Say You Still Love Me(84)

I rush upstairs to my office, kicking off my heels and sliding on the silver Manolos, excitement coursing through my veins where there was only dread before. This feels like kismet. That’s what Ashley would say. It’s kismet that we’ve crossed paths. Kismet that we can’t seem to stay away from each other. The universe wants us to pick up where we left off, to erase the damage my father inflicted upon our young hearts.

Clearly, I’ve been spending too much time with Ashley. Yet, I can’t deny that any excuse I can find to ditch this benefit altogether and linger in the lobby for the rest of Kyle’s shift is tempting.

When I head back downstairs, Kyle is exactly where I left him.

He watches me approach and, I swear, his chest sinks in a long, slow exhale, as if taking a calming breath. “Find what you were looking for?”

I hook a finger along the split of my dress and pull the skirt back to model the crystals on my toes, knowing damn well that the move is flirtatious. My heart races with the thought of flirting with Kyle again. “Better, right?”

His lips part as if to answer, but stall as his eyes drift over my bare leg. He swallows. “So much better.”

“You can’t tell the difference, can you—”

“Not if my life depended on it,” he admits, dipping his head with his smile.

“So you’re working until eleven tonight?”

“Yeah.” His steady gaze lifts to meet mine again. “Why?”

I shrug nonchalantly. “I might have to stop by again later. You know . . . to grab another pair of shoes.”

His lips twitch with amusement at my pathetic lie.

Is what Jeremy said true? Does Kyle want to see me later tonight?

It’s a long moment before he gives me an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ll be here.”

“Have fun.”

“You, too.” A tiny, crooked smile answers me.

With that, I turn and head for the exit.

“You look really good,” he calls after me.

“You already said that.”

I’m grinning as I climb into the town car.




“You’re not yourself, Piper.” My dad nods at Roy Molson, a hedge fund exec who we’ve met with on more than one occasion in our hunt for investors. “You’ve barely said five words to me. You ignored Larry Muntt—”

“Don’t worry, he was too busy staring at my breasts to notice,” I throw back. That’s what the slimy old man—another Wall Street type—does every time we cross paths at these things.

Dad grunts. He knows as much. “And I don’t think you’ve smiled once in the last half hour.”

I turn to give him a wide closed-lip smile that is forced and not at all friendly.

His brow tightens. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. Tired,” I mutter, taking a long sip from my flute of champagne.

“Learn to put on a good front.” He waves down a passing server to pluck a shrimp cocktail from the silver platter, before dismissing him entirely. There are times when my father’s high-pedigree upbringing translates into shockingly poor basic manners—such as when he fails to acknowledge wait staff as human beings.

The older gentleman holds the platter in front of me. “No, but thank you,” I make a point of saying, and then let my gaze wander over the chic art gallery and sea of faces—most familiar, if only by sight—as an excuse to avoid further eye contact with my father.

“You haven’t eaten anything tonight,” Dad notes with more displeasure.

“I never eat at these things. Only men eat at these things.” I used to, until I spent thirty minutes smiling and staring into the eyes of a prominent city council member while we talked, acutely aware of the piece of spinach stuck between his front teeth and doing my best not to let my gaze veer downward. He took it as a sign that I was interested and invited me back to his hotel room. Since then I’ve drawn the line at food and deep talks with politicians.

Dad studies the crowd. From our vantage point in the corner, he can oversee the goings-on of most of the room—who’s here, who’s talking to whom. Exactly how he likes it. “Gary Jameson left me a message earlier about the Marquee.”

“As I expected he would.” You can’t tell a longtime business partner that you’re cutting his company from the equation on a $250 million construction project that you’ve been discussing together for two years and not expect him to go straight to the top.

“You should have called me as soon as you heard.” There’s accusation in his tone.

“I couldn’t. I was busy calling Gary to smooth things over with him.” A.k.a. getting yelled at for a good twenty minutes before he finally calmed down enough to accept my apology for the gross “miscommunication.”

“Well . . . it seems to have worked. He doesn’t want to hang me by my skin just yet.” Dad peers into his glass a moment before tipping it back. “Good job.”

“I’m sorry, what? I must have misheard you. Did you just tell me that I did a good job?”

Dad smirks. “Still, I don’t think they’re going to be able to match KDZ’s numbers. I scanned their construction proposal and it looks solid.”

I pause mid-sip, blood rushing to my ears. “What proposal?”