“Well…”
“What? Ada, don’t tell me you’re starting to like him?”
I sighed. “Maybe. Look, it’s not like that, okay. It's more of an… infatuation. A stupid attraction. Nobody can drive me as crazy as him." And nobody, nobody, kissed like him. With single-minded determination and sensual focus.
"There's more, too. I can see that the strong exterior he puts up is a facade, and if I could only get him to drop it for a moment…"
“You have a savior complex.” Minna declared. “I’m sure I’ve read about this somewhere, perhaps Freud… or Jung…”
“No, no, I don’t want you to diagnose this. Just tell me what to do.”
“What to do about Grant?”
“Yes.”
“You, Ada Hathaway, are asking me for advice with men?”
“Yes.” It was true that my experiences with men the last two years had been far and few between, and often disasters from start to finish. And they’d never been anyone I’d cared remotely enough to talk to my girlfriends about.
Minna sat up straight and put her hand on her heart. I rolled my eyes at her supercilious manner.
“Okay, so this is my advice.”
“Yes,” I said impatiently. “Lay it on me.”
“Continue doing a kickass job. Show him that this doesn’t become you - so what if he doesn’t want to be physical again? Doesn’t mean you can’t be friends or have a cordial relationship. If he wants to get all weird about it, let him. He’s right about one thing - he is still your boss for the next month and a half. So don’t screw it up.”
My eyes widened. “Minna. That was actually good advice.”
“I’ve been known to bestow it from time to time.”
“But, does it get me closer to what I want?”
“And what do you want?”
To kiss Grant. To feel his lips on my skin again, to shed his layers and feel his body against mine. “Him,” I said simply. “It’s not a good idea in any shape or form, but I want him.”
She gave me a crooked smile. “Hey, that’s why you play along for now. Don’t let him write you off as a child or a spoiled intern. Prove to you both that you’re mature.”
I reached over and flicked her nose, a gesture Max had always done to me. “What would I do without you?”
* * *
Conveniently enough, Grant and Adam left for a three-day work trip the following day. “I’ll be available by phone,” he told the office before they left. “Keep me informed about the Old Masters auction and the new marketing campaign, and ensure that the advertising for the upcoming Charity Auction goes as planned.”
We’d all nodded and agreed and said our yes sir’s, and then he'd ducked out of the office as if he hadn't just left a young woman he'd recently had a very intense and intimate moment with.
I had given him a cool wave and then turned my back, returning to my work on the computer. Two could play that game, mister.
Hell, I’d practically invented it.
I needed this internship to get my trust fund. And I enjoyed it far too much to jeopardize anything, especially for someone who’d just made it very clear that he was not interested in anything beyond the physical sense. Not that I was either, I reminded myself. Getting the heart involved would inevitably complicate things, and there was no way I was going to risk getting hurt.
I sent a quick text to Minna after lunch with a sunglass emoji.
Ada: If I played it any cooler I’d be frozen solid.
Minna: Damn, ice queen. Make him cold enough to long for your warmth.
Ada: Wow. You could probably write smut, you know?
Minna: Please. As if I don’t already.
I laughed and returned to the task at hand, designing the layout and marketing plan for the upcoming Charity Auction. Hathaway’s hosted it every year, and the ball was practically the highlight of our events calendar.
The days passed quicker than I had anticipated without Grant to anchor my days around. Hathaway’s was a crossroads of a place, goods coming and going daily and everything managed by the executive section. Every day, it seemed, I learned more about the business side of art, about things I’d never thought of before.
"I have to rush for lunch with my sister," Linda said as we bumped into one another by the elevators. "These just came for Mr. Wood. Would you mind just putting them on his desk?"
"Of course." I took the files from her, curious at the light weight. The folder was entirely blank - not marked by any name or logo.
Grant's office felt large without his presence in it, the books dusty and neglected despite it only having been three days since they'd last been seen by their owner. They must feel his absence keenly.
I knew I did.
He'd left his desk in fastidious order. Not a pen or a folder was out of place. No personal effects, either. Not a portrait of his family or an old diploma.
I dropped the files on his desk, but as I did so, something slid out and fluttered to the floor. A photograph, slightly yellowed around the edges.
It felt stiff in my fingers. A young boy looked up at me, hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion. Thick, unruly hair hung down past his forehead and curled around his ears. There was a large farm in the background with a rusty truck. Despite the clear sky and the sunshine, the freckled boy did not look happy. He was also very thin, hunched around the shoulders as if he’d already learned that turning inwards was the best solution to the hardships of the world.
I flipped it over. Someone had scribbled a name and date in black, sharp letters. Graham Woodhouse, age eleven, fostered by the Eltons.
With shaking hands, I opened the file only to see the listed name of the New York Social Services Records at the top. I put the picture carefully back inside and shut the file, backing away from the desk as if he was there to see me. Maybe he was - he didn't strike me as a man to put cameras in his office, but you never knew.
You never knew. Grant Wood, also known as Graham Woodhouse. Foster homes. No family, he’d said. No university. Everything I knew about him rearranged around this new sudden information.
Reticence with sharing personal details, a desire for order and rules. The sudden appearance at my fathers side at the age of twenty-four, already a self-made millionaire several times over.
Was he digging into his past? Why had he searched for this? Curiosity dug its claws in me and all the answers might just be in that file, right at my fingertips.
But he’d not only hate me for it when he found out, but I knew he’d retreat from it. I couldn’t do that to Grant. So I filed the information away and carefully closed the door to his office.
I didn’t admit it to Minna - and hardly even to myself - but I googled Graham Woodhouse that evening and read through nearly eight pages of results. But I saw nothing that seemed to relate to the Grant I knew.
I could hardly sleep on Thursday night, knowing that he’d be in the office on Friday, back from the trip. At 8 AM sharp he’d give a rundown of what he and Adam had accomplished, standing before us in his well-tailored suit.
Minna came over with sushi and decided we needed to choose an outfit that would make him regret his decision. She seemed to be a lot more willing to hang out since I started my internship, and I knew it had to do with the simple fact that I wasn’t partying or spending time with my old party friends anymore, one Vivienne Hurst in particular.
When one faded, the other one came back. I found that I preferred Minna’s company anyway.
“Choose the navy blue dress. He’ll go crazy for it,” Minna said.
I supposed he might. It was the type of sleek, professional attire that most at Hathaway's dressed in, and almost a female version of the sleek suits Grant wore. I looked at myself in the mirror, at the blonde hair swept back and the professionally clean look. Two years ago, I would never have thought I'd be excitedly planning outfits for work at my father's firm.
For Grant Wood. Or Graham Woodhouse, whatever he liked to call himself. Th
e image of him as a child came back to mind, distrustful eyes staring into the camera and messy too-long hair. The poor CEO who never smiled. Perhaps it wasn’t that off-mark after all.
“Good morning, Ava.” Linda’s smile was all sunshine the next day. “You look great today.”
“Thanks.”
“Going somewhere tonight?”
“Yes, please tell us about any hot date plans you have,” Sarah said as she made her way to the conference room, files ready for the morning meeting. “I’m starved for adult discussion.”
“The kids driving you wild?” I smiled at her. Sarah had two small daughters who kept her up in the evenings, watching Frozen on repeat and letting them raid her makeup kit.
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “Now tell us. Any plans?”
"None," I laughed. "And I'm not dating anyone right now. Where is everyone? We're set to start soon."
Adam came into the room with a huff, dropping his briefcase in the corner and pushing his slightly askew glasses back in place. “Sorry I’m late!”
“You’re not. You have ten minutes to spare,” Sarah said patiently.
He glanced at his watch. “Oh. Right. Well, we might as well start now - everyone’s here.”
“Grant’s not,” I pointed out. “He’s always the one to start us off.”
“He’s not coming today.” Adam busied himself with passing around the days briefing documents, just as well-formatted and prepared as usual. He finally looked up to see all three of us staring at him.
“And why not?” Linda asked. “There’s nothing in the schedule about him being out of office.”
“Mr. Wood called me on my way in. He’s sick. Caught something in Seattle, I think,” Adam said.
He was sick. He was sick.
"So he's taking a day off?" Sarah blinked, her papers forgetting in hand. "He's never done that before."
“Someday has to be the first, I guess.” Adam shrugged and took a seat at the head of the table, clearly eager to get on with the day.
I followed suit, looking at the briefing in my hand but not seeing it. He had to be doing this to avoid me. But the suspicion didn’t feel right, either, because that would mean he was either a coward or neglectful in his work, and I’d certainly never seen him do the latter.
“Did he sound sick? When he called you?”
Adam looked up at me with confusion and slight irritation on his features. I'd interrupted his introductory run-down of the past day's events and blushed. It was stupid to be this inexplicably interested in Grants whereabouts, and yet I couldn't stop myself.
"Yes," Adam replied. "Now, it's imperative that we help the divisions with whatever they need before the weekend. The expert on forgeries we used to employ for the Old Masters and British Paintings has quit, unfortunately, and is relocating. We'll need to call in someone else. Sarah, can you handle that?"
She nodded.
The day continued.
But the nagging suspicion didn’t leave. We might have been approaching some form of tentative friendship last week, but now we were practically strangers - strangers intent on avoiding one another.
I spent the evening reorganizing my closet (a sure sign that something was amiss, as I never did it when happy or at peace). I went to brunch the following Saturday with old high school friends, the type you know well enough to complain to but not quite enough to be honestly happy for their successes. They showed off photos of travels and engagement rings and new apartments, each seemingly trying to get one-up on the other.
Yeah, that wasn’t happening again any time soon. I’d settled for relationships that gave me nothing for far too long - likely before Max had died too. Perhaps it was time that I re-arranged my personal life as well, cut out people like shallow high school friends and party people, and spend more time with old friends like Minna and new friends like Sarah.
Fifth and 93rd, Grant had said once. Which meant he did indeed live up the street from me.
And if he had been avoiding me by not coming to work the day earlier, there was one very quick way of remedying that. I had exactly one month left of this internship and things would get awkward real fast if this wasn’t resolved.
But just in case he actually was sick… I’d need an excuse. An excellent, fool-proof plan formed in my mind.
Putting on old re-reruns of The Office, I hunted through my kitchen cabinets for the old, stained recipe book my mom had once cherished. I’d snuck it from the kitchen of our family apartment for my second year of college, hoping neither Max nor Dad would notice. Neither did.
The smell of homemade chocolate macadamia cookies spread through my kitchen forty minutes later. I packed them up in a small glass Tupperware box, stuffed myself into my warmest, wooliest coat and headed down the street.
His name was listed as Wood inside with the concierge, on floor 32. I gave the receptionist my best smile, fluttering my eyelashes a little, and held up my freshly baked cookies.
“Grant’s sick,” I said. “I want to surprise him. Would you mind sending me up to his floor?”
The old man behind the desk sniffed. “Smells fantastic. Of course. I can’t imagine Mr. Wood would be sad to see you.”
I returned his smile and made my way to the elevators, puzzling over that comment. Was it a compliment to me? Or because he regularly brought so many women up to his apartment that it was basically common-place for the receptionists to just let them into the building?
Shaking my head, I focused on what I was going to say. Nerves fluttered through my stomach. This had seemed like such a fool-proof, fun plan at home. Surrounded by the steel and glass of this strange, new elevator on my way to his home, it felt silly. More evident of the silly girl he thought I was than the mature woman I was sure he wanted. The fear of being dismissed gnawed in me.
His was the only door in the corridor that opened before me. Wood. Not even Grant was listed, as if the ability to be imposing and anonymous was so important to him that it extended even to his front door.
I swallowed. Don’t be a coward, Ada. I had been for far too long, anyway, hiding from life and from feeling.
I pressed the doorbell.
The long, agonizing wait that followed felt like an eternity. The door finally swung open.
"Ada?" Grant was dressed in a pair of dark blue slacks and a grey t-shirt, arms bare. His thick hair was not combed back or fixed, but curled adorably at his temples. There was an intimacy in his homeliness, the dressed down version of the normally button-upped CEO, and I felt myself blush. I couldn't remember the last time I had - and it had certainly not been for a man fully dressed, just because he happened to be in his casual wear.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, seeing as I hadn’t responded. My mouth felt dry.
“I heard you were sick.”
“I am.”
He was. Clearly so, his voice far deeper than usual. From the faint flush in his own cheeks, he might even have a fever. Guilt flooded me. So he hadn't been avoiding me after all.
“I baked you something, to wish you well,” I said with a smile, forcing it to sound effortless.
“You came here to give me cookies?”
“Yes. I live just down the street, as you know.”
"Right. Well, come in. I don't…" He ran a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. Thanks to his t-shirt I could see his arms, clearly well-muscled and fair. I'd always been aware of the fact that he was well-built under his tailored suits - had known it, intellectually - but seeing it was completely different. It made me ache for the feel of them around me.
"The kitchen is just through here if you want to drop them off." Grant's voice sounded painful. By the box of tissues I saw on the granite counter-top, it was obvious he had the flu.
“I’m sorry for barging in on you like this.” I looked at the cookies, avoiding his gaze. “I hope you like them.”
“I’m sure I will. Thank you. No-one has ever done that before.”
“Probably because
you’re so seldom ill.” I gave a small smile, relieved that he was playing along.
Grant smiled back. “That’s probably why, yes. It’s difficult, being so perfect.”
"Naturally, I can empathize," I said and looked past him through the wide archway into a living space. The windows beyond it confirmed what he'd once told me, and I moved past him.
“You told me you had the same view. This is beautiful.”
“You remember?”
“Of course. I wasn’t that drunk, you know.”
“No. I suppose not.”
Central Park opened up before us, slightly snow-covered in the dappled afternoon sunlight despite it nearly being the end of February. His windows were far more Art Deco than mine, all clean lines and harsh surfaces. I ran a hand over the smooth leather of one of the large sofas and surveyed his place. There was a second floor, an alcove really, though huge. I could see the edge of a bedspread.
Must be his bedroom.
A TV and a fireplace centered the large living space downstairs. Walls were white, color sparse, and on the walls hung large pieces of abstract art.
“Contemporary,” I said. “I would have thought you were a fan of the Old Masters.”
Grant gave a shrug. “I am, intellectually. But I can’t be surrounded by all that grandeur at home too.”
“You prefer new and in disarray?” I smiled.
“I do. That’s a Jackson Pollock.” He pointed to a piece right by the spiral staircase, a beautiful mess of blues and beiges. “I’ll probably sell it when the market is right.”
So things didn’t have a sentimental value to him, then. It didn’t surprise me, seeing the sparse coldness of his home. Decorated by someone who had only the bare necessities in mind - a place should be beautiful, efficient, well-made. And that was that.
“Why’d you really come here, Ada?”
There was something in his eyes and the deep tenor of his voice that made it impossible to lie or flirt my way out of it. I didn't think he'd buy it, and I couldn't bear to see him look through me again, as if he was disappointed that there wasn’t more to me.
Look But Don't Touch: Enemies to Lovers Page 9
