Page 9 of The Confidentiality Clause
Ariel: I need proof.
I smirk and type out a reply.
Brock: Is this all an elaborate scheme to ask me for feet pics? If so, I commend your creativity.
Ariel: You’re the worst.
Brock: *best
I send a photo of the courtyard, sans my bare feet.
Brock: Does this suffice?
Ariel: Yes. I’d prefer if you didn’t work out there and did some deep breathing exercises, but I think you’d stop breathing altogether if you tried that.
I roll my eyes.
Brock: Haha, very funny.
Ariel: I was going for sad.
Brock: Working a lot isn’t sad.
Ariel: Whatever helps you sleep (on your office futon) at night.
I tip my head back and sigh. So what if I sleep in my office occasionally? It’s not a big deal. It shows how dedicated I am. Ariel doesn’t understand. This is what it takes to make it in this industry. And I’m going to make it.
Chapter five
Ariel Cambridge
There’s something about watching the sunrise that makes me feel as though the world is at my fingertips. I can do anything, be anyone. It’s a new day. A fresh canvas, ready for me to paint in whatever way I like. On a typical morning, I’d be lacing up my running shoes and going for a relaxing jog around my quiet neighborhood. The sun would rise over the idyllic pond. I’d wave to Mr. and Mrs. Leapold, who drink their morning coffee on the bench together. Their smiles and interlocked hands would renew my hope for true love.
Today, however, I’m in my car before sunrise, heading to Brock’s house. Hopefully, after a week of pestering him about sleeping in his office, he’ll be at home. I wouldn’t put it past him to be stubborn enough to stay on his futon to spite me, though.
I take a sip of my electrolyte water as I turn onto his road, wishing the liquid were coffee. But if I plan on goading Brock into a run, I’ll need the hydration. After combing the internet thepast few days, I determined that all of the ways to help Brock relax are going to be things that will annoy him. That’s a bonus for me, but I’m not sure how it will affect his blood pressure. There’s only one way to find out, though, which is why I’m breaking my usual routine.
The drive to his house is shorter than I thought it would be. It messes with my perception to know all that separates our lives is a ten-minute drive. We’ve been living separately since we went off to college, our paths only crossing when Sutton was present. Until now.
I pull into his driveway and put my car in park. His house is exactly how I pictured it: a sleek, modern bachelor-style look with clean lines and neutral colors. The landscaping is simple, with a few flowerless shrubs lining the front. The predictable design helps settle Brock back into the category he’s lived in for years: my best friend’s annoying twin brother. Just because he lives close by, and I’m walking up to his door at five-thirty in the morning, doesn’t mean that’s changed.
I knock on his front door, then see there’s a doorbell, so I ring that too. Twice, for good measure. I’m not sure if he’s home, since he likely parks his fancy sports car in the garage, but if he is, I want to make sure he knows I’m here.
My gaze wanders as I wait. There are no chairs, plants, or decorations of any kind on the small porch. Only immaculate gray concrete as far as the eye can see. I frown. He doesn’t even have a welcome mat. I ring the bell twice more, then a third time, because odd numbers are better than even ones. The door swings open as the third chime echoes through the morning air.
A disheveled and decidedly furious Brock stands before me. He’s wearing sweatpants and a crumpled black dress shirt that make his brown eyes look even darker. Or maybe that’s the anger.
“You don’t have a welcome mat,” I say in lieu of a greeting.
“What?” The one-word question sounds like a snarl.
“Where are your guests supposed to wipe off their shoes?” I point to my chunky white tennis shoes. “I could track dirt all through your house.”
“Why are you here?” Brock asks, his voice raspy from sleep. He rakes a hand through his mussed hair.
“We’re going on a run,” I say with a smile he doesn’t return.
“No, we’re not.”
