“This just arrived for you.” He still has that slight swagger, I note, as he strolls forward to set the box on my desk, where my head was resting. It lands with a dull thud, marking its weight as substantial.

I clear my throat, not trusting my voice. “Security isn’t expected to hand-deliver packages. But thank you.”

“Your assistant was leaving for the day, so I said I’d bring it up.” His gaze roves my glass office—the framed pictures and degrees sitting atop my filing cabinet, the purses dangling from my coatrack, the extra pairs of heels I keep at the office, in case I feel the need to switch.

I frown curiously at the label on the box. It’s another package from Rhett. I’m meeting him in an hour. What did he feel the need to send me ahead of time? “When do you finish your shift?” I ask, running my pair of scissors across the seams of the box.

“I’m done now. Heading home.”

Home to his wife? His girlfriend? He hasn’t come out and said it yet, and I don’t have the nerve to ask. Or, more likely, I don’t want to. It’s easier to deny reality that way.

The small, rectangular name badge on his shirt catches my eyes. “So it’s Stewart now?”

“Yeah. My mother’s maiden name. I thought it was a good idea given my family history.” His jaw muscles tense, his gaze flickering to my Persian rug.

“Right. I guess that makes sense,” I murmur, digging into the box. How much do Gus and Rikell know about Kyle’s family? Are Kyle’s brothers and father still in prison? I can’t remember how long he said they’d be away. I have so many questions to ask, I wouldn’t know where to begin. My instincts warn me off asking any of them. For now.

He’s finished his shift and yet he lingers, watching me.

“What the . . .” I feel my brow furrow as I pull out the wood-and-metal contraption. It’s a lamp, quite obviously, made of industrial pipes and a wire cage, the hefty base a block of wood. There’s a card included, with my brother’s store logo at the top, and a list of where the various materials were sourced from. “Wow. This was part of a railway tie.” I tap the wooden base.

There’s another small box nestled safely inside, containing a vintage Edison bulb. I fish it out and set to screwing it in. “My brother made it.”

“The one who took off to Thailand?”

“I . . . yeah. That one.” A wave of nostalgia washes over me. “You remember that.”

Kyle’s gaze is now out the window, on my view of the downtown core. “Gus mentioned it.”

Somehow I doubt that. Gus is a lot of things, but a gossiper is not one of them. I decide not to challenge him, though. “I’m meeting Rhett for dinner tonight,” I say, gingerly unwinding the twisted black cord. “He’s back now. From Thailand, I mean. He and his wife live an hour outside Lennox. They opened up this little store that sells up-cycled things. And some days I really envy him.” I’m babbling now.

I feel Kyle’s eyes on me as I map out the best way to plug in this desk lamp.

“Here.” He drops to his knees in front of my desk and takes the plug’s end from me. Our fingertips graze for just a moment, sending a shock of awareness through me—those hands that spent a lot of time on various parts of my body, oh so many years ago—and then he’s feeding the cord through the electrical opening in the top right corner and down to the plug panel beneath. “There’s one open plug left,” he murmurs, and I hold my breath, hyperaware of how close he is to my bare legs beneath the desk, with my skirt reaching just above my knees.

His head pops back up. “Try it now.”

And I’m momentarily lost in his beautiful golden eyes, staring back at me.

I clear my throat and flip the simple silver toggle switch. The bulb explodes with light. “I guess my brother actually knows about electricity.” I settle back into my chair to admire it.

Except I can’t keep my gaze there for long. I never could, on anything else, not when Kyle was around.

Kyle stands, smoothing his uniform’s shirt collar, though it’s perfectly straight.

Can he hear my heart pounding right now? I feel like I’ll explode if I hold the question in any longer. “Why did you request to transfer here—” I begin to ask at the same time that Kyle asks, “You and Tripp Porter don’t get along, do you?”

“What? . . . No. We don’t, actually.” I frown curiously. “Why? What have you heard?”

His lips twist as he seems to consider explaining. “I was behind him earlier today, when he was heading down to the parking garage. He was on the phone, talking to a guy named Hank about a contract that’s as good as his. He said he has Kieran Calloway’s ear and not to worry about you sticking your—” Kyle purses his lips together, cutting off whatever words he was about to repeat. “That you won’t be blowing up this deal.”

My ears begin to pound. “Really . . .” This must be about the Marquee. But who the hell is this Hank guy? On impulse, I quickly type “Hank KDZ Boston” into my search engine. And shake my head as a profile of the president of KDZ Construction—Hank Kavanaugh—appears. “Son of a bitch. What the hell does he think he’s doing?” I mutter, more to myself, feeling my cheeks burn with rage.

Kyle folds his arms over his chest. “How aboveboard is this Tripp guy?” he asks in a way that makes me think he has an opinion.

“I haven’t had reason to suspect he isn’t. Why?”

“Because, just before he ducked into his car, I heard him say he wanted his five hundred in the account the same day the ink dries or he’ll kill it.” Kyle watches me calmly as I process his claim.

“Five hundred . . . What five hundred? Is he talking about money?”

Kyle gives me a knowing look.

“Are you saying that Tripp’s taking a kickback for this contract?” My voice is eerily steady in contrast to the storm brewing inside me. Five hundred . . . thousand?

“I’m telling you what I heard. Thought you’d want to know what he might be trying to pull behind your back. For what it’s worth coming from me . . . yeah, he’s definitely up to something.”

And Kyle always had a knack for distinguishing between fact and fiction.

He moves for the door. “I’d really appreciate it if you don’t pull my name into this. I doubt it would help with credibility, if you take this to your father.”

“No . . . probably not.” How would my father react if he knew Kyle was working in our building?

Kyle opens his mouth to say something, but then seems to change his mind. “Have a good night, Piper.” He’s out the door and strolling along the hall before I notice that he finally called me by my first name and not “Miss Calloway.”

“ ’Night, Kyle,” I whisper into the silence.

As if hearing my words, he turns to catch me staring at him, and then he disappears.

Leaving me to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with this information. If Tripp is lining his pockets with money by securing this construction contract for Hank Kavanaugh, why was he dragging his feet on getting the Marquee off the ground less than a month ago?

Something doesn’t add up.