She tugged off her black coat and slung it over the back of a large sofa. The silver shift she wore clung to every curve. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Of course. Glad to be your fictional escape from Trip, anytime you need it.”
Ada laughed low, her eyes warm as they gazed at me. “You’re good at shepherding drunk people.”
“I have a lot of practice,” I said dryly.
“So, have I earned the right to sleep in tomorrow?”
I laughed, despite myself. “Good try. But no.”
“Shoot. Had to try.”
Tomorrow, when all this would be forgotten and she would no longer look at me like that - like I was her friend or confidant. Like I was one of her favorite people.
“Do you live far away?”
I cleared my throat. “No. In fact, I live right down the street.”
“Good. I’d hate to see you have to walk home alone, intoxicated and in the dark.”
“What would you do if I lived far away?” I said, amused.
Ada came closer, stopping only a pace away. “I’d have to follow you home,” she said seriously. “And then you couldn’t leave me there, so you’d follow me home. It would be a never-ending loop, and we’d be caught in a time-space continuum until we eventually died of starvation.”
“Death by chivalry.”
“Precisely,” she declared.
“You’re silly.”
She shrugged. “You like it.”
I was shocked to find that it was true. And that I didn’t want to leave, despite the fact that I absolutely, most definitely, should. Not only did we have work tomorrow, but she was drunk. And my intern. And Arthur’s daughter.
And the most interesting person I’d ever met.
“I’ll head out. Thanks for tonight.”
She nodded, watching me as I began to walk backwards to the elevator. Ada didn’t close the door, not even when I’d pressed the button, her gaze still lingering on me.
I felt light-headed and I didn’t think it was the wine.
“Oh, and Grant?”
“Yes?”
“You know the darkness I was talking about earlier?”
I nodded.
“Well. I’m not falling anymore.”
Despite myself, I smiled at her. “I’m glad.”
11
Ada
Sleep had always come easily to me as a child. Even as a teenager, I had always slept soundly, from the moment my head hit the pillow until the alarm rang in the morning. After Mom passed, that changed, and after Max, nights became some of the hardest to make it through.
Which is why - for the longest time - I tried to avoid having to go to bed with my thoughts, to fill the nights with light and laughter and false friends. But tonight there was only silence in my apartment and my bed felt large and empty.
I didn’t reach for the image, but it came anyway: Grant in my apartment, hovering awkwardly on the doorstep. I could have invited him in. But the impulse made no sense, and I couldn’t have handled his inevitable rejection.
I turned over and snuggled deeper into my pillow, banishing the thought altogether.
But he wouldn’t leave. He lingered in my thoughts, a tall, dark figure, his gaze exasperated and increasingly dear. He’d always been handsome, in that aloof, remote way. Only he wasn’t remote at all, not when you pressed the right buttons and he came into glorious technicolor.
He was heartbreakingly attractive up close, hands long and wide. What kind of soft-spoken auctioneer had hands like that? And what might they feel like on my body?
I found that I craved his approval, and that when we spoke, I didn’t seek to rile him up anymore. I actually waited for his responses - hung on to his every word. God, what an insipid creature this stupid attraction had made out of me!
I stared up at the ceiling. He would never see me as anything more than a spoiled child. And did I truly want him to? If he looked closer, would he like what he saw? I wasn’t sure I did, most days.
Be brave, Ada. Perhaps more like: be foolish.
But I picked up the phone anyway. The impulse was stupid, yes, but persistent. What did I have to lose?
Everything.
Nothing.
So I dialed. The name flickered on my screen around my trembling fingers. Grant Wood, Hathaway’s. He answered after three eternity-long signals.
“Ada?”
“Hi. Did I wake you?”
“No,” he said, but his voice sounded like I had. “Is everything alright?”
"Yes. I just wanted to know what your favorite place in New York is."
There was a loaded silence on the other line. I held my breath, preparing myself for the roar, the outraged you're calling me at 1 AM to ask this?
It didn’t come.
"Do you mean Manhattan specifically, or the greater city area?"
“Manhattan,” I said. “Unless it makes a big difference for you.”
“It doesn’t. Am I allowed to be cliche and say the top of Empire State building?”
I laughed. “No, you’re not.”
“The Japanese Reading Room at the Met, then,” he said immediately. “That’s mine.”
“I’ve never been.”
“Most people pass by it. I’m not surprised.”
"I should go sometime."
“You should.”
I could hear him breathing on the other end, heard the slight sound of him swallowing. I wet my lips, readying myself to speak, but he beat me to it. "Now tell me your favorite place?"
“The statue of Balto in Central Park.”
“The dog statue?”
“Yeah. Have you seen it?”
“I've run past it once or twice. But I can’t for the life of me think of why it’d be your favorite place?”
“I saw the movie as a kid. He was a hero, you know. Besides, I begged and begged my parents to get us a dog, but we were never allowed to have any pets.”
“…so you adopted one in bronze in the park instead.”
“See, you’re reading my mind.”
“Somehow I’m getting used to how it works,” he said wryly.
“I wasn’t really trying to call you, you know. Your number is actually just one off from Fratelli’s pizza just down the street from me.”
Grants low chuckle reached me across the line, sent shivers down my spine. “Lucky me.”
“And who knows? I might misdial again,” I murmured.
There was a long silence. “You probably shouldn’t,” he finally said. “But I hope you do.”
* * *
Work continued as usual, with no hint that anything had happened during that evening or late at night. Our phone calls remained secret, even to our waking selves, it seemed.
A week passed, until I found myself all dressed up and at yet another company event. We had plenty of those, it seemed - but at least I was getting the full use out of my formal wear.
I took a sip of my glass of champagne. Grant was silent beside me as he looked out over the milling guests. He had been quiet, speaking little and only when necessary to the various division heads, guests and staff that approached him. As much as his reputation preceded him, so did his aloofness; I knew several of the division heads were just as baffled by him now, seven years later, as they had been when Dad first brought him on.
His profile was stark and handsome, and he struck me suddenly as a painting, distant and imposing and deceptively flat. I wanted to break him out of it. I wanted him to come alive.
A thought struck me, silly and wonderful at the same time.
“Hey, have you ever been to the basement levels? Minus four?”
Grant turned to me, brows furrowed. “The storage vaults? Yes. Infrequently.”
“Aren't they the best?”
He shook his head with an amused smile, and just like that, he became a person again, human and present. “You never cease to surprise me, Ada. And what did you do down there? Hide from your responsibilities?”
“Very funny.” I made sure the bartender wasn’t looking and reached behind the open bar. My hand found the neck of a champagne bottle easily. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
His eyes widened as I snuck it out and under my arm. “Ada-“
"If you've never been to storage when it's empty, you haven't lived."
Grant raised a dubious eyebrow at that. I decided he needed a bit more convincing, and pressed the button to the nearby elevator.
“Come on, you’re supposed to be the CEO of this place? Doesn’t that mean you have to know its ins and outs? No one’s looking.” I jerked my chin towards the throngs of people. “And you’ve already spoken to everyone.”
He watched me for a long second, eyes hazel and steady, his hands in his pant pockets. I thought he looked amused - I had been trying to rile him up, after all - but it might’ve just been my imagination.
The elevator gave a loud ding.
“Last chance to escape,” I said, waving the bottle of Taittinger enticingly, and stepped into the elevator. My breath came fast with adrenaline and nerves and the joy that always came from a bout of verbal sparring with him.
He didn’t follow. I sighed, watching the doors close.
A hand reached between them as they were inches from snapping shut. With a groan of protest they opened again.
“I couldn’t very well let you finish an entire vintage bottle by yourself,” Grant said and hit the button for -4.
I hid a smile against my shoulder. Perhaps he enjoyed our little games as much as me, after all.
The hallway on was deserted and required several bouts of security clearance to access. Grant’s hands were sure and able on the various panels, typing 8 and 12-digit codes and using his fingerprints for the final section. I wondered what they’d feel like tracing my lips, and then flushed at the thought. Where had that come from?
The lights of the storage room flickered on. It was vast, all wide shelves and boxes and carefully planned layouts. A kingdom to be explored, a treasure trove of things to be sold and bought.
"Why did you come down here, anyway?"
“I was here often as a kid,” I told him, leading the way through the carefully placed boxes and rows. They were filled with items scheduled for auction, values already estimated and photos taken. There was a good reason for all the security measures - the thick concrete walls and the extreme fire safety precautions. Millions of dollars worth of items sat in these rooms.
But the best things were in the back.
“Come,” I told him, finding the grey iron door. It wasn’t locked and opened easily.
"The tomb?" Grant asked skeptically, ducking under the low door to enter the valve. It was a massive storage space. Boxes and crates stood in disarray, with blankets tossed over. Some were dusty and grey with disuse, others looked like they've been put there only last month. Everything that Hathaway's couldn’t sell went here. From estate sales, failed auctions… The tomb housed it all.
“All of this is useless.”
“It is absolutely not useless. And that’s coming from me, arguably the most useless of them all.”
He snorted. “I didn’t mean that, you know.”
"I know," I said dismissively, though I hadn't. His assurance did weird things to my chest. "Oh look, it's still here! Come have a seat."
Somewhat reluctantly, Grant sat down on the dusty brocade sofa at the end of the aisle. It had been there since I was a toddler, a relic of good memories and nostalgia.
Grant looked like a model for a high-fashion magazine or an eccentric photography shoot, dressed in an expensive, tailored suit but seated in a dimly lit vaulted storage space. Beside him was a wonky lamp, and the couch he reclined on was probably from the 18th century.
Grant reached up and ran a hand through his thick hair, only increasing the beautiful way his rugged looks worked with the surroundings.
“What are you looking at?”
“You.” I pretended to capture a photograph of him, silently wishing I had a camera. That could be the cover photo of a spread in the Wall Street Journal or New York Magazine. I could see the headlines; A portrait of the enigmatic CEO of Hathaway’s, youngest in the company’s history.
Grant flushed slightly and looked away. “So why did you come here as a kid? Is this the Hathaway child rearing version of the naughty corner?”
I unwrapped the champagne paper and carefully twisted the metal cage open.
"No. It was more like a paradise. Sometimes, when we were kids, we'd come here and explore, especially when Dad was busy upstairs or we were waiting to be picked up by my mother.”
The cork came undone with a small satisfying pop. I took a sip straight of the bottle only to find Grant watching me. I passed it to him and he accepted, following suit. There was something strangely intimate about sharing a drink together like that - mouth to mouth, as it were. I’d rarely seen it that way before, but suddenly I could think of nothing else than the fact that Grant’s lips have just touched the same place mine were.
“You were really allowed to roam around down here, unsupervised?” Grant shook his head. “Thanks for informing me. I’ll have to strengthen security in the future.”
I laughed. "It's all about having an in, you see. One of the security guards was amazing - Hank. He used to show me and Max around when we had nothing to do but wait. He'd take us back here to this vault, and he'd make up stories about these items."
Grant took another sip from the champagne bottle and loosened the tie at his neck. “Make up stories?”
“Yes. ‘This might look like a boring blue-and-white vase. But no! It once housed the ashes of the great Emperor of China thousands of years ago before it was smuggled to New York through a secret chain of international pirates, all fighting to get this vase.’”
“That’s a terrible story,” Grant laughed.
“I’m improvising over here.”
“What a legend though.”
“Me? Why, thank you.”
“Hank.”
“I wonder if he still works here.” I frowned. “He won’t get in trouble because I told you this, will he? If so, it was a pseudonym. His actual name isn’t Hank.”
“Nice save.“ Grant's eyes sparkled, and I felt like the champagne, all bubbly inside. Those memories had only lived between me and Max, and now one more person knew. Perhaps that was what people meant when they spoke about enjoying a loved one's memory. It was about sharing it.
“Thank you.”
“No, he won’t be punished. How could I? He should get a raise, being forced to drag around two little bratty children like that.”
“Hey!” Grant ducked hastily at the old fan I aimed at his head. It hit the back of the sofa harmlessly. He was laughing so hard he had to put the bottle down on the floor.
"These are precious artifacts, Ada. Look, but don't touch," he breathed between chuckles.
"And these are not to be gotten rid of, by the way, in case your organizing mind has already begun walking down that route. I didn't show you this just so you could trash it."
He handed me the bottle and stood, walking over beside me to look over the motley assortment of goods Hathaway’s had kept for decades. “I did know that this existed before, you know.”
“Yes, but knowing and seeing are two different things.”
“Quite true. Like, I knew Ben Harris was an arrogant asshole, but I didn’t see it until he became Jack and Thorns CEO.”
I shook my head at him and raised a finger. “No, now you’re thinking. The whole point of this was to drink champagne and get you out of your statue-like, brooding mood. I won’t have it, not in my storage room, no sir.”
Grant laughed again. It struck me that he had done that a lot tonight, and that it echoed tantalizingly against this wide room, dark and rich. He wasn’t a man to indulge in wine or spirits, but he’d likely had a glass more than usual. Maybe that did him good.
“Tell me. What’s your favorite pi
ece in this room?”
“My favorite piece?”
“Yes. If you’ve been here so often, I mean.” Grant leaned back against a stack of boxes, looking stupidly handsome and heady. It’s not that he became less imposing with time, I thought, only that you somehow got used to it. It inspired you to rise to his level.
And at the moment, his eyes glittered with challenge.
I found a small oil lamp, perfect in shape and color, stacked away behind a stack of chairs.
“Aha!” I said, turning around dramatically. “Behold, the-“
“No,” Grant interrupted. “Too cliche.”
I frowned. “But Aladdin is a classic.”
“No bidders on that. Sorry.” Grant shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”
I rolled my eyes at him but continued, passing by an old oriental rug. That was out, too, then, I assumed.
After nearly three minutes of perusal I found a portrait of a young, curly-haired man. I held it up gingerly. The frame felt fragile in my hands.
“The youth here was consumed by his own vanity,” I said sadly. “Trapped forever inside this portrait, forced to live a lonely existence, doomed never to be able to see himself again.”
“The Picture of Dorian Grey,” Grant observed. “Oscar Wilde. You’re getting better, but I have a feeling Hank was more creative than this, Ada. No more plagiarism.”
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The room had countless dusty treasures. What would satisfy him? A thought struck me, and I grinned. “Well, well, well. What have we found here?” I stalked back to where he sat. “The item sitting here is the most unique of them all. The CEO of Hathaway’s in the flesh. But whatever is he doing inside the tomb? That, kids, is one magical tale.”
Grant raised an eyebrow. “Careful now.”
"He didn't head the advice of the magical fortune cookie delivered to him by a very kind, very beautiful fairy-intern."
“You?”
I shushed him. “Don’t interrupt the storyteller. It’s rude. Anyway, he just continued with his incredibly successful existence. You see, this was not an ordinary man. No, the CEO of Hathaway’s was the best in all regards, except in his ability to smile. He did it very rarely.”
Look But Don't Touch: Enemies to Lovers Page 7
