Page 14 of False God

“Please do. And we’ll miss you guys tonight, but I get it.” Mom glances at me. “My kids are all too busy to come as well.”

I roll my eyes. “This dinner has been planned for weeks, Mom. I was going to come overtomorrownight, when you were supposed to arrive. And I already rearranged my afternoon to pick you and Dad up from the airport, which Bash and Kit didnotdo.”

Mom heaves a long-suffering sigh. “It doesn’t get easier as they get older, Asher.”

My godfather grins. “Yeah, I noticed. And you should have known that. Remember what you and Crew were like at twenty-five? BecauseIsure do.”

Asher mutters something else under his breath. All I catch isrock climbing.

“Where is Crew, by the way?” he asks at a normal volume.

“He had to jump on a conference call,” Mom answers.

“Of course he did.” Asher is as familiar with my parents’ workaholic tendencies as I am.

The phone next to Indy begins ringing. She answers with a polite, “Asher Cotes’s office, Indy speaking. How may I help you?” She listens to the response for a minute, then hits a button on the phone and looks at Asher. “Lucas Donovan is on the line. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him I’m available,” Asher decides. “I’ll meet you two in Oliver’s office. This shouldn’t take long.”

Without waiting for a response, he heads back into his office and closes the door.

I follow Mom down the carpeted hallway in what I assume is the direction of my uncle’s office. I don’t know the floor layout very well. The few times I’ve been here has always been with one or both of my parents or my grandfather.

I’m trailing after Mom aimlessly, trusting her to guide us the right way, so it takes me a few extra steps to realize she’s stopped. I backtrack, glancing between Mom and the empty office she’s staring at.

A few steps and a few seconds of peering at the plaque affixed next to the door tell me it readsChristopher Kensington.

An unpleasant combination of dread and surprise settles in my stomach. I’ve known Kit was going to work here for years. Assumed he would for decades.Seeingit is something else.

“Prime location,” I comment.

You don’t have to know the layout of this floor to tell that.

“This was your dad’s office.”

When I look over, Mom’s smile is soft and sentimental. She heads inside.

After a beat of hesitation, I do too. “Corner on the executive floor. Perfect for an entry-level twenty-two-year-old employee.”

“Elizabeth,” she chides gently, continuing to scan around the large office.

I look, too, minus the nostalgia Mom is clearly experiencing. My dad left Kensington Consolidated when I was a toddler. My recollections of his office are all of the sleek, glass-front structure that has a prime view of the Hollywood sign. Not this space—with its paneled walls, custom bookshelves, and leather chairs.

But I can picture him here. I actually think it fits Dad better than his current office does. Maybe because he’s a native New Yorker, and this office—this city—has an aura of established history I’ve never experienced on LA’s freeways or palm tree–lined shores.

I wonder if Kit has seen this yet. He isn’t supposed to start working until the end of August, so probably not.

“Looks like he’ll have a secretary,” I state, gesturing to the desk stationed outside.

Mom hums an agreement, running her fingers along the spines on the shelves. She’s lost in memories I don’t have of this place.

And all I can think about is how this might have beenmyoffice.

Not that Iwantedto work here necessarily. I just wanted it to be an option. To know that I chose against it, but could have chosen it.

Mom glances out the window, then walks back toward the doorway. “Sorry. Got distracted. Let’s go.”

We continue down the hallway. Most of the offices we pass are currently unoccupied. Personalized, with diplomas on the walls and unsorted papers stacked on the desk, but with empty chairs. Saturday is the Fourth of July, and a good portion of the people on this floor have relocated to their summer homes ahead of the holiday weekend.

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