Complete Me(93)

“All right,” I say. “But not someone who flanks me, and not an obvious tail. But if you want to have someone hang out at the office if I end up renting it, I won’t object. And I’m guessing you already have access to that tracking device we had installed in the car.”

“I could access it,” he says. “But not without some trouble. I’d rather install something I can monitor openly.”

“Done,” I say.

“And your phone,” he says.

I frown. “What about my phone?”

“I want to be able to track you with it. There are apps that will allow me to do that. I’m going to install one.”

“Just like that? No ‘Mother May I’?”

“No,” he says and holds his hand out for my phone.

I hand it over.

He downloads the app, fiddles with the settings, then gives it back to me.

The he takes his own phone out of his back pocket and repeats the process. A moment later, my phone buzzes. I glance at it, open the new app, and see a red dot indicating that Damien is right there in my apartment. “So you’ll never lose me, either,” he says.

“Oh.” I hold tight to my phone, still warm from his hand, and suddenly I’m speechless. Maybe it’s the stress of the evening, maybe it’s hormonal, but for some reason, adding that tracker to my phone is about the most romantic thing I can think of. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“I’m never letting you go, Nikki,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me close.

“I’d never forgive you if you did.”

The next morning I stand transfixed as Lisa spreads her arms wide to indicate the modest office space. “So?” she asks. She’s petite, but so poised that she seems to fill the room anyway. “What do you think?”

“I love it,” I say. The space comes furnished, and apparently the owner of Granite Investment Strategies has excellent taste. Not only is the desk large enough to spread out half-a-dozen projects, but it’s also sleek and modern with enough whimsy to be fun, but not so much that it lacks professionalism. The walls are bare, but that should be easy enough to fix.

The love seat is a bonus. The space is small enough that it would have made sense to only have the two molded plastic guest chairs. But the original tenant had managed to work the space well, and the small sofa that sits against the far wall seems to pull the room together instead of overwhelming the space.

“It’s available immediately,” Lisa says. “My client’s very eager.”

I run my fingertip over the desktop, tempted. I’ve been on the fence about leasing office space, but now that I’m actually standing in an office that could have my name on the door, I have to admit that it’s pretty heady stuff.

I slide my hand into my pocket and run my fingertip over the edge of one of the business cards that Damien presented to me this morning. Nikki L. Fairchild, CEO, Fairchild Development. I’d laughed when I opened the box, but there had been tears, too. Not just because I’m finally, really doing this, but because of the pride I saw in Damien’s eyes.

It occurs to me that he must have started much the same way; after all, he hardly sprang fully born from Zeus’s head with a tennis racquet in one hand and Stark Tower in the other. No, he started small and worked his way up to gazillionaire status. I smile, oddly comforted by the thought.

“It’s a great opportunity,” Lisa prompts.

“I know,” I say honestly. Because of the circumstances, the terms of the sublease are exceptional. Not only that, but the building has great security—as Damien discovered last night when he made a few calls after the police left. Tenants need a card key to enter the building and clients must be buzzed in by the receptionist who serves as the gatekeeper between the outside world and the building’s twelve tenants.