Page 106 of End Game
The necklace twirls in my fingers as I look at the Exposé article again. He looks so calm in the photo, wearing a light blue shirt that makes his eyes look unreal. Still, there’s something missing in them. The light, the sparkle, the mischief is gone, and it kills me.
I miss him. I miss him and his jokes, touches, and caring glances so much it physically hurts. It’s only not having him around that makes me realize how much having him around means to me. How wonderful it makes me feel. How awful it is right now.
Grabbing my purse off the sofa, I head to the front door. I have to eat and I need fresh air, so I take out my phone to call Poppy to meet me for lunch. I pull open the door and almost run into someone.
“Oh!” I say, taking a step back. “I’m sorry.”
She’s tall, with long, red hair that’s pulled back into a chic chignon. Her dress is black and long with two gold necklaces hanging fashionably between her breasts. “No worries. Probably my fault. I’m standing on your doorstep, right?” she laughs.
“Um, sure. Can I help you?”
“Forgive me,” she gushes, moving a clipboard to her left hand. “I’m Daisy Markus. Are you Layla Miller?”
“I am.”
“Oh, good,” she says. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you since yesterday. Do you mind if I come in? I really need to talk to you.”
With a puzzled laugh, I block the door. “I apologize, but I have no idea who you are or why you’d be trying to get ahold of me.”
“Oh, I assumed you knew.” She takes a piece of paper from the clipboard with a flourish and hands it to me. “You’ve been listed as the main point of contact for the Best project.”
“The what?”
Skimming the paper, I step back into the apartment and Daisy follows with a wide smile.
My name is there, right where she said it would be, with Branch’s above it. There are measurements and dollar amounts and paint chips in both grey and yellow paper clipped to the top.
The paper rattles as I drop it to my side and look at her.
My mouth is lined with cotton, my breathing shallow. I pull the paper up and look at it again.
“We have a four-month window to get this complete,” she says, “and with the extensive updates, we need to get started.”
“I’m sorry,” I laugh, trying to make sense of all this. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. Best hired my firm to redesign his home. He said everything would be changed to your specifications and billed to him. He’s given you complete creative control with every avenue except one.”
“What’s that?” I ask, choking back tears.
“The nursery.” Her voice softens as she hands me a tissue. “He asked that he gets to pick between the grey and the yellow. I think that’s so sweet.”
My legs give out and I fall to the sofa, and despite the terrible manners, I cry in front of this woman. I don’t even offer her a seat, but I figure she gets the point because she sits across from me anyway.
“He also asked, strangely, for candy-apple red sheets in the master,” she notes.
My head snaps to hers, and instantly, I laugh. It’s a full-bellied, this-isn’t-as-funny-as-I’m-making-it-out-to-be-but-it-feels-so-damn-good kind of laugh.
She must think I’m a lunatic because she laughs too, more of a what-the-hell-have-I-gotten-myself-into kind of chuckle.
Why would he do this? Why would he put me in charge of something like this?I feel like I can’t breathe, like things are coming at me too fast and I can’t keep up.
I press his number on my phone, but it goes straight to voicemail. Just hearing his voice on the message makes me smile.
“I have no idea what’s happening,” I say. “I can’t accept this task without talking to someone first.”
She stands, a sweet grin on her face. “There’s an incredibly handsome man standing outside your door.”
“What?”
