And in a way, that means I owe him this. The occasional phone call.
“You’re right,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. “Mom wouldn’t like this at all. I’ll rethink it.”
“Good man,” he says, sounding instantly happier, and goes on to talk to me about Rourke Investments, which was sold years ago, with assets mostly dissolved into another financial institution.
For the next hour, I play the other part of his conversation, never challenging him when he talks about someone who died a decade ago, or a business that no longer exists. I keep a slow pace on the bike, not realizing until I get off the phone that I’ve gripped the handles hard enough to leave indents in my palms.
In the bathroom, I drop my shorts and step onto the heated tiles, tapping the screen to start my programmed shower—warm steam, then hot, consistent pressure, switching to side jets for my muscles, then finishing with a stream of cold from the overhead rain fixture.
It’s the same every night.
Except tonight, I need a distraction. Need to think about something other than my father’s brain.
After I’d first learned about the diagnosis, I’d thought, for the briefest moment, of asking Cole to look into it. Surely, the smartest man I know could find a solution for dementia.
But it would be a tall order for anyone, not to mention poking a pre-existing sore spot for Cole. He couldn’t find a cure for his sister in time, and her disease was considerably less complex than what my father suffers from.
Which means there’s nothing I can do but ride it out to the end.
So, instead of turning it over in my head, I reach for another thought. I shouldn’t be thinking of my new assistant, shouldn’t be picturing her flushed cheeks or her blonde waves, loose over her shoulders. Absolutely shouldnotbe thinking about the clickof a button, clouding over the smart glass in my office, giving the two of us some privacy.
The way I could touch her, instruct her on how to use the products in that box. Order her to touch herself in front of me, legs spread on my office couch.
When the water is hot and rolling over my shoulders, my hand drifts downward, and I stroke myself, breathing in sharp gasps and droplets, imagining Lucy fucking Sullivan, bringing my credit card to her perfect, pouty lips.
Chapter 5
Lucy
When I arrive at the offices at the end of my fourth week at Ember, I’m already thinking about the dozens of tasks I need to complete.
It’s just past seven in the morning, but Dane is, of course, already in his office, the door shut and the fancy Japanese glass changed to the setting that frosts it over, so I can see the light is on, but not what he’s doing.
More than likely, he’s at his desk, getting ready for the conference in Amsterdam.
The conference in Amsterdam that I have to handle all the logistics for. It wouldn’t be so bad if Dane hadn’t decided, at the last minute, that he would be going. But now the organizers are scrambling to make room for him. I have to coordinate the tickets, when the jet will take off and land, itineraries, collaborations, and who will be running the company booth in the demo area.
That also means coordinating the marketing girls, specifically hired for events like this. They need flights, accommodation, and stipends.
I have to review the company’s travel insurance and make sure everyone going on the trip is covered. Then I'll send mywork to Legal, who may tell me it’s completely wrong and needs to be redone.
On top of all that, I have to manage the other, smaller details. Dane’s suits, his luggage, the house cleaner who just retired and will need a replacement.
Each time I cross something off my to-do list, there’s another thing added. And, on top of that, a call comes through to my desk every five minutes, another person who wants a slice of Dane’s time. And it’s my job to know which of them should be sent through immediately, which he’ll want me to take notes on and report about at the end of the day, and which should be unceremoniously blocked.
I sit down at my desk, pull out my water and coffee, and set them down gently. Today, I’m wearing Chanel (both the clothing and the perfume) since Julian threw my Bath & Body Works Sweet Pea spray in the trash, then made sure to take the trash bag down on his way out so I couldn’t fish it out of the bin.
When I relax into my chair, it’s with the same sigh of relief I felt that first day, in the lobby. Ergonomics, beauty, function and luxury—every inch of the Ember offices exudes all of these things.
My desk is a half-circle that I can slide into from the side, with a rotating chair that lets me see the doors of each executive suite. Dane’s is still clouded over, light glowing dimly within.
But the other two are vacant, doors shut but glass clear, so I can see into both. The nameplates read"Cole Davenport"and"Nico Hawthorne."Cole’s office is practically empty, except for a desk, chair and what looks like a few schematics on the wall. Nico’s, however, sports a beverage fridge and plenty of wall decorations, photos, and what looks like part of a sail from a boat.
And Dane’s?—
“News from the flight coordinator?”
I startle when I turn and realize Dane is standing right at the edge of my desk, his dark eyes focused on me. Like I always do when I have to talk to him, I flush from head to toe, staring up at his face from my place in my seat.
