Page 31 of Black Ties and White Lies

Margo hands the clipboard back to him as I take a breath before speaking. “Polly is still my executive assistant, but as she ages, I don’t want to make her travel with me like she used to. She’ll be handling my affairs here while Margo will be traveling with me and assisting me in other ways. Like getting my coffee.”

She narrows her eyes at me, trying to get a read on if I’m serious or not. I’m still deciding what tasks I’m going to have her do when we’re not traveling.

“Glad to hear it,” Tom mutters and focuses on his computer screen as he fills Margo’s information into the computer.

“We’ll see if Mr. Sinclair here will trust me getting his coffee or not.”

I lift my eyebrows. “And why’s that?”

She shrugs, a taunting smile forming on her lips. “I’m known to be a bit clumsy and absent-minded. I would hate to mess up or even spill your fancy coffee order.”

“Hot Americano, no cream with two sugars,” I deadpan.

“I pegged you for an oat milk in the coffee kind of guy,” she teases.

My tongue clicks. “Says the girl who betrayed New York and moved to the West Coast. Tell me, Margo, what’s your order?” I hold a finger in the air, stopping her from answering me. “No, wait, let me guess. An iced lavender oat milk latte.”

She bites her lip, a small frown appearing on her perfect lips.

I smirk, grabbing the badge Tom just made Margo and holding it in the air between us. “Am I right?”

Rolling her eyes, she plucks the card from my grip. “It’s a generic coffee order,” she gripes.

Margo mutters a quick goodbye to Tom before she steps away, clearly annoyed with how I got her coffee order correct. I’ve got a stellar memory. It’s annoyingly perfect. I have the inability to forget almost anything. Therefore, I remember her order from her trip to The Hamptons to meet my family.

Tom beams, watching Margo stop in the middle of the lobby. She pulls out her phone, giving herself some kind of distraction. “She seems like one that’ll give you a run for your money, Mr. Sinclair,” he notes.

I look away from Margo to look at him. I nod my head. “You’re probably right, Tom.”

He whistles. “I like her already.”

Me too. The problem is, it’s maybe a little too much.

“I can’t believethis is the view you have from your office.” I marvel at the city below us. “You can see everything. It’s stunning.”

My nose presses to the cold glass as I can’t get enough of the breathtaking view below me. I’ve always been in love with New York. My heart belonged here the moment I first visited for a college tour. One of the saddest days of my life was when I packed up my things and moved to LA. I was meant to be in the hustle and bustle of the city. But at the time, I thought I’d made the right choice.

“The view from here is spectacular,” he agrees, his voice coming from behind me. I hear him take a step in my direction, but I don’t turn around to face him. I’m too busy looking at the only place I ever want to call home.

It’s funny how things worked out. Never could I have imagined that the reason I returned to New York would be because of Beckham Sinclair.

I feel his presence next to me without even looking over. Even from the time we met in The Hamptons, I’ve always been oddly aware of him. It was like we knew, or at least understood, each other—and with barely ever speaking. I think back to the night he’d found me drawing on the beach, using only the moonlight to fuel my sketches.

We hadn’t even exchanged many words that evening. I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he’d leaned over my shoulder, inspecting what I’d been sketching. Somehow under the glint of the moonlight and his smell engulfing me, I hadn’t been embarrassed about what he’d found—whohe’d found.

His shoulder brushes against mine. “What are you thinking about?”

I longingly look at the city for a few more moments. I’ll do anything to stay here, to find a way to get Winnie and Emma to move back here and make this our home all over again. LA was kind of like a sellout. And now that I’m back, I’ll do whatever it takes to stay here. To be one of the many calling New York home. Part of me aches to know the stories of the people below. When I was in college and had days where I wasn’t busy, I loved to sit in bustling coffee shops and at outdoor cafes and just sketch the people around me. Sometimes I’d create a whole life for them in my head. Instead of drawing them sipping coffee in a booth, I’d draw them somewhere exotic, somewhere mundane, different scenarios for different people depending on the story I felt was right for them.

“Margo?” Beck’s knuckle brushes over my cheek.

When my eyes find his, I can’t hide the sadness in them. “I never want to leave here again,” I admit. It’s weird how a city you didn't grow up in, one you only spent a few years living in, can feel like home.

His eyebrows furrow. “Then don’t,” he offers hoarsely, letting his knuckle brush ever so slightly over my bottom lip before he stuffs his hand into his pocket.

Breaking eye contact, I look around at his giant private office. I’m interested to see him here at work, doing his thing. Does he spend a lot of time in here or is he more hands-on? Are most of his minutes spent in meetings in the lavish conference room we walked by on our way in? I have so many questions. So many things I want to find out.

I take a deep breath in, inhaling the scent of him. “It’s not that easy. What if things don’t work out? What if I can’t find a job here after, you know, our…deal? God, it’d be a shame to move back to California after being back.”

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