Page 13 of The Woman

“You too.”

My father turns to me, so I pry my eyes off the woman, pushing to my feet as well. “This is my son, Phoenix.”

“Nice to meet you,” I answer, shaking his hand.

“Likewise. I hope you guys don’t mind me bringing Steff. I’m planning on visiting some of my old favorite places while I’m in the city right after our meeting, and I wanted her company for it.”

Company. I internally scoff. She’s literally just a pretty body standing there, answering when spoken to and doing exactly what is asked of her.

“Not at all,” my father replies. “Please, sit.”

We all take our seats and then give our drink orders to the waiter who stops at our table. After he’s left us, Ken places a folder on the table between us and pulls out several photos and a couple of rough drawings for us to look at.

However, my eyes keep gravitating to the woman sitting across from me, observing how she sits with a small smile resting on her face and looking at nothing in particular. I can’t help but think of Avery.

Would she sit the same way, without any understanding on her face?

The boisterous laughter from Ken and his placing his arm around her shoulders, brings my attention back to the conversation.

“Don’t worry about that. We should be able to work within that time frame.” My father picks up one of the photos and hands it over to me. “What do you think?”

I study the building in the photo and then reach for the other ones on the table that are similar to the results he wants for this one. “Would you be willing to start from scratch?”

“I had wanted to keep the entire front section if possible.”

“It is possible. But if you want designs like these,” I wave the photos in my hand, “then it will be best to start from scratch.”

Ken nods, but then his eyes drift over to my father for his opinion. It’s to be expected. I’m young, and he doesn’t know me. But I know I’m right, and when my father agrees with me, I feel my chest expand with satisfaction. Now, whether or not I can actually come up with the design is another story.

The waiter comes and delivers our drinks and then asks for our food orders. I lift the glass of bourbon to my lips and take a sip while looking across from me again as Ken talks to the waiter. I can’t help but keep comparing her to Avery and wondering what she would have been like if I had brought her here with me.

I don’t know why I’m so curious about it. In fact, it pisses me off that there is still a part of Avery that intrigues me – those moments where she doesn’t behave quite like I’d expect her to. I never know whether it’s just my imagination or not, and that bothers me.

I watch Steff take a small drink of the Sprite Ken ordered for her and then place it gently on the table in front of her. I stare at the glass for a moment and then flick my eyes to the cut on my finger, thinking over the events of last night.

I’m not sure what compels me or pushes me to do it, but I lean forward and bring my elbows up, knocking my water onto the ground. The glass shatters on the floor, much like last night, and I feign being startled by the accident while keeping my eyes on the woman across from me.

But she doesn’t let out a shriek, and her eyes don’t widen. Much to my dismay, she keeps that partial smile on her face and turns to Ken, asking if he wants her to clean it up.

It’s nothing like the look on Avery’s face when she caused me to knock the glass to the ground, and I don’t know what that means exactly.

It probably has something to do with the fact that I’ve been an asshole to her, and I haven’t treated her the same way other men treat their women. She’s probably scared of me.

But do they even feel scared? No, that can’t be right.

“No, that’s okay, sweetheart.” Ken leans over and kisses her lips, giving her a lingering look that promises a night of pleasure ahead for him. “The waiter will do it. You just sit there lookin’ pretty.”

Internally shaking my head, I decide to keep my eyes off her and work at ignoring her presence for the rest of the meeting.

When I finally return home after dinner later in the evening, I come to a halt outside my penthouse door when the very faint sounds of what appears to be a hauntingly beautiful piano piece reach my ears from inside. It almost sounds familiar in a way, but I can’t place where I’ve heard it before.

I stay rooted to the spot momentarily, straining my ear to listen to the melody until curiosity gets the best of me, and I barge through my front door and into the living room. The music was immediately replaced by the chaotic sounds of multiple keys being pressed at once as soon as I stepped inside, and now I watch as Avery wipes a rag across the keys and then wipes along the top and the sides.

“Were you playing my piano?” I ask, bewilderment lacing my voice.

Glancing up as if just noticing me, she shakes her head and offers that same smile as always. “No. I was cleaning off the dust.”

I raise a brow, suspicious and unconvinced by her answer. Women don’t play any instruments, and it definitely sounded like something, not just cleaning the keys like she said. But as far as I know, women also don’t lie. Besides, where would she have learned it?

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