Page 97 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

“Huey, call me when you get this. I want to see you. I have something to tell you. Something good.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she gushes, “Something really, really good. Love you.”

She clutches her phone to her chest, crossing the street in a hurry. When she reaches the other side, she glances down at her phone as she thinks about calling Khalohn. It only takes a few steps for her to decide she doesn’t want to tell him on the phone. A pang of longing zips right through her, thinking back to the previous week, when he was only just down the hall.

He had time for me then, who’s to say he won’t have time for me now?

Too excited to be intimidated at the thought of stepping foot into his Wall Street office, she hurries up to 601 to get a quick shower. When she’s finished and wrapped in a towel, she uses dry shampoo on her hair before she styles her dance-wrecked waves into big, loose curls. By the time she’s finished, she’s too impatient to commit to a face full of makeup. She settles for some mascara, grabs a tube of lip gloss, and makes her way to her closet.

Biting her bottom lip, she hesitates for a minute. She doesn’t know what a woman is supposed to wear to her man’s office. Her eyes flick over the empty garment bag, which housed the suit he put on that morning. She then considers her collection of dresses. Given she’s never worked in an office, most of what she’s got is more appropriate for outings after dark. The most modest dress she’s got is the one she wore to her mother’s funeral. Thinking about putting that thing on again puts a damper on her mood. Then she remembers it’s hanging in a closet on the Upper East Side, and she shakes off her negative thoughts.

Her impatience to share her news reignites her buzz, and she decides to just be herself. Ten minutes later, she’s dressed in a pair of white skinny jeans, a plain, gray, cotton tank top, that hugs her breasts but drapes comfortably around her hips, and a cropped denim jacket, the sleeves rolled up her forearms. She tucks her feet into a pair of pale-gray, suede, heeled booties, snatches up her purse, and takes her leave. After she locks up, her phone sounds with an alert. On her way to the elevator, she pulls it from her purse to find a message from Stefano.

Meet at my place in an hour?

She smiles to herself, quickly typing out her reply. Hoping Khalohn will be able to spare her a few minutes, she guesses she’ll have just enough time to see him before heading to Brooklyn. On her way through her building’s lobby, she looks up the exact address of his office. Five minutes later, she’s rattling off her destination to the taxi driver. Ten minutes after that, the buzz of excitement which fueled her adrenaline wanes as her belly twists nervously.

You’ve come this far, she tells herself, craning her neck back to take in the length of the skyscraper.

Jessica closes her eyes, remembering the hour she spent with Miah, and that’s all it takes. Her heels clip loudly against the hard floor of the cool, sleek lobby. Ignoring the anxious feeling in her belly, she walks with confidence to the elevator bay and waits for the lift car that’ll take her to the fifty-second floor. When she arrives, she steps out slowly, her eyes looking everywhere, curiosity begging her to take in every detail.

Walking through the front entrance, she sees a woman in a fancy, fitted blouse and tons of blonde hair look up from where she sits behind the reception desk. Jessica doesn’t blame the green-eyed stranger for looking at her strangely. She guesses it’s not everyday someone walks in wearingjeans.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

Jessica reaches up to hold the strap of her purse over her shoulder and forces her feet to carry her across the distance between them. “I’m here to see Khalohn Morgan.”

The receptionist’s expression changes in an instant. She quirks an eyebrow, her eyes suddenly more judgmental than a second ago.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. I’m just stopping by.” A little annoyed by the way the woman is looking at her, she insists, “Could you maybe just call him? Tell him—tell him Jessica Chapman is here to see him.”

The blonde coughs out a laugh under her breath but reaches for her phone anyway. Jessica’s grip around her purse tightens, but she stands tall, refusing to cower.

“Hi, Maribelle? Is Mr. Morgan available?” Her green eyes glance at Jessica and then back at the phone as she says, “There’s someone here to see him. A Jessica Chapman?” She pauses, then the expression on her face falls before she nods and hangs up. A disingenuous smile spreads across her lips before she instructs, “His office is that way, at the end of the corridor.”

The victorious grin pulling at Jessica’s mouth feels too good to resist, so she doesn’t. Finally relaxing, she thanks the blonde and turns in the direction the woman pointed. As she goes, Jessica absorbs as much as she can of the space. It’s beautiful and sophisticated; modern and unique. Remembering it’s all Khalohn’s calls to mind the confidence and power he exudes—it’s not for nothing.

“Miss Chapman?”

Jessica’s pace slows to a stop as an older woman comes out from behind her desk. She’s a little shorter than Jessica, even in her heels, but her presence is impossible to ignore. Standing as tall as her body allows, she’s dressed in an awesome skirt and blouse, her makeup flawless, her red lipstick on point, and her dark hair streaked with gray. Jessica almost forgets to speak.

“Y-yes.”

“I’m Maribelle, Khalohn’s secretary,” she says, extending a hand.

Jessica returns the gesture, deciding then and there she really likes this woman. Even more, she loves that Khalohn’s secretary is a beautiful woman likely twice her age—and not blonde.

“Hi,” she murmurs through a smile.

Maribelle studies her openly, but the gentle expression on her face while she does it encourages Jessica to endure it. “It is lovely to meet you, dear. But I’m sorry to say, Khalohn had a lunch engagement this afternoon. He’s not—”

“I’m right here.”

At the sound of his voice, Jessica’s belly tingles. She twists her neck in time to see him approach. When she finds his blue eyes locked in on her, she forgets to breathe for a second.

When he’s within reaching distance, he places a hand on the small of her back, encouraging her forward. Without breaking his stride, he tells Maribelle, “Hold my calls. Ten minutes.”

After crossing the threshold into Khalohn’s private office, he shuts them inside. She barely gets a chance to look around before he’s standing in front of her, one of his hands buried in her hair at her nape, his eyes dancing around her face.

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