Grumpy Romance: Chapter 10

HOLLAND

I reach up, yanking my collar to loosen a button—or maybe three. My eyes are starting to water. I can’t make out the time on the clock, but I think it’s saying half past three.

Sleep. I should try to get in a few hours before the meeting tomorrow.

No, not tomorrow.

Today.

Later today.

There’s an ache in my back when I stand. I slam my fist against the curve of my spine, trying to massage the knots. Stumbling away from the desk, I plod across the hallway.

A triangle of pink light beckons me to Belle’s room. I ease the door open and peek in on my little girl. She’s got a princess nightlight plugged into the wall near her bed.

I walk over and kneel next to her mattress. The aches in my body fall away like butter as I stare at her precious face. She’s sleeping on her stomach, arms and legs sprawled like she’s scaling a wall in her dreams. Her silky black hair falls over her face and I gently slide it away from her eyes.

She stirs and I shush her, rubbing her back until she settles again. When I hear her breathing return to normal, I push away from the bed and stumble to my bedroom.

The air is cold. Still.

I’ve gotten used to sleeping alone and yet, tonight, I feel the emptiness like a chasm.

Today has been a giant grinder, digging into my shoulders. The mess at Baby Box had me poring over my data, trying to find what I was missing. The human element? What the hell is that? Money is the best indicator of success.

I’m too exhausted to think for a second more. My tattered emotions are pulling me thin. Right now, I can barely keep my eyes open.

It takes effort to drag myself to the bathroom and brush my teeth. By the time I fall into bed, I don’t need to reach for the sleeping pills. Sleep finds me and drags me into the darkness.

Claire is there again. In my dreams.

A familiar hell.

“Don’t drive, Holland. It’s late. We should catch a flight tomorrow.”

“I can make it.”

“Are you sure?”

I watch it play out like a scene from a horror movie. A haunting torture that I can’t escape. A lifetime prison sentence.

I sink into the anger and pain. Bathe myself in it. In the regret.

Monsters like me, men who murder their wives, don’t deserve peace. They don’t deserve love. It’s enough that I have Belle. I have to make it up to her. I have to give her everything. All the things.

“Don’t drive, Holland. You’ve barely gotten any sleep.”

“I can’t miss that meeting.”

“You’re right.”

In my dream, the hotel door opens with a creak.

I startle from my perch in the shadows. Why is the door opening? That didn’t happen on the day Claire…

A woman with dark skin and curly hair stomps into my dream. Her eyes are black marbles, glistening with annoyance. Her mouth is brown. Shades of it. The bottom is darker than the top.

She plants a hand on her hip. With those ridiculously sexy lips, she hisses, “And so?”

I stare at her from my perch against the wall. I’m hunkered in the darkness, arms loose at my sides, knees pressed into the cold floor.

There are times when I yell at myself for walking through the door. For dragging Claire with me. For ruining Belle’s life.

And there are nights, like tonight, when I collapse into a dark corner of my dream and watch with silent anguish.

The scene of me and Claire goes grey. I blink rapidly as Kenya Jones stomps her way through my memories like she stomps out of my office after an argument.

She has on the dress she was wearing at Baby Box today. The tight red one that clings to her curves. Temptation trapped in fabric. Her small waist brings attention to the curve of her hips. Trim but luscious.

I scramble to my feet. “Get out.”

“And so?” She glides across the floor, grace in motion.

My eyebrows crash together.

Kenya stops right in front of me. Eyes big and bright, she stares me down. I’ve conjured her in startling detail, down to the frizz of her wiry brown curls and the slight bump in her flared nose.

I step toward her.

A loud beeping sound jerks me awake. My eyes burst open, and I meet the slow crawl of the dawn. Lingering shadows cling to the corners of my room, fighting to live for a second more while the sun creeps over the horizon.

I press a hand to my chest and notice my heart slamming against my fingertips. It takes me a second to get my bearings.

My breathing remains labored. My chest still burns.

Kenya Jones was in my dream again.

Damn.

I roll to a sitting position, shoulders hunched, on the edge of the bed. My fingers dig into the mattress and I press my feet on top of the cold floor, struggling to root myself to reality.

Yesterday, I almost popped a vein in the Baby Box conference room. I could not believe Miss Jones’s defiance. Rather than heartfelt apologies, there was the tilt of her head and the cold set of her lips. There were icy glares and sharp comebacks.

She’d blown a hole in the Belle’s Beauty presentation and she didn’t have an ounce of remorse.

After everything she’d done, after the way she threw Belle under the bus, firing her would have been the most logical thing to do.

But I didn’t.

She’s a hard worker and an efficient…

That’s not all.

Even so, it’s all that matters.

I can handle Kenya Jones in the flesh. All her attitude. All her snarky remarks. That stinger of a tongue that always makes my blood run hot. She’s in a box labeled ‘do not touch’ and I can stuff it away when I put my mind to it.

But seeing her in my subconscious continually is a problem.

A big one.

If she keeps coming back to me in my dreams, I might drive myself crazy.

Confused and groggy, I lumber to the bathroom. When I step into the shower, I hesitate and then go for the cold faucet. Turning it to full blast, I shiver beneath the stream. Water runs into my eyes, down my nose and the column of my neck. I curl my fingers into fists, taking the brunt of it like a man.

What do I do now? See a priest? Hire an exorcist? How do I get my aggravating assistant out of my head?

After stepping out of the shower, I still have no clear direction. What I do have is my brother-in-law’s number.

I pace my bedroom as sunlight bursts through the windows. For four years, I’ve resisted asking for help. Opening my head for anyone to inspect was too tall of an order.

Is Kenya Jones going to push me over the edge? Is she the one who’ll break me?

I check my watch. Bernard should have picked up Miss Jones by now. If I know her, she’s probably steaming. Cursing me to hell and back for forcing her to get up and work this early.

My bare feet skid against the floor. The robe I wrapped around myself sways with each rotation around the room.

Damn it.

I haul my phone and call Darrel.

“Hello?”

“I need to speak to you.”

He doesn’t balk at the time or scold me for not doing this sooner. “I’ll start the tea.”

I call Mrs. Hansley, who bustles over in twenty minutes.

“She’s still sleeping,” I tell her, shrugging into my suit jacket. “I gave her a kiss already but, when she wakes up, let her know that I’ll be back late.”

Hansley pinches her lips together. “Alright.”

I want to get going, but I notice her hesitation and stop. “Is something wrong?” Mrs. Hansley is the closest to Belle. If she’s upset, I’m upset.

“Belle has been asking about her mother,” she says.

My body runs cold.

My heart drops to my toes.

“I did what you said and told her that her mommy was in heaven, but she kept pressing. I’m not sure if she’s noticing the mothers in her play date circle or… I thought you should know.”

My pulse goes still for a second. “I’ll handle it.”

She nods.

As I leave, a massive headache clamps around my head. It squeezes my skull until it threatens to explode.

My greatest fear is Belle finding out what I did to our family. She’s too young to understand now, but she’ll be old enough someday. I wanted to be the one to explain it to her. I wanted to be the one to admit my sins.

But I don’t want that day to be any time soon.

With a giant sigh, I stride down the stairs and into the circular driveway. The car is there, idling. Bernard straightens when he sees me. As usual, he’s wearing his pressed black suit and white gloves. I’ve told him he can change to something cooler, but he always insists on the uniform. Says it’s one less decision he has to make in a day.

“Bernard.” I nod.

He smiles and opens the door. “You’re moving out a little later than usual.”

“Miss Jones needed the car.”

“I was finished with her an hour ago.”

My eyebrows hike. “An hour?”

“Yes. I arrived early to her apartment. You know I prefer to get there twenty minutes before the time, in case of traffic.”

I do. It’s one of the reasons we’ve gotten along so well. He does his work impeccably and goes above and beyond. I respect that.

“She was hotfooting it down the sidewalk when I got there. Said she was going to the office to get more work done.” He chuckles. “Mind you, Miss Jones left the office at midnight yesterday.”

Regret is a cold and distant friend, but it pays me a visit once more. I could have gone easier on her. The workload, this time, is guaranteed to give her stress.

Wicked of me, perhaps.

But flexing my arm to beat her defiance down felt like the right move when I was seething after the Baby Box incident. Now that I’m scrambling to see Darrel because Miss Jones keeps inhabiting my dreams, I wonder who’s beating whom.

Grunting, I motion for him to get in the car. “Let’s go.”

While Bernard speeds through early morning traffic, I review the latest data pulls. Burying my head in algorithms is akin to an addict getting another hit. I can easily get lost in the details, in the story they have to tell.

People often assume that coding is a numbers game. And it is. But it’s also a thrilling ride into another world. Peeling back the curtains of ones and zeroes to the heart of a universe full of possibilities. Sure, those hearts are artificial in nature, but the stories are no less compelling.

Today, I stare at the tablet and feel numb.

The failure at Baby Box.

The licensing play for my technology.

Belle asking about her mother.

Miss Jones ruling over my dreams.

It’s all culminating in chaos. A tornado tearing through the tight grip I usually have on control.

Now is not the time to fall apart.

I need to get myself together before my world implodes completely.

Bernard slows the car in front of Darrel’s farmhouse. The building is surrounded by sprawling oak trees and a wide, picturesque garden.

He’s better at growing bank accounts than bluebells, but he’s stubborn about that garden. The obsession with growing things started when he suddenly quit investment banking and decided to become a therapist. It’s a mysterious change he told no one, not even Claire, the full story about.

“Should I wait?” Bernard asks.

“This won’t take long.” I climb out of the car.

Darrel opens the front door and nods at me. He’s dressed in a simple Henley and khakis. Despite the casual wear, his back is ramrod straight and his lips are stiff. Believe it or not, this is him at his most welcoming.

“Alistair.”

“Darrel.” I don’t know how therapy sessions should be. I’ve never attended one, even when my family pressed me to go after the funeral.

Asking for help is a cardinal sin. Especially when I deserve all the hell I’m getting.

But Kenya Jones isn’t something I can handle myself. As awkward as it may be, I don’t trust anyone else with my business. If the wrong person finds out about this, I’ll be all over the papers by noon.

“I have the coffee.” He points to the kitchen. Although the outside of his farmhouse is rustic, Darrel had the inside gutted and completely redone.

Claire would have gone wild in this kitchen. It’s huge and wide with warm wooden cabinets, a long island counter and the latest appliances. There’s a kettle smoking on the back burner.

I nod to it. “You tried to cook?”

“A mistake I won’t make again.” His eyes remain hard, but his lips twitch slightly. “Tea will just have to do.”

“I’m okay.”

“Drink it. It’ll give your hands something to do.”

I follow him to the table and sit, but my eyes keep jumping around. Darrel’s place is warm and welcoming. The little touches the designer implemented speaks of someone who knows how to turn a bachelor pad into a cozy refuge.

Claire would have… she would have loved everything about it.

“It’s your first time, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I paid a company. Told them to let the designer do what she wanted with this place.” He gestures to the rooms. “They sent someone out who knew what she was doing.” He slides the steaming mug over. The scent is minty. I already know that it won’t be sweet. “Tell me why you’re here, Alistair.”

“To enjoy your coffee.”

He doesn’t laugh.

I didn’t really expect him to.

Darrel inhales deeply. “Did you do something to Miss Jones?”

“You heard of the Baby Box meeting?”

He shrugs.

Damn. Gossip really gets around. People outside the company are catching wind of the disaster.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I went easy on her.”

“That’s unlike you.”

“Even if she’s insufferable, she’s good at her job.”

“It sounds like you’re trying to convince me.”

“Is this the part where you analyze my brain?”

“I’m just listening.”

“Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“You’ve come this far, Alistair. Might as well spit it out.”

I hate that he sounds so smug about it. “Isn’t there a rule that shrinks shouldn’t work on their own family members?”

“I’m technically, not a shrink. I’m a neuropsychologist.”

I wave away his clarification.

He sets the mug down with a clink. “It’s okay to feel an attraction to someone. Claire wouldn’t have wanted you to lock yourself away and be miserable.”

“You don’t know what she would have wanted.” My eyes flash. “Because she’s not here.”

“Alistair—”

“She’s in my dreams,” I blurt.

He goes still. “Claire?”

“Always. But I wasn’t talking about her.” My heart slams against my ribs. “Miss Jones.”

His eyes widen a bit. “What kind of dreams?” He taps his fingers on the table. “Sexual? Is she naked?”

“Dammit, Darrel. I’m not dreaming of another woman naked while my wife is right there.”

“What do you mean ‘right there’?”

I blow out a frustrated breath.

Darrel stiffens when it hits him. “The nightmare. Miss Jones is inside the nightmare?”

“She bursts into the hotel room. Into that… memory. She gives me attitude and kind of shocks me awake.”

Surprise passes over his usually blank face.

“I can’t get her out.”

“What exactly is she doing in those dreams?”

“The first time, she just appeared. Like a ghost. The second time, she barged through the door right when I was leaving with Claire. She yelled at me.”

Darrel stares thoughtfully at the table. “Hm.”

“Hm?”

“Has anyone ever entered that nightmare before?”

“Never.” I shake my head. “It’s only her. Only since I hired her.”

He strokes his chin. “This is good.”

“Good?” My assistant is parading through my dreams and he thinks it’s good.

“Yes.” He eases back, one arm resting on the table. “That nightmare has been playing on a loop ever since Claire passed. But it got worse when you decided to tackle Belle’s Beauty on your own.”

“Worse is an arbitrary word.”

“You came to me for sleeping pills.” His eyes are sharp.

“That still didn’t work,” I point out.

“Consider your brain like a mysterious piece of tech. It has pressure sensors that flare when the stress is getting to you. Your mind has been trying to communicate that it’s being worn down and mistreated.”

“My mind isn’t a sentient being.”

“It’s the control tower. The center of everything that makes up your mind, body and soul. And it’s breaking down.”

“What about Miss Jones?”

“What about her?”

“She’s in my dreams now. She’s messing up my head. Should I… fire her?” I hold my breath.

His eyes ram into mine. “Is that what you want?”

I glance away.

“You would have fired her a long time ago if you wanted her out of your life.” He drums his fingers against the mug. “But you didn’t.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You might not want to admit it, Alistair.” He arches an eyebrow. “But your brain is giving you away.”

“It was just a dream.”

“If it was just a dream, you wouldn’t be here.” His tone is hard.

I think Darrel needs a lesson on the ‘human element’ too.

“Dreams often play a significant part in exposing what’s on our mind at a subconscious level.” He lifts a hand. Raises it to the light. “We have the conscious level. The things we do or say regularly come from here.” He drops his hand a foot below that. “And we have the subconscious level. That’s where the real power is. It’s harder to penetrate that domain but, once it does, it’s locked in.”

“You’re saying I have Miss Jones… trapped in my subconscious?”

“I believe, this is just a hunch, that you’re secretly hoping Miss Jones will save you.”

If I wasn’t so shocked, I’d probably laugh. “I don’t need anyone to save me.”

“Your brain seems to think otherwise.”

“My brain has been messed up since the funeral. You shouldn’t listen to a thing that bastard says.”

“Alistair, you are that bastard.”

I scowl at him.

“Miss Jones keeps showing up in your nightmares. She stops the memory of that night from playing over and over again. She takes the control you don’t want to give. She forces you to step away from regret. She’s prying your cold, hard fingers off the self-destruct button.”

I grit my teeth. “I don’t like anything I’m hearing.”

“People rarely enjoy hearing the truth but, in the long run, it hurts much less than building a house out of BS.”

My phone rings, saving Darrel from a blistering comment.

It’s Ezekiel.

“I’m late for a meeting,” I say, pocketing the phone without answering it.

My chair scrapes the ground when I rise. The tea remains untouched on the table. I don’t have to drink it to know it won’t live up to Ezekiel’s brew.

“Alistair.”

I turn around.

Darrel unfolds his broad, six-foot frame from the table. He stares at me with green eyes. Claire’s eyes. It’s still hard to look directly at them without thinking of her.

“No one can free you. You’re the only one who can get out.”

My chest tightens. “I’ll try to be there when you visit Belle Friday, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“It’s fine. Mrs. Hansley basically raised me too. We’ll have a good visit.”

I hurry out of the farmhouse. Bernard straightens and travels around to open my door. I lurch at the handle and yank it before he can.

My thoughts are whirring. I can’t catch them fast enough. Can’t make them sit still so I can pore over them. Make sense of them.

Bernard, wisely, doesn’t speak to me on the way to the office.

I press my hands into the backseat and focus on breathing. Darrel’s pesky analysis can’t be right. I’m not pining for Miss Jones. Her appearance in my dreams is not a cry for help from my brain. And Claire, most certainly, wouldn’t want her murderer to be happy.

“You don’t look so good,” Ezekiel tells me when I charge into my office. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

“Where’s my coffee?”

“There.” He points to the cup.

I lift the lid. Sniff. Just the right amount of cinnamon and cream. Shoving it toward him, I bark, “You drink it first.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll wait to make sure you don’t die and then I’ll have it.”

Ezekiel’s eyes widen. Then he starts laughing.

I glare at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, sir.”

My scowl is extra dark because he’s lying to me.

Ezekiel sets a new stack of binders on my desk. “Miss Jones returned the company credit card along with the organized invoices and receipts. Would you like me to file them away?”

“No. Let her do it.”

“I’ll let her know.” He clears his throat. “Are you ready for the meeting?”

“Yes.”

I shoot out of my chair and swipe the coffee from the edge of my desk.

Spiked or not, I’m in too bad a condition to head into that meeting without a little java. Ezekiel can let the feds know Kenya was responsible for my coffee if I end up crashing to the ground and foaming at the mouth later.

Ezekiel follows me down the hallway.

I stop and arch an eyebrow at him. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll attend the marketing meeting with you.”

“Why?” My angry eyes dart over the hallway. “Where’s Kenya?”

“Attending to matters for the in-store promotion.”

“She’s not here?”

His eyes dart to the side.

I step toward him. My voice is low and threatening. “It is Miss Jones’s responsibility to attend all matters regarding Belle’s Beauty. Inform her that if she doesn’t show up, she can contact my lawyer to negotiate for the damages regarding the Baby Box pitch.”

“Sir?”

“Did I stutter, Ezekiel?” I hiss.

His eyebrows fall low over disapproving eyes. “If she upsets you, Alistair, I don’t have a problem attending the meeting in her place.”

“I need your attention on Fine Industries. There’s been another hiccup with the licensing contract.”

Ezekiel remains in the hallway, holding his ground.

I step back and rub my temple. “You acting like this makes me wonder if you believe I’m the bad guy.”

“Miss Jones entered this company under suspicion. The employees are questioning what she’s doing here and what connection she has to you.”

“Is that a problem? So she isn’t a class favorite. We don’t show up to work to make friends.”

“Maybe not.”

I keep walking. Then I swerve back. “Did she complain to you?”

“Not once. And, as far as I know, Miss Jones has handled all rejection with grace.”

His eyes are soft when he speaks about her. It seems Miss Jones has earned Ezekiel’s favor. But he did always like the ones with spikes. It’s why he puts up with me.

“Well then…”

“Yesterday was different.”

I freeze.

“Yesterday,” Ezekiel says, “she was outright confronted by one of your admirers.”

“My admirers?” I rub my chin. I’ve trained myself to ignore the physical interest of women in the company. Kenya’s the only exception, but it’s not because I want to notice her. She’s derailed my best attempts at keeping my eyes to myself.

“I’m afraid Miss Jones will be further harassed.”

“She acts like nothing can harm her. Why are you suddenly concerned?”

“It’s a tense time, Alistair.”

“And even if there’s a damn flying saucer hovering on top of the building, I expect her to show up when she’s supposed to and complete her duties as assigned.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he dips his chin. “I’ll inform her.”

“Ezekiel.”

He turns, disapproval in his furrowed brow and the set of his whiskered chin. “Yes, sir?”

“I don’t care how much you favor the woman. Don’t question me again.”

His eyes darken. “Yes, sir.”

I enter the meeting room where the Belle’s Beauty PR team have gathered. This is an emergency meeting to discuss the failure that was Baby Box and to come up with a Plan B, hence why I’ve asked them to arrive early. My schedule is so full that I couldn’t fit them in at any other point in the day.

Frightened eyes dart to the ground. I take my seat and roll it into position at the head of the table. Heated silence fills the air while I take my time hauling out my laptop.

A moment later, the door opens and Miss Jones marches in. Every nerve in my body tightens at the sight of her. Silky, dark skin drowning in sunshine. Bee-stung lips covered in gloss. Curly hair slicked back in a low ponytail.

I hide my rising desire with a thunderous expression. She meets my glare with a cold look of her own. Refusing to cower, she traipses through the room and yanks out the chair next to me.

Stunned looks get tossed our way. The PR team bore witness to the battle of wills that occurred yesterday. They know it’d be near suicide to sit next to me after making such a mess.

I toss Kenya Jones a dark look. Do you have a death wish?

“Can’t I sit here?” She answers my glower with a cool expression. “Or is that another company rule?”

It’s not that she can’t sit there, but no one does. The seats to my left and right are usually vacant because no one wants to be within firing distance.

Kenya plunks her notebook and laptop on the table and gets comfortable.

This woman is either crazy or fearless. Either way, she’s making it hard to breathe right now.

I ram my fingers together and rest my elbows on the table. “You all know why we’re here. Baby Box was a disaster. Before Miss Jones’s… untimely interruption, Sutherburg was not biting.”

No one speaks up.

Not that I expect them too.

When the ship’s going down, no one wants to take responsibility with the captain. I know that it’s ultimately my responsibility but, because it’s my responsibility, I can set things in place so it never happens again.

“We have other deals we can pursue, but that’s not the point. Losing the Baby Box pitch jeopardizes our company value. When trying to expand our markets, we need companies jumping on board. Rejection will make the rest of the pack cautious.” My eyes slice through Kenya’s. “And we don’t need any more reasons to look untrustworthy.”

Her mouth curls into a frown.

“So,” I glance at my team in turn, “what were the holes in yesterday’s plan and what can we do to salvage this?”

I listen to the PR team hem and haw their way through the analysis. I give my thoughts, listen to their excuses, and bark out my feedback.

Toward the end of the meeting, I dismiss them all and rub my eyelids. I need a coffee refill.

“Kenya.”

“I know.” She climbs to her feet and cradles her notebook and laptop. “Milk, cream and ‘enough’ sugar.”

I’d thank her if my head wasn’t pounding. Moving listlessly back to my office, I fall into the chair and tilt my head back.

A hard knock on the door alerts me to Kenya’s entrance. She plunks a glass of water on the table and tosses an unopened bottle of headache reliever pills.

I stare at the offering. “Where’s my coffee?”

“Coffee is only going to make it worse.” She folds her arms over her chest and jerks her chin down.

“Didn’t I tell you to go about your duties quietly?” I open the bottle and listen to the crack of the breaking seal. Shaking two tablets into my palm, I grunt. “This isn’t quietly.”

“There are nicer ways to say thanks.”

“I didn’t say thanks.” I knock the pills back and swallow.

She rolls her eyes. “By the way, I had something to say during the meeting, but I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

My eyebrows hike.

“Why didn’t you bring up your delivery as a part of the evaluation?”

I slam the cup on the table. Water sloshes over the rim.

“You don’t have to be good at everything, but if you’re going to expose what went wrong yesterday, you could have started there.”

“My delivery was not the issue. It was the content of the pitch.”

“You spoke to Baby Box like you were doing them a favor. That might work in some cases, but not when you’re trying to convince someone to buy from you.”

My eyes narrow to slits. “Did I not make myself clear yesterday?”

“You made yourself very clear.” She tilts her chin up. “I stay and take whatever you dish out or you sue me for everything I’m worth.”

I wouldn’t say it like that, but I’m glad she took it that way.

Kenya holds her ground. “You made yourself clear and I’d like to do that too. I’m here because I want to be. Because it’s a good job with the kind of salary and benefits I couldn’t dream of receiving, even if I was fifty years old with thirty years of experience.”

My impatient stare does not deter her one bit.

She steps toward my desk. “I apologize again for bringing your family into the pitch. That wasn’t right and I accept the consequences of that decision.” She swipes the cup off the table and yanks the pills too. “But I don’t like being threatened and manipulated. I’m not your possession. Keep that in mind the next time you want to force me to do anything.”

My eyebrow quirks up. Pushing her into a corner made her even bolder. Her eyes are pure fire. Flames shooting out to rival a bonfire.

If I wasn’t so in awe of her guts, I’d ax her on the spot just for assuming she can lecture me.

The landline rings.

She turns to go.

I lift a hand. “Wait right there.”

Her back stiffens and I can feel her annoyance spreading out like spikes in the room.

I lift the phone from its cradle. “Hello?”

“Mr. Alistair, sir,” the receptionist at the lobby screeches, “you have a visitor.”

“Who is it?” I bark.

“It’s Mr. Sutherburg from Baby Box.”

My eyes widen and I speak hoarsely. “Send him upstairs.”