Page 27 of One Wrong Move

“No. Actually, yes. Send flowers to the event—tell them I wasn’t feeling well. Make a donation to the library. Something for one of their programs for underprivileged youth.”

“Got it. Delivered directly to Novus Tech’s board members?”

“That’s too direct. Send it to the opening itself, but make it excessive. A giant bouquet. Something that won’t be missed.”

She nods briskly. “Right.”

It’s Harper’s first night at the townhouse. I don’t… I should… but I don’t want to leave her there alone.

Maybe she has plans. Tons of them.

Maybe she would rather I wasn’t home.

But still, I can’t bring myself to attend the function, to smile and network, knowing that, at the same time, Harper might be sitting in my home and looking up new places to live.

Or exploring the townhouse on her own… I showed her most of it. Everywhere except the gym in the basement and the third floor.

My floor.

It doesn’t have much—a small library, my bedroom, and an ensuite. A large wardrobe.

But it does have plenty of art on the walls. Even more of the kind that reveals too much.

If she looks into it more.

Thinks about it further.

About why I bought everything she’d ever said she liked.

I’d need to play up the investment angle more. Strictly speaking, it’s not untrue. False impressions, her voice echoes through my mind. Chidingly. But I’ve built a career out of giving people exactly the kind of impression they want.

I leave the office and drive home earlier than I have in months. My assistant hasn’t left her desk yet, and I rarely walk out before her. But now I’m the one telling her to have a good evening.

The commute home is calming. It always is, even amid the London bustle, the traffic, the pedestrians. There’s something about all of it that sets my nerves at ease. The vehicle under my control, the solid feel of the steering wheel in my grip, the power of the gas pedal beneath my foot. It’s like mediation.

One week with Harper.

I can do that.

That’s not the problem, I think. Because I might enjoy it too much… and then she’ll move out, get on with her life, and disappear from mine.

At least, as Dean’s girlfriend—and later fiancée—she was still in my social circle. Even while she was across the ocean and in love with my friend.

One week to make her see we can still be friends.

Or one week to make peace with letting her go for good.

I park the SUV next to the McLaren 720S I drove yesterday to take Harper to the London Modern and head up to the townhouse.

The look in her eyes last night had been… The word escapes me. Disconcerting, maybe? She looked at my cars, my home, and then at me like she saw a different man.

I don’t know if it’s in my favor or a strike against me.

“You shouldn’t care either way,” I mutter. Sticking my hands in my pockets, I walk up the stoop to my familiar black door. I bought this place two and a half years ago. An investment property, and the Connovan base in London. Odds are, I’ll never sell it. When my tenure here is done, it’ll be maintained as a residence for whenever Alec or Connie need to pop over. Or I’ll rent it out if we don’t need it for a while.

When I unlock the front door, I’m greeted by the sharp shrill of a fire alarm blaring at the highest volume. It echoes off the hallway walls as the light sheen of smoke hangs in the air. As if it’s a living entity, it sees a way to escape and billows out through the still-open door behind me.

Shit.

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