Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(7)

Holly nods. Elliot has been with her since the beginning, almost as long as Barry. His attention to detail and his desire to push the boundaries of what’s possible are two of the reasons she appreciates him.

“Where is everyone?”

He looks around the room, as if surprised to find himself alone. “Um, I think they went out to celebrate. We closed a big deal?” he says, slightly baffled.

Despite the horribleness of today, she can’t help but smile at him. “Right. We did, actually. With some thanks due to you. The Pixie Dust powder is officially a go.”

He hops off the stool. “The masking pigments, right?”

She nods.

“I have an idea that could improve the product exponentially. I was taking my daughter to the aquarium the other day and noticed—”

Holly’s loath to interrupt him, but she needs the lab. And privacy. “Elliot, I can’t wait to hear all about it. But I’m heading out for a week or so. You’re in charge of the lab until I get back. If you need anything and can’t reach me, go to Barry.”

Elliot’s face falls. He and Barry do not always see eye to eye. Barry’s more likely to spring for fancy product packaging than upgraded equipment or research.

“In the meantime, why don’t you write up a short summation of the product changes you’re suggesting. If you can get it done in the next few hours, I can read it on the plane.”

His smile returns. “I’ll get right on it,” he says, which is what she was counting on when she made the offer.

She waits until she hears the lab door click shut behind him, until she sees him leave the secure area on the video monitor mounted on the wall. When she’s certain she’s alone, she heads to the back wall. A locked door there leads to her private lab. It’s tiny, about a third the size of her office. There are no silk couches, no views of the New York skyline, only a metal desk and a lab bench and the smell of bleach. And Holly, alone. Which is the way she’s always liked it.

At least, it used to be.



* * *





“You’re making the rest of us look bad, you know.”

Startled, Holly looks up from her workbench. She’s been staring through the lens of her microscope for so long her vision is wonky and her eyes take a second to adjust. There’s a man standing next to her. He has reddish-blond hair and a wide smile. He’s about her age, but much better dressed than most of the male grad students she knows. Cuter too. And he’s looking at her in a way that makes her heart speed up for no good reason she can explain.

“Excuse me?”

“Term ended hours ago. The building’s closing. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

She looks past him to the windows, now dark with evening.

“Shit.” How could she have lost track of time today of all days? She grabs her books and papers and haphazardly shoves them into her carryall. A handful of her notes flutter to the floor.

“Here. Let me.” In one smooth motion he retrieves the fallen papers, takes the bag from her, and expertly packs it so everything fits.

“Thanks,” she says. She retrieves her bag, blurts out a goodbye, and hurries toward the building’s main entrance. The security guard behind the desk looks pointedly from her to the clock behind him. In desperation, Holly reads it. It confirms her lateness.

“I am so screwed,” she says to no one in particular. Joanie had said she was leaving at five p.m. sharp. She’d meant it this time too, Holly could tell. It’s after six, so there’s no point rushing back to the dorm.

She slumps onto the bench just outside the building’s entrance. As if on cue, snow begins to fall. Cold, wet flakes that stick to the trees and the ground, that slide down the back of her neck and make her shiver. Snow that will make getting home even more difficult. She groans. Even during the best of circumstances, Holly hates snow. “Shit,” she says again.

And then that voice, amused. “Admiring the view?”

He’s standing beneath the doorway’s overhang, his own pile of books neatly stacked under his arm. Despite the weather, his overcoat is still slung across his shoulder. Now that she’s no longer rushing, Holly can appreciate his blue eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners, and that same wide smile, which seems vaguely familiar. He radiates a calm confidence that is as foreign to Holly as it is attractive, and she finds herself saying more than she planned.

“Not exactly. I missed my ride to London. My mother’s throwing her annual fancy dress party for the holidays and if I am not there, she may actually kill me.”

He gives a low, sympathetic chuckle. “Well, it was nice knowing you, if only briefly. I’ll look for your obituary in The Times,” he says, walking away. He has a slim, athletic build, shown off in a snug pair of chinos and a button-down, and his hair is longer than she’d first thought, curling below his ears.

Holly slips lower on the bench. There’s something wrong with her. She should be practicing her apology call to Jane, and instead she’s admiring the body of a complete stranger. She’d like to call after him, tell him that in lieu of flowers he can make a contribution in her memory to the Society for Downtrodden Daughters, just to see that smile again. She’s still debating what to say when he reaches the bend in the path. Too late.

“On the other hand . . . ,” he says, pausing.