hiss, sticking my index finger in my mouth to quell the sting and stifle the unprofessional curse that wants to scream out. “I should ask her to cancel it,” I grumble bitterly. Though they’re calling for 98 degrees this afternoon. At least the bastard will sweat in the midday heat.
“I bet Jill would do it for you.”
“Care to wager five sour apple Fun Dips on that?” Not that I’d win that gamble. It’s no secret that Tripp’s assistant, a woman in her late forties who dons purple cat’s-eye glasses and a librarian’s bun, doesn’t enjoy working for him.
He frowns curiously. “Fun Dip?”
“Never mind.” I sigh, scrawling “Piper C. Calloway”—C for Constance, after my dad’s mother—across the bottom of the last approval, giving the numbers a second fleeting glance. “Please tell me this is it.”
“This is it.”
“Thank God.”
“Except for the others coming this afternoon . . .”
With a groan, I toss my pen to my desk and lean back into my chair, inspecting my wound. Who knew this role would entail so much mundane paperwork?
Mark pauses at my office door to eye me curiously. “Wild night?”
“No, not really.” Though the bags under my eyes would lead one to believe otherwise. “Maybe too much red wine. My head’s a bit foggy.” Ashley, Christa, and I polished off two bottles while reminiscing about Camp Wawa. I was in bed by midnight, though I tossed and turned until three, my mind and heart dwelling on the possibility that the golden-eyed boy with the Fauxhawk might have crossed my path yesterday.
I’ve almost positive that it was Kyle I saw.
“You want me to hit Joe’s for a pick-me-up?”
I check the time. Ten thirty. I have an hour and a half until my lunch meeting—and Tripp’s call, if Mark is right about his avoidance tactics—and a dozen reports to go through, and I’m suddenly stir-crazy.
Besides, I have something I need to do downstairs.
“No, I’ll go. I could use a walk before I fall asleep in my chair staring at these numbers. Black, two sugars, right?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He frowns, as if surprised that I remembered. “You know . . . you’re pretty cool to work for.” The glass door to my office shuts before I have a chance to respond, but his words leave me with a smile. I think I know where that praise is coming from. It’s well known around the company that the executive team, including my father, has an old-school mentality when it comes to assistants. A “you take care of me” way of operating, from a time when people still readily used the term secretaries and assistants were more like Depression-era work-wives, making sure their bosses were well caffeinated and properly fed, and that the real wives received gifts on wedding anniversaries and birthdays.
It’s not that the executive assistants here are treated poorly—they’re applauded and well compensated for their mothering abilities. But it’s an archaic environment, one I can’t wait to change.
My dad may have frowned when I told him I’d hired a male assistant, but he didn’t try to dissuade me. And I’ve never treated Mark like someone who is here merely to fetch coffee and run the printer. Sure, he does those things, as well as book meeting rooms and set up appointments, but I’ve also enrolled him in tasks that teach him about the industry and prove that I believe he has a useful head on his shoulders. When Mark moves on, it’ll be to bigger and better things, and I’ll be happy for him.
I reach for my purse just as raucous male laughter carries from down the hall. A moment later, my father and David appear. “You’re kidding me,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, taking in the sight of them. They’re wearing their usual Friday golf attire—tailored wool-blend pants and collared shirts—only this week they’re dressed identically in charcoal gray and powder pink.
My dad raps his knuckles twice against Mark’s desk as he passes—his standard greeting, one that always makes Mark visibly stiffen—and then strolls right into my office.
“Welcome back! How was Tokyo?” I haven’t seen him since early last week.
“Exhausting. Glad to be home. Got my five-mile run in as the sun was coming up and then eighteen holes with my favorite guy.” Dad has a gruff, steely voice, the kind that commands attention when he speaks and intimidates people. He also can’t hold a smile for long, which only ups the intimidation factor. “And how’s my daughter? Holding down the Calloway fort?”
“Someone has to.” I smile wryly up at him. “You got some color.”
“Did I?” He frowns as he checks his sinewy forearms, already golden and toned and coated with darker hair than the full, thick mane of silvery gray on his head. He wasn’t always so focused on his health, having spent years carrying around an extra twenty pounds thanks to frequent steak dinners and daily cocktail hours. But a mild heart attack two years ago changed things. He’ll still have the occasional scotch, but now his diet consists mainly of white fish and salads, and he has all but cut out caffeine.
He wanders over to the windows to gaze down over the city, his arms resting across his chest. No doubt admiring his life’s work so far and what is yet to come. By the time he retires, Kieran Calloway will have made his mark on a city that half a million people call home, with everything from luxury high-rises to affordable condominiums, to retail and entertainment locations and even an architecturally world-renowned library.
Talk about a legacy.
“I heard about your problems with Tripp over the Marquee project.”
Straight to business.
I spear a glare through two glass walls. It’s wasted effort, though, as David’s back is to me, his phone pressed to his ear as he bounces a tennis ball against his window.
I hope it pins him in the eye.
“I’m handling it.”
“Are you?” he asks lightly, but I hear the dicey undercurrent beneath it. “I’ve known Tripp a long time. There’s a certain nuance to motivating him.”
“Does it involve a bottle of Hendrick’s?” I mutter under my breath.
“I’ve left him a message this morning, emphasizing how important his role is in—”
“You didn’t!” I burst, tossing the pen in my hand across my desk in frustration. “Don’t you see how bad this looks for me?” It looks like I’ve run to my daddy with my problems because I can’t handle them on my own. It’s exactly what Tripp expects.
Unlike my girlish shrill, his voice remains calm. “I’m not going to risk losing him for the sake of your ego, Piper. Calloway Group is not a one-man show. You need guys like him and David in your corner, whether you like them or not.”
I take a deep, calming breath and try to match his tone, all while inside I’m screaming. “I’m waiting on a call from Tripp to update me on the meeting with the city planners, and I expect things to move forward smoothly after today—”
“Nothing ever moves smoothly in this industry.”
“If I have to get more involved, I will.”
The responding sigh is one that breeds tension in my shoulders. It means I’m about to get a lecture. Wandering back to my desk, he perches himself on the edge. “You lead them. You guide them. You motivate them. And you rely on them. You don’t do their jobs for them, Piper.”
“You can’t motivate someone who doesn’t respect you.”
“Then earn Tripp’s respect.”
“How? The guy calls me a spoiled tart to anyone who will listen!”
He squeezes the bridge of his nose with his index finger, as if pained from a headache. “I’ll talk to him.”
“No, you will not, Dad!” I tack on a sigh and a calmer “Please don’t,” because my voice is bordering on hysterical.
He pauses, as if searching for another angle in this conversation. “Well, are you a spoiled tart?”
“What? No!”
“Good. I’m glad you know your worth. And I know that you are a brilliant young woman with the passion and the potential to continue leading the Calloway legacy like no one else. That’s why I promoted you.” He offers me a rare, encouraging smile before it falls off. “Now prove it to the rest of them.” There’s an edge creeping into his brusque voice. “I have no plans on going anywhere anytime soon, but as we learned two years ago, nothing is guaranteed. I want you at the head of the Calloway table now, with your feet in the fire, so everyone can start getting used to the idea of you running CG one day. But you still have a lot to learn, from me and from this executive team. That includes Tripp.”
“Yes, sir,” I manage to get out through gritted teeth. “I just don’t understand what value you see in him.”
“I will admit that Tripp has let his false aspirations cloud his judgment lately. But he has been by my side for almost thirty years. That kind of loyalty counts for something in this business.” Dad’s gaze wanders toward the skyline once again. “How is everything with the Waterway project?”
I push aside my dour mood as I pat the stack of papers next to me. “Final design approvals have come in. Seagrum and Whilcroft have signed the loan papers.”
“How short are we on financing?”
“We need another three hundred million to close the construction loan.”
“How are talks with Deutsche Bank coming along?”
“Long and excruciating, but I think we’re making headway. Jim is getting more numbers to them.” Jim, our director of investments, is a tall, slender man with a perpetual five o’clock shadow and a keen financial sense, especially when it comes to negotiations involving that kind of money.
“And the unveiling ceremony?”
“At the art gallery on Fifth. Everything’s underway for that.”
“Keep me informed,” Dad murmurs, reaching for the gift that arrived from my brother last week—made from recycled silver spoons, which I don’t think was a coincidence given he always jokes that we came out of my mother’s womb suckling on them—to study it with an incredulous look. “That’s what this thing is for? To hold my phone?”
Say You Still Love Me Page 7
