Page 108 of The Version You Hide

Shit. I hold my breath as I reread the words I’ve just sent. I’d been wanting to let her know how much I missed her since the moment I left her, but I’d worried it might be too much.

And now the three little dots that persistently bob underneath my text are practically screaming at me that I’ve freaked her out. I’ve said too much, too soon. She’s taking way too long to reply.

I’m dragging a sweaty palm down my face when the phone buzzes in my hand. Her reply is everything.

MACKENZIE: Miss you more... x

Maybe I hadn’t freaked her out after all. Still, I’ll exercise some self-control in the future to avoid that post-text anxiety.

“Are we interrupting your social life, Dylan?” My father’s voice booms from across the other side of the room. Glancing up, I find him watching me with wary eyes, my sister Claire flanking his left side.

Claire doesn’t seem to hold the disdain my father does for my preoccupation. She winks at me playfully. “Texting that girlfriend of yours again?”

“Yeah,” I say, realising that my father and Claire still believe Mackenzie to be my real full-time girlfriend, when in reality, I’m not sure now exactly what we are.

“And how is Mackenzie?” my father asks.

“She’s good. She’s actually currently working on an art piece for an exhibition night at the Abstract Palette. Her work is amazing. She’s got serious talent.”

“Abstract Palette?” Claire questions, setting down a pile of documents on the desk beside me.

“Yeah,” I say, opening the desk drawer and rifling through it for a highlighter. “It’s this little boutique art studio in Seabright Cove. Her grandmother runs it.”

“Oh yeah, I know the one. It’s part of the Elmwood building.” Claire doesn’t look up from the papers she’s now sifting through on the desk beside me.

“Elmwood building? Hmm.” For some reason the name piques my father’s interest. He plucks his phone from the top pocket of his Prada suit blazer and begins to saunter out the door. “I’ll be back in a second. I need to make a call.”

“What’s his deal?” I mutter, loosening the tie that my father thrust upon me this morning as I walked through the glass sliding doors of the building.

“He’s stressing about the new project,” Claire says matter-of-factly.

“Which one?”

“The boutique.”

“A boutique hotel?” My nose scrunches up in confusion. “Since when does the Abbott Group specialise in anything other than large chain hotels?”

“He thinks it will be good for business,” she explains, tossing her auburn hair behind her shoulder. “He wants to create smaller, intimate hotels for regional and remote areas. I mean, it sounds good in theory. Most of the locations he’s been considering don’t have luxury accommodation but so far, none of them have seemed the right fit.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not looking to build from the ground up. To maintain authenticity, he wants to utilise something established. Trouble is finding something suitable.”

“Claire.” Our father has returned to the doorway. “Will you set up that meeting with Donald Osgood?”

Claire stacks the documents she’s been rifling through back into a neat pile. “Sure.”

The fact that my father has just asked Claire to do a mundane task fit for a lackey lets me know that he wants her out of the room. For what reason, I’m unsure.

“Claire was just telling me about your boutique hotel idea,” I say once I hear the echo of her stilettos fading down the hall.

“Yes. Well, then I’m sure she’s mentioned that it’s still in planning stage.” My father’s gruff tone signals he doesn’t really want to discuss this with me, but I push on.

“Which locations have you been thinking of?”

He picks up one of the files that Claire has left on the desk, not bothering to maintain eye contact as he answers abruptly. “That information is for company employees only.”

My eyes narrow at him. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

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