When I open his office door, Canary spins in her chair.“I gave you one job.”
Brennan laughs.“This is not the man to give a job to, Canary.”
He means it as a joke; it still cuts.Maybe that’s why Eddie thought he could build a hidden room under my nose—because everyone assumes I only manage surfaces.
Outside, I debate where to go.My thumb opens the Uber app before I’ve decided.Two minutes later, I’m in the back of a Fisker Ocean, the driver tapping the wheel to a song I don’t recognize.
Crosstown traffic crawls, Manhattan’s arteries clogged with ambition.Nearly an hour later, I step out across from the green awning.
The doorman appears before I reach the steps.Red beard, thinning hair, polite wariness.“How can I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see Brie Anderson.”
He stiffens.His eyes travel from my face to my Brunello Cucinellis, calculating.Wealthy men show up at buildings like this all the time—some invited, some not.
“Sorry, sir.No one here by that name.”
He’s lying, of course.The pause before “sorry” gave him away.Whether Brie trained him or he’s just protective, I can’t tell.
I pull out my phone, showing him the photo—the one taken not thirty minutes ago.
“Do you recognize this woman?”
His lips twitch, like he’s in on a private joke.“She doesn’t live here, sir.”
“Do you?—”
“I’ll need to ask you to leave.”
Right.
I obey, because I plan to play the long game.
I locate an acceptable bistro—exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling windows, authenticity by design—and order an espresso I don’t want.
Decoy address.Nicely done.I’m at Joe Coffee.Join me or I’ll assume you’re avoiding me.
Perhaps I shouldn’t put this in writing.But it’s done.
I check my phone with the grim persistence of someone who isn’t used to being ignored.Nothing.
Twenty minutes later, I’m debating whether persistence makes me romantic or unhinged when she appears outside the window.
Brie.
She scans the room, finds me.That flicker—annoyance?resignation?—crosses her face, but she comes in anyway.She’s traded her work clothes for dark jeans and a cream cashmere sweater—simple, but exquisite.Her hair catches the light like spun gold.Conversations stall; heads turn.
She slides into the chair opposite me, every movement deliberate, fluid, composed.Her knee brushes mine under the table as she settles.Accidental.Still, my body reacts like it’s a signal.
“You followed me.”
“No.My driver reported your location,” I correct.“There’s a distinction.”Even as I say it, I hear the rationalization.
“Is there?”She gestures to the waitress.“Mint tea, if you have it.”
The waitress retreats.Silence hums between us with the unpleasantness of static.
“The doorman was very polite,” I say.“Clearly trained to protect your privacy.”
