Fake Empire(106)

It’s the note Crew wrote. But the side I’m staring at is the sticky back. The side I didn’t think anyone wrote on.

Crew did.

And by the way, I love you. That’s what he wrote.

I stare at it for a minute, heart pounding. Then I pick up my phone and text him.

Scarlett: Who writes on the BACK of a sticky note???

Crew responds instantly. He must still be in the car.

Crew: I feel like that’s a rhetorical question.

Crew: Don’t feel bad I said it first.

Scarlett: You wrote it. Not the same thing.

Scarlett: I just saw it.

Crew: I figured that out halfway through our conversation, Red.

Scarlett: You were just going to drop the l-bomb and leave?!

Crew: Drop the l-bomb? How romantic.

Scarlett: Let me remind you the sentence started with “and by the way.” Hardly Hallmark material.

Crew: I’ll work on it.

Crew: I’m at the office.

Crew: I love you.

I smile like he can see me.

Scarlett: I love you too.

I take the pink sticky note and tape it to my monitor, back side facing toward me. And then I pick up the phone and call Jeff back.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR





CREW





“We should focus on a stock options report,” Isabel suggests.

“Fine,” I agree. “If you talk through that, I can overview the projections analysis.” I glance at Asher, who’s sitting next to me. “You good?”

“I think I know the song and dance by now.”

“And Isabel and I don’t?”

Asher sighs. “I’m good.”

“Good.”

My phone buzzes with a text from Oliver, double-checking on dinner with our dad this weekend. I don’t blame him for making certain I’ll be there. My father told Candace the baby couldn’t be his after Scarlett and I left the chalet to see her dad. Candace admitted to lying about being pregnant, claiming my father wasn’t giving her enough attention. They’re in the midst of divorce proceedings now. I haven’t told Oliver our father knows about him and Candace, and my father hasn’t either, it appears. Hardly surprising. Unless it’s a dirty secret he can use, my father is happy to sweep anything unpleasant under the rug. Especially ones which can’t be bought off.

I reply to Oliver, promising I will be there, then switch over to my thread with Scarlett. The last thing she sent me was the link to the crib she wants.

We’ve barely started setting up the nursery. She’s been busy preparing for maternity leave, while I’ve been pandering to investors and associates of Kensington Consolidated, trying to do damage control. Like Asher said, it’s been an exhausting, frustrating process. As CEO, I have no choice. And now that Scarlett is over eight months along, I also need to find the time to assemble a crib.

Asher glances at the phone screen. Chuckles, when he sees what I’m looking at. “Damn. Never thought I’d see the day, Kensington.”

A secretary shows up to show us to the conference room before I have a chance to respond. The meeting lasts an hour. It goes well, which is a relief. Reputations aren’t restored overnight, only destroyed. If Nathaniel Stewart had any Kensington Consolidated documents, he never released them. Slowly but surely, the whispers are dying out.

We’re all in high spirits as we pass the reception area and head toward the elevators. Isabel is chatting away, discussing improvements and takeaways. Ever since our late-night encounter on Christmas, she’s made an effort to be overly professional. And excessively efficient.

The elevator arrives. A middle-aged man steps out, and the three of us walk inside.

“Uh, Crew?” Asher interrupts Isabel’s analysis of the stock solutions.

“What?” I glance at Asher, who’s making no attempt to brainstorm and analyze. He’s squinting at his phone screen.

“Have you checked your phone?”

“No, why?”

“I have a bunch of missed calls from Celeste? Why would she be calling me…”

I’m no longer listening; I’m scrolling through the hundreds of missed notifications I have. “Fuck.”

I jab the Lobby button with my elbow as I tap Scarlett’s name, as if that will speed up our descent. It rings and rings, finally going to voicemail. I swear again, then think. A quick Google search pulls up Haute’s number. It rings three times before a woman answers. “Haute magazine, Alexandra speaking. How may I help you?”

“I need to talk to Scarlett Kensington.”

“Is she expecting your call?”

“Just transfer me,” I grit out.

“I’ll see if her assistant is available.” Cheery piano music echoes through the line as I watch the numbers tick down. Our meeting was on the ninety-seventh floor. We’re only just hitting eighty.

“Scarlett Kensington’s office. How may I help you?”

“I need to talk to her.”

“Can I take a message?”

“I’m her husband,” I snap. “So no, I need to talk to her now.”

The pleasant tone disappears. I can’t remember Scarlett’s secretary’s name, but it turns out she’s pissed at me. “Why the hell weren’t you answering earlier?” She shouts the question, and it temporarily shocks me. People don’t speak to me like that. “I—oh my God. I’m so sorry, sir. I, seriously. I don’t think you can fire me, but she will if you—”