"Can you watch Liam for a couple hours? Emergency errand." My voice sounds strange even to me.
"Sure, be there in fifteen."
I don't bother changing out of my prairie skirt and Reeves’s oversizedGuns n' Rosest-shirt. My hair's piled in a messy bun, and I haven't worn makeup in days. Good. Let him see me like this—not made up, posed and perfect like in his precious photographs.
Jessica arrives, and I'm out the door with barely a goodbye.
The whole drive to Portland, I switch radio stations compulsively. Nothing helps. A love song makes me angrier. Rock music isn't loud enough. Talk radio is just noise. My hands grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.
The Hall Properties building rises like a middle finger to the sky—all glass and steel and pretentiousness.
I park haphazardly and storm through the revolving doors into a lobby that screams wealth. Everything is grey and beige, dark wood, sleek lines, and understated elegance.
The receptionist could be on a runway in Milan. She's tall, willowy, with perfect cheekbones and immaculate makeup. Her silk blouse probably costs more than my monthly grocery budget.
"I need to see Caine Hall," I announce, not bothering with pleasantries.
She looks at me like I've crawled out from under a rock. Her eyes travel from my messy hair to my worn sneakers.
"Do you have an appointment?" Her voice is cool, professional.
"No, but he'll want to see me." I stand taller, refusing to be intimidated. "Tell him Jenna Sullivan is here."
Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches slightly. "Mr. Hall is in meetings all afternoon. Perhaps you'd like to schedule something for next week?"
Her condescending tone grates on my nerves, and I desperately want to crawl over that pretentious marble counter and slap her. Of course, I restrain myself. "Just tell him I'm here," I insist. “Please,” I add, realizing I’m kind of being a bitch. It’s not the woman’s fault if Caine Hall is a grandiose narcissist who thinks he can get anything he wants, no matter the cost to others.
Her brows perk up, and she shoots me a tight smile—yes, she thinks I'm certifiable. Which may be I am.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The receptionist gives me a skeptical look before lifting her phone. She speaks quietly, her eyes never leaving me as if I might bolt with the expensive-looking vase on the side table.
"Mr. Hall? There's a..." she pauses, looking me over again, "...woman here to see you. Jenna Sullivan.” Her eyebrows shoot up. "Yes, sir. Right away."
She hangs up and plasters on a professional smile. "Please wait a moment."
Within minutes, a security guard appears beside me. He's middle-aged with a round face and kind eyes, his uniform stretched tight across his belly. His name tag reads ‘Marco.’
"Ms. Sullivan? I'll escort you to Mr. Hall's office."
We step into an elevator with mirrored walls thatmultiply my dishevelled appearance infinitely. I look like a wild woman next to Marco's neat uniform.
"Beautiful day out there," Marco says, breaking the silence. "Spring's finally showing up. My wife's already got her garden started."
"That's nice," I manage. "What does she grow?"
"Tomatoes, mostly. Makes the best sauce you've ever tasted." His face lights up. "Got kids?"
"A son. He's four."
"Wonderful age. Mine are all grown now."
The elevator doors open to the 21st floor, and suddenly my anger evaporates, replaced by cold panic. What am I doing here? This was a terrible idea.
My mind races as I stand frozen in the elevator, clutching my purse so tightly my knuckles turn white. I shouldn't have come. I should be at home with Liam, or helping Reeves at the pool hall—anywhere but in this tower of glass and steel about to confront a man whom I should no longer be engaging with.
The walls of the elevator seem to close in around me, my reflected image staring back with accusation. My messy bun has come partly undone during my frantic journey here, wisps of red hair falling across my face. I tuck one behind my ear with shaky fingers, suddenly aware of how out of place I look in my worn skirt and flowy top against all this corporate glam.
