Page 9

The kitchen is already occupied.

Silas is standing at the counter in a dark navy suit, pouring coffee from a French press like a man performing surgery. He looks like he slept eight immaculate hours and woke up pressed and folded.

I look like I lost a fight with a goose down pillow.

“Good morning, Miss Lake.”

“Morning.” I sit at the table. There is already a place set for me. A cloth napkin. Real silverware. A plate with toast and what appears to be imported jam in a small ceramic dish. “Did you make all this?”

“Mrs. Hughes stocked provisions before she left. I assembled.”

He sets a cup of coffee in front of me. Our fingers do not touch. I am very aware that our fingers do not touch. So is my omega, who has been awake since the second his scent reached me in the hallway.

I drink the coffee. It is perfect. Of course it is.

“I’ll start with the current accounts this morning,” I say, because I am a professional. “The filing system is actually quite logical.”

“I designed it.”

“That tracks.”

The corner of his mouth shifts. The ghost of a possibility of a smile. “The trust documentation is in the locked cabinet. The key is in your desk, top right drawer.”

“Thank you.”

He sits across from me and drinks his coffee. He doesn’t look at me for longer than two seconds at a time. I count. My accountant brain counts everything.

“If you have questions about the records,” he says, “I will be in my study until noon.”

“I’ll probably have a lot of questions.”

“I anticipated that.”

He finishes his coffee. Stands. Buttons his jacket. Leaves the kitchen without looking back, and I sit there with my hands wrapped around a ceramic mug and my heartbeat in my ears and think: this is going to be a very long day.

At nine fifteen, Silas appears in my office.

I am halfway through organizing the current accounts. My hair is falling out of its clip, my coffee is cold, and I have discovered that my employer apparently considers alphabetical filing a passing fad.

“Miss Lake.”

“Mr. Lowe.”

His gaze drops to my desk.

He does not leave.

I look up. He’s staring at something beside my keyboard.

My hair clip. I took it out fifteen minutes ago because it was giving me a headache. It’s a cheap brown claw clip with one slightly bent tooth.

“Do you need something?” I ask.

“That clip.”

“What about it?”

“It’s damaged.”