Page 26 of One Wrong Move

I have to swallow again. “That’s the plan, at least.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing it come to fruition,” he says. Then he looks back, at the stairs leading up to the next floor. “I’ll be up around seven. Breakfast will be downstairs if you want any.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that. All of this, I truly do.”

His lips curve, and then he nods. “Night, Harper.”

“Good night, Nate.” I watch him walk up the stairs and then slowly, quietly, shut my bedroom door.

The water pressure is excellent. The blowdryer in the bathroom is powerful. When I crawl into bed an hour later, between pressed sheets and on a mattress that’s never heard the term metal springs, I fall asleep before my head even hits the pillow.

And when I dream, it’s about art on walls, art I’ve seen and loved over the years all gathered in one place.

Nate

I have one week.

One week to convince her to stay. For her to realize that she doesn’t need to spend money on another shitty place out in the suburbs. And a whole week of restless nights, knowing she’s sleeping under the same roof as me.

Sleep hadn’t come easy. I’d laid awake in the deafening silence for hours, waiting for a sound to puncture it. Any sound at all. Footfalls as she moved around downstairs, running the shower, creaking doors. But Harper’s been soundless from the moment she closed her bedroom door and disappeared into the guest wing that’s hers.

Will I ever be able to think of it as anything but hers now?

Maybe she has been making sounds, but my townhouse is soundproof. I’ve never listened to sounds this intently before.

I’m up and ready to head out before she’s awake in the morning. I’ve got an early meeting with our contractors in Japan. It’s a fourteen-hour time difference between Tokyo and New York, but it’s only nine with me being in London, so my brother likes to delegate these calls to me.

Before I leave, however, I make sure to order breakfast. I don’t usually eat it myself, but I promised Harper it’ll be here. It’s delivered while I’m still on the doorstep. A large box of pastries and smoothies, and freshly squeezed orange juice. I bring it in and leave it on the kitchen island for Harper to find.

The workday moves the way it typically does, which is fast, and I’m grateful for it. It’s easy to sink into a million things that constantly need to be done. I have a feeling I’m going to need to do more of that in the coming week than I ever have before.

One week. That’s all I have.

One week to savor… and one week to survive.

My phone is usually on silent while I’m in meetings, but I keep it on the entire day in case Harper calls. In case she can’t find the key I left for her, or something breaks, or anything else. Anything at all.

In the few quiet moments I get during the day, my mind mulls over the place I’d seen yesterday.

The studio apartment from hell. Apartment is too generous of a label. It was a room with a nonfunctioning mini fridge.

In the area where I wouldn’t let anyone I care about walk home alone at night.

Getting her out of there was the only thing that mattered. Making sure she is safe. And now she is… for a week.

“Nate,” my assistant says. She’s standing in front of my desk, her brows drawn low. Like she’s studying me. “Hey. Do you still want me to sort out the car for tonight?”

“Tonight?” I repeat.

“Yes. The ribbon cutting at the new library up by Hampstead Heath. You mentioned how going would be strategic, seeing as the main benefactor is Mads Knudsen.”

“Right,” I say blandly. Knudsen is a major stakeholder of a European company Contron has been trying to partner with for months, with no luck. It’s one of my several key priorities as a Connovan and the Contron’s representative in Europe.

We have lawyers. We have strategists. We have one hell of an executive team. But we only have three Connovans, as my brother Alec loves to say, and sending one of us in is the equivalent of the nuclear option.

“Cancel the car,” I say. “Tell them I won’t make it.”

Her eyes flare in surprise. “All right. Shall I make alternate plans?”

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