I did not know that, actually, though now that I look back, he’s always leaving me voicemails. That way he doesn’t have to feel like he’s answering to me. I shouldn’t be surprised. Coward. “So he knows I’m going to be at The Port Room over lunch?”

“I’m sure Jill will tell him.”

The Port Room is a private members-only establishment of rustic wood floors and broad leather seats, where I sometimes like to hold meetings for its comfort. The downside is that phone conversations while inside are forbidden.

And Tripp knows that.

“I guess I’ll have to make sure to answer my phone then, won’t I?” Because I want to hear what the weasel has to say, live. “And, let me guess, he’s taking the afternoon off?”

“Jill moved his tee-time to one.”

In my rush to pass the requisition on, the corner of the sheet catches my skin, slicing through. I hiss, sticking my index finger in my mouth to quell the sting and stifle the unprofessional curse that wants to scream out. “I should ask her to cancel it,” I grumble bitterly. Though they’re calling for 98 degrees this afternoon. At least the bastard will sweat in the midday heat.

“I bet Jill would do it for you.”

“Care to wager five sour apple Fun Dips on that?” Not that I’d win that gamble. It’s no secret that Tripp’s assistant, a woman in her late forties who dons purple cat’s-eye glasses and a librarian’s bun, doesn’t enjoy working for him.

He frowns curiously. “Fun Dip?”

“Never mind.” I sigh, scrawling “Piper C. Calloway”—C for Constance, after my dad’s mother—across the bottom of the last approval, giving the numbers a second fleeting glance. “Please tell me this is it.”

“This is it.”

“Thank God.”

“Except for the others coming this afternoon . . .”

With a groan, I toss my pen to my desk and lean back into my chair, inspecting my wound. Who knew this role would entail so much mundane paperwork?

Mark pauses at my office door to eye me curiously. “Wild night?”

“No, not really.” Though the bags under my eyes would lead one to believe otherwise. “Maybe too much red wine. My head’s a bit foggy.” Ashley, Christa, and I polished off two bottles while reminiscing about Camp Wawa. I was in bed by midnight, though I tossed and turned until three, my mind and heart dwelling on the possibility that the golden-eyed boy with the Fauxhawk might have crossed my path yesterday.

I’ve almost positive that it was Kyle I saw.

“You want me to hit Joe’s for a pick-me-up?”

I check the time. Ten thirty. I have an hour and a half until my lunch meeting—and Tripp’s call, if Mark is right about his avoidance tactics—and a dozen reports to go through, and I’m suddenly stir-crazy.

Besides, I have something I need to do downstairs.

“No, I’ll go. I could use a walk before I fall asleep in my chair staring at these numbers. Black, two sugars, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He frowns, as if surprised that I remembered. “You know . . . you’re pretty cool to work for.” The glass door to my office shuts before I have a chance to respond, but his words leave me with a smile. I think I know where that praise is coming from. It’s well known around the company that the executive team, including my father, has an old-school mentality when it comes to assistants. A “you take care of me” way of operating, from a time when people still readily used the term secretaries and assistants were more like Depression-era work-wives, making sure their bosses were well caffeinated and properly fed, and that the real wives received gifts on wedding anniversaries and birthdays.

It’s not that the executive assistants here are treated poorly—they’re applauded and well compensated for their mothering abilities. But it’s an archaic environment, one I can’t wait to change.

My dad may have frowned when I told him I’d hired a male assistant, but he didn’t try to dissuade me. And I’ve never treated Mark like someone who is here merely to fetch coffee and run the printer. Sure, he does those things, as well as book meeting rooms and set up appointments, but I’ve also enrolled him in tasks that teach him about the industry and prove that I believe he has a useful head on his shoulders. When Mark moves on, it’ll be to bigger and better things, and I’ll be happy for him.

I reach for my purse just as raucous male laughter carries from down the hall. A moment later, my father and David appear. “You’re kidding me,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, taking in the sight of them. They’re wearing their usual Friday golf attire—tailored wool-blend pants and collared shirts—only this week they’re dressed identically in charcoal gray and powder pink.

My dad raps his knuckles twice against Mark’s desk as he passes—his standard greeting, one that always makes Mark visibly stiffen—and then strolls right into my office.

“Welcome back! How was Tokyo?” I haven’t seen him since early last week.

“Exhausting. Glad to be home. Got my five-mile run in as the sun was coming up and then eighteen holes with my favorite guy.” Dad has a gruff, steely voice, the kind that commands attention when he speaks and intimidates people. He also can’t hold a smile for long, which only ups the intimidation factor. “And how’s my daughter? Holding down the Calloway fort?”

“Someone has to.” I smile wryly up at him. “You got some color.”

“Did I?” He frowns as he checks his sinewy forearms, already golden and toned and coated with darker hair than the full, thick mane of silvery gray on his head. He wasn’t always so focused on his health, having spent years carrying around an extra twenty pounds thanks to frequent steak dinners and daily cocktail hours. But a mild heart attack two years ago changed things. He’ll still have the occasional scotch, but now his diet consists mainly of white fish and salads, and he has all but cut out caffeine.

He wanders over to the windows to gaze down over the city, his arms resting across his chest. No doubt admiring his life’s work so far and what is yet to come. By the time he retires, Kieran Calloway will have made his mark on a city that half a million people call home, with everything from luxury high-rises to affordable condominiums, to retail and entertainment locations and even an architecturally world-renowned library.

Talk about a legacy.

“I heard about your problems with Tripp over the Marquee project.”

Straight to business.

I spear a glare through two glass walls. It’s wasted effort, though, as David’s back is to me, his phone pressed to his ear as he bounces a tennis ball against his window.

I hope it pins him in the eye.

“I’m handling it.”

“Are you?” he asks lightly, but I hear the dicey undercurrent beneath it. “I’ve known Tripp a long time. There’s a certain nuance to motivating him.”

“Does it involve a bottle of Hendrick’s?” I mutter under my breath.

“I’ve left him a message this morning, emphasizing how important his role is in—”

“You didn’t!” I burst, tossing the pen in my hand across my desk in frustration. “Don’t you see how bad this looks for me?” It looks like I’ve run to my daddy with my problems because I can’t handle them on my own. It’s exactly what Tripp expects.