Page 6 of One Wrong Move

I wonder if he’ll call Dean immediately after this.

If he’ll tell him everything.

“Harper,” Nate says, his voice hushed.

“Did he ask you to come here? To check up on me?” I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Nate, but I can’t… I don’t want him to be informed about my life. I don’t want you to?—”

“I won’t,” he says.

It’s really hard to believe that. Maybe he sees that on my face, because his normally easy-going expression tightens into something more intense. “Harper,” he says again. “If you’ll let me, I would very much?—”

“I hope you don’t mind,” a cultured British voice says, “but I poured us all a glass of champagne.” Aadhya comes to a stop under the arch, with three flutes on a tray and a bright smile on her lips. “Finding everything all right?”

I accept the glass of champagne. “Absolutely. I think Mr. Connovan would love the ethnographic sketches we keep in the Garden Room. Why don’t we all go there together?”

It’s a narrow escape, and judging by the heavy weight of his gaze, not a very subtle one. But my escape from New York hadn’t been very subtle, either.

Nate takes a glass too. “Lead the way, Harper,” he says in a smooth, authoritative tone, and it’s clear the conversation isn’t over.

Yeah. The escape will only be temporary.

Nate

Harper is in London.

The knowledge feels sharp, wedged beneath my skin like a splinter I can’t pull out and can’t stop returning to. My thoughts have been running over the fact again and again in the past two days.

Harper is now in London. And she’s no longer with Dean.

Dean had called me, clearly shocked, telling me I no longer needed to fly to New York for the wedding. She got cold feet. Spoke of some internship, about her dreams, and how she’d felt something was off for a long time but didn’t have the guts to tell me… It’s such bullshit.

I’d asked him why he thought she hadn’t been able to tell him before then, and what had happened to set this off, but he’d hissed that he didn’t fucking know. Maybe he’ll be more self-reflecting later on, but then again, I’d known the guy since college. He had many strengths, but that had never been one.

“The meeting with the Ridley team is in ten minutes,” my assistant says. She’s standing in the doorway to my office at Contron’s European HQ, a furrow between her brows. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Looks like you need another coffee.”

I shake my head. That’s the last thing I need. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

“All right,” Trish says in a tone of voice that makes it clear she doesn’t believe me. She’s never been shy about giving her opinion, and I’ve always liked that about her. Much better than my brother’s robot-like assistants.

“I won’t be back at the office afterward,” I tell her. “Field all emails and calls, and let whoever wants me know that I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

Her eyebrows rise. “There’s nothing in your diary.”

“No,” I agree smoothly.

Trish nods again and smiles. “All right then, sir. I understand. Have fun.”

“Thanks,” I say.

But I’m not sure if fun is exactly the thing I’ll have. Not if Harper’s mood the other day is anything to go by. I’ll have to play my hand well, but that’s what I’ve been trained for. That’s what I do day in and day out here. Handling our European subsidiaries and liaising with the executives back in New York.

The Ridley meeting goes smoothly, and I leave the office a few minutes after it concludes. London is gray. Contrary to what most people believe, it’s not always gloomy, but right now it is. The historic buildings with their gray stone around my Regent Street office mirrors the overcast skies, turning everything into one color palette.

I make it to the gallery by Duke of Kent Square five minutes before it closes. It’s a beautiful structure from the Victorian period and includes columns and large windows. There’s a small square in front with a fountain that hasn’t been turned on, yet. It’s mid-April, and the space is already ringed by elaborately planted tulips and spring flowers.

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