Page 43 of Edge of Secrets

I yanked on some sweatpants. My eyes slid to the small silver digital clock on my dresser. I was so startled to see it read nine thirty-seven, I checked my phone to see if it was true. I was usually up at a quarter to five, and out the door by five-fifteen on my way to the gym. In the office by seven. Seven-ten at the very latest.

Well, hell. So I was late today. Being the boss had to be good for something.

Who knew? Maybe I’d get lucky again. The thought floated me right into the kitchen, where I started rummaging for breakfast.

Then the phone rang. Nobody on earth called this landline but my mother.

Of all times. Christ. I picked up. “Yeah?”

“Duncan, honey! Thank goodness! I called the office, but you weren’t there! What on earth?” She paused, significantly. “Are you sick? Is anything wrong? You never stay home from work!”

“I’m fine. Just working from home this morning. What’s going on?”

“It’s Elinor. You will not believe what she’s done!”

I sighed. “What about her?”

“She’s switched her major to theater arts! She dropped all her business courses and signed up for theater history and dance! She wants to be an actress!” My mother’s voice cracked with horror.

I stared at the scabbed-up scrapes on my knuckles, flexing and bending them to keep them from stiffening up. “So?” I said. “What’s the problem? It’s her decision.”

“Oh, not you, too, Duncan. Bruce said that too, but it’s madness to go into theater! You have to talk sense into her!”

Hah. Me, talking sense into anyone on a day like today was comical. I glanced toward the corridor, waiting for my problematic, sexy siren to appear.

I was no longer the poster boy for doing the sensible thing. But I also didn’t want to get into it with my mother today. “I’ll talk to her, if you want,” I offered.

“Oh, thank you. She’ll listen to you. It’s not too late to change her major back.” My mother’s voice was relieved.

“Okay, Mom. Gotta go. Later, okay?” I hung up and went back to the fridge.

Nell appeared in the doorway just as I was laying out French toast, grilled ham, and orange juice on the table. She looked damp, rosy, and fragrant. She gazed at the food-laden table, her eyes big. “Whoa,” she said. “Look at that. So you cook, too?”

“I like to eat, so yeah,” I said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

She sat down with a murmur of appreciation and tucked into a gratifying amount of the breakfast that I’d made. Afterward, we sipped our coffee and stared at each other across the table. Neither of us could hold the other’s gaze for more than a few seconds without looking away or laughing. Jesus. Look at me. Giggling. Touching her toes under the table with my own bare feet, like a goofy kid.

But it was getting on toward ten-thirty now, and I had to get my shit together. “I have to get down to the office,” I said reluctantly.

She glanced at the clock. “I have to hurry, too. I’m going to be late for lunch prep as it is.”

“You’re going where?” I grabbed her wrist. She let out a small gasp and stared at my hand.

I didn’t let go. “You are going where, you said?”

Her eyes got big and wary. “Duncan. Let go of my arm.”

“Answer my question,” I insisted.

“I’m going to work,” she said crisply. “At the Sunset Grill! Remember?” She yanked at her wrist again. “I work there six days a week! As you should know, since you eat there six days a week!”

“Not today,” I said. “You’re not working there today.”

She jerked in vain at her arm. “Excuse me? Why not? I’m just supposed to stop everything I do?”

“Yes!” I snarled. “After what happened to you last night, you think I’m going to let you just walk out onto the streets? Like nothing even happened?”

“Let me?” Her voice was soft and dangerous. “Duncan, watch yourself. You aren’t going to ‘let me’ do anything. Because I don’t have to ask your permission for anything I do. Not now. Not ever. Is that clear?”

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