Chapter 4

Birthday countdown: 44 days

Since meeting her: 2 days

After I finish my closing remarks, the diamond convention ends without any issues. Thousands of manufacturers, miners, and other industry leaders are in attendance. I’m given a standing ovation by a room full of people, most of whom want to be me. I’m told I should run for president. I am handed so many business cards that my once-empty pocket is now full.

Being an introvert doesn’t mean I can’t snap on the charm and charisma when needed. I’m damn good at my job even if it’s exhausting.

As of this morning, I’ve confirmed half a billion dollars’ worth of investments, and the wire transfers have already begun. The networking I’ve done over the last six months, traveling around the country, worked. Because of my willingness to sacrifice my time for the good of the company, we will have the most successful fiscal year to date. I know that. So does everyone who expects me to take over the position of chief executive officer when my father retires.

I might be the quiet Calloway, but I can make any deal happen, and I always get what I want.

I stalk down the center aisle and the crowd parts for me like the Red Sea. Brody falls in line beside me, stopping anyone from getting too close.

Once Weston and I were old enough to legally be sexualized by the media, we gained celebrity-level attention. Weston dating A-list actresses didn’t help and my father’s affair with a supermodel, only added fuel to the fire. It’s always been difficult to be in public situations and stay under the radar.

Some people wish for fame. I don’t give a fuck about it.

I don’t care about the ego shit. I want to run a successful company that takes mining ethics seriously without a spectacle. Is that too much to ask?

Our demand always increases when the paparazzi and tabloids take our personal lives into their own hands. Weston says it’s good for business. The numbers prove it is. So, I’ve learned to deal with it and navigate it the best I can, even when they turn me into a thirst trap, disrespect me, and sexualize anything I do. Over the years, I’ve been particular about what I show the world, and I try to write the narrative as I see fit. Oftentimes, it works. Sometimes, it backfires. It’s a risk I’m willing to take as I strive for a somewhat-private life.

“Where are you going?” Brody asks when we’re in the foyer of the W.

My eyes are zeroed in on the exit. I want to leave.

He crosses his broad arms over his chest. He’s ex-military, and he used to work for the Secret Service before joining me. The man takes zero shit. I might be scared of him if he wasn’t family and hired to protect me.

“I called for the car,” I explain, pulling off my suit coat and tie and handing them to him.

He passes them to one of the interns who is following behind him, not too close though. “Do something with this,” he tells him. “We’ll be back.”

Some heads turn as I approach the double doors, but I’m a master at ignoring everyone. I pretend no one exists because it’s easier.

After I remove my cufflinks and drop them in my pocket with my tiny sketchbook and pen, I roll my sleeves up to my forearms.

Three feet away from the exit, I’m stopped by Mr. Martin.

He’s smiling. I’m not.

“I assume the issue was handled?” It comes out cold.

“Yes, sir. Yesterday.”

I give him a firm handshake, and he glances down at the watch on my wrist. That tinge of guilt flares again, but I push the thoughts away.

Why does it matter? She took what was mine first. She was in my space. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t search for trouble. No, trouble fucking found me.

When I step outside, I let out a relieved breath. Brody stands beside me, his eyes scanning the perimeter.

“Mr. Calloway,” a voice says at my side, grabbing my attention. She’s wearing a W housekeeper uniform, like the one Alexis had on yesterday.

I look at her, raising my brows, aware she has something to say.

“My best friend isn’t a thief,” she states. “She’s one of the most trustworthy people I’ve ever met. You’re wrong for getting her fired.”

“I beg to differ,” I tell her as Brody rushes forward, moving me toward the limo.

She fades into the crowd as I slide across the leather seats, thankful for an escape. Brody takes the front passenger seat.

“Where are we headed, Mr. Calloway? Home?” Nash asks. He’s been my driver since I was sixteen.

The car pushes down the narrow street. It’s not the first time I’ve asked him to pick me up after a conference this size to decompress. I do have a limit to how much I can socialize, and today, I nearly met it.

“Central Park. Do you have an extra pair of my sunglasses?”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

Seconds later, the car stops. Brody opens the back door, handing me some Ray-Bans and a Yankees baseball hat. I happily put them on as we zoom away from it all. I’ve been traveling for six months, and nothing has changed except the season. However, being in New York during the summer is my favorite, so right now, I’m happy. Even if it’s temporary.

I look out the windows at the puffy white fluffs of cumuli drifting in the blue sky. It’s a beautiful day, one that shouldn’t be wasted. As we turn onto another street, my cell vibrates, pulling my attention away. I see my brother’s name and answer.

“Did you survive today?” Weston asks.

“You know I did.” I’m being short, but I hate talking on the phone. I prefer text unless it’s something serious, and if that’s the case, I want the news delivered to my face. Weston doesn’t care though.

“Sorry I couldn’t be there with you.” I hear a cheeky smile in his tone.

“You’re not,” I state.

“I’ll happily let you stand in for me and deal with Lena any day of the week.”

That’s his soon-to-be ex-wife. They’ve been publicly fighting in divorce court for months.

“Next time.”

When we were younger, we’d switch places weekly because very few people could tell us apart. Even now, when we’re bored as fuck or I need air, he’ll tap in for me.

“Snap your fingers, and we can trade lives, little brother.” He’s fifty-five seconds older than me, and he’ll never let me live it down.

“Had I been standing in your shoes, you’d have been divorced last year.”

“She could use some of the asshole cold shoulder you’ve perfected over the years.”

We might laugh, but it’s true.

“So, I know your schedule is your life, but are you free tonight?” he asks.

“No. Are you free on Friday night?” I ask.

It’s only six days away. Gives me some time to decompress from nonstop travel.

He chuckles. “Considering I’m no longer shackled to the wicked witch, I have no definite plans until the end of time. I’ll put something together.”

“Somewhere with no dress code.” I’m tired of entertaining. I want to sit at a shitty bar and drink cheap whiskey out of a dirty glass and pretend like the paparazzi aren’t following me around the city. I noticed them as soon as I landed yesterday.

“I’ve got the perfect place in mind. I’ve missed you,” he tells me.

“Yeah, yeah.” The truth is, I’ve missed him too.

Weston is my best friend, and we’re thick as thieves. Always have been. In our profession, they call us double trouble; because we fucking are. He’s the chief operating officer, and he’s been waiting for me to assume the CEO role. Together, we’ll rule Calloway Diamonds as it was always intended.

My father will retire within the next few months, and I’ll be promoted as long as every condition is met.

I attended several Ivy Leagues, studied abroad, befriended world leaders, and sold billions in investments.

Only one requirement remains unfulfilled—marriage before forty. Now, I’m currently the world’s most eligible bachelor with zero prospects. And the only people who know that are on the inside.

“Are you thrilled to be back?” he asks.

“No.” It’s the truth. I need a vacation because I’m teetering on the edge of burnout. “Yesterday, I demanded someone at the W be fired.”

The line is silent for a few seconds.

“Because?”

“She took my watch.”

He chuckles. “Was it returned?”

“Yes, but I think I was a bit irrational.”

“When are you not?”

“Point taken.”

It grows quiet again.

“Is the Grinch growing a heart three sizes too big?”

“She was …” I think about the words I’d use to describe her. My brother takes any opportunity that presents itself to give me shit, so I stop mid-sentence.

“What?” he asks. “She was what?”

Stunning. Breathtaking. She thought I’d be different.

“I have to go. Text me about our plans on Friday.”

“Easton,” he urges, but I end the call.

I turn it on silent and shove my phone into my pocket. Eventually, the limo slows, and the door opens. Sunlight rushes in, and I leave the car, ignoring lingering glances.

I’ve visited Central Park a million times to clear my mind. It’s one of my favorite escapes.

I shove my hand into my pocket, ensuring the miniature notebook the size of my palm and the fine-nib fountain pen are there. I never leave home without it because I never know when inspiration will call.

Since I was nine years old, I’ve captured moments of my life just like this, however exciting or boring they may be. The daily sketches started when I was a young, introverted boy in speech therapy. Sketching became my escape when I was frustrated about not being able to properly articulate my thoughts or needs.

Every day was a living Hell, and I’d force myself to draw one thing that would pull my mind away from reality. When my pen was gliding across the smooth paper, nothing mattered, not the words stuck in my throat or the room of people who stared while I froze in place. It helped me disappear and transported me to somewhere else, somewhere deep within my mind, and calmed me.

When I was on the verge of a meltdown, Weston always saved me. He used his voice for me when I couldn’t. Sometimes, I still see the disappointment on my father’s face when he learned the future of our family’s company rested in the hands of a boy with a genius-level IQ who couldn’t read out loud or properly articulate his thoughts.

How would I ever be able to hold a meeting, regardless of running a billion dollar company? How would I make deals happen if my words were like bricks in my mouth? That was when Weston and I became a packaged deal, and he refused to do anything without me. My father chose us both or lost us both. It was Weston’s boundary; one he’s stayed firm with.

Years of speech therapy and determination helped me. Now, I can command a fucking room without issue, even if it’s mentally exhausting. That time in my life may be nothing more than a faded memory now, but I never stopped documenting my life in fine lines.

Over the years, I’ve sketched anything and everything, from animals to clouds to strangers. Each day, I draw at least one scene, a tiny but significant moment in my life, so I’ll never forget the time that’s always passing by.

Maybe when I’m retired and gray, I’ll look back at these sketches and smile, knowing the moments I’m living in right now were the best damn days of my life.

When I’m in the park, just existing as everyone else, it’s easy to pretend I can blend in and be invisible. Normalcy, it’s something I desperately crave. That and true love, but I know that doesn’t exist. At least not for me.

As I move onto the walking path, I glance up and see my penthouse waiting for me up above with its blue-tinted glass windows. It’s one of my favorite homes when I’m in the city.

A green Frisbee zooms by in my peripheral, and when I turn my head, I see her.

I stop in my tracks.

I’ll never forget those high cheekbones, pouty lips, or long eyelashes. She’s wearing bright pink athletic shorts and a T-shirt with something written across the front. It says, My Book Boyfriend Is Better Than Yours. The thought makes me laugh. She commands my attention in the same manner as she did yesterday.

Alexis reads with her legs crisscrossed and next to her is a water bottle and a tote bag. It’s incredible how she can look so unbothered and at peace, as if nothing or no one could disturb her.

I move my hat farther down my head, knowing sunglasses were a good call. It gives me the opportunity to freely watch her. As I’m cast under her spell for the second time in two days, the world moves around me.

Brody falls in line beside me. His eyes scan across the park, and he spots her too. He’s aware of what happened yesterday, but he has no idea what she looks like.

“Shit, is that her?” he asks, noticing I’m in a trance.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Did you plan this?”

He doesn’t glance at me, but keeps his eyes forward.

“Don’t follow me,” I state, not wanting to be hovered over.

I spot an empty bench behind me and sit. Then I pull the notebook from my pocket, along with my pen, and sketch the scene. Seeing her in a crowd of people is undoubtedly my highlight, but I don’t focus solely on her, making sure to take in the entire scene.

I add in the Frisbee players, the branches of the trees that sway in the breeze, and the long wisps of clouds that float above the surrounding buildings. It’s almost like a Where’s Waldo? inspired scene, but if I were to name it, it would be called Where’s the Woman Who Nearly Stopped Time? I glance at the edge of the page, spotting her in my drawing, and smile. There she is.

The odds of seeing her today are astronomical. Some might even call it fate. Her long hair blows in the wind and whatever she’s reading has her smiling. When she looks up again, her gaze is zeroed in on me. I keep my head down, but my eyes are on her. Seconds later, she brings her eyes back to whatever she’s reading.

I should get in the limo and pretend I didn’t see her. The man I was before she crashed into me head-on would. But she’s caught my attention twice. That doesn’t happen.