I stalked through the reception area and straight back toward my office without stopping to talk to anyone.

“Mr. Duchesne—”

“Not now.” I ignored my assistant’s concerned look and passed my father’s corner office, which sat right next to my own. Out of habit, I scanned the interior and halted. My father was standing by the window, leaning heavily on his cane.

What the hell?

He should be in Maine, having surgery tomorrow, not standing in his office.

Fuck. I didn’t have the patience to deal with him, but he glanced over before I could retreat from the doorway.

“There you are. Annette said you’d be back a half-hour ago. I wanted to talk to you about—”

“Why the hell aren’t you in Bar Harbor?”

My father’s mouth compressed, no doubt due to the lack of deference in my tone and my abrupt question.

“Critchley broke two fingers playing squash over the weekend. Had to cancel my surgery. One of his colleagues is going to fit me in sometime next month. So your mother and I decided to postpone the trip until after the Fourth. But I wanted to talk to you about—”

Annette interrupted him from the doorway. “Mr. Duchesne, I apologize for intruding, but Mr. Jackson is on your line. He says he’s returning your phone call, but only has a moment to speak with you.”

I didn’t wait to hear my father’s response. I strode into my office and shut the door. I’d bury myself in work until I could reassess whatever the hell I’d seen on the street today without wanting to hit someone. Preferably Constantine Leahy.

I made good use of my free afternoon. First, I showered away the nastiness of last night. Which was difficult, considering every time I lifted my arms, my side stretched and tugged uncomfortably. Once I was finally clean, I spent some time with Huck while he wandered around the garden oasis. He was starting to put more weight on his healing leg, and I needed to call Dr. Richelieu to see if that was a good thing. Since he didn’t whimper or yelp, I hoped it meant he wasn’t pushing himself beyond his limits.

Huck sat awkwardly before laying down on the grass. I sat beside him, and he lifted his head to rest on my outstretched legs. Absently stroking his thick coat, I debated what to do.

I wanted to tell Simon everything.

But I couldn’t.

Not yet. Not until I had a handle on cleaning up the mess my father had made.

But I would give him more … me. I’d drop my walls a few stories and let him at least part of the way in and hope it’d be enough for now.

He’d said he loved me. That meant something. And I was damn sure I loved him. But I’d walked away, and he’d let me. I didn’t know what the hell that meant for us. I pushed off the grass and stood. I wasn’t going to waste any more time thinking about it. I was going to do something about it.

I settled Huck back into his crate before heading upstairs to my tiny closet. I shoved aside my everyday casual stuff and pulled out a maxi dress. If Simon knew anything about me at all, just wearing this would send a message. I was trying. I slipped into the dress and plaited my hair into a side fishtail braid. It took me forever to get my makeup right and camouflage the bruise. I thought about Yve and wondered how many bruises she’d covered before she’d stood up for herself and left her asshole of an ex. I understood how Con had felt about the guy who’d attacked me. If Yve’s ex ever came after her again, I’d be first in line to help bury the body.

I heard the taxi honk from the street. I added gold hoops, slid my feet into espadrille wedge sandals, and threw on a thin shrug to cover my bruised arms. One last glance in the mirror told me that, with the exception of my date with Simon, I looked more put together than I had in the last year.

I’d looked up Southern Cross’s address in the ancient phonebook stuffed in my junk drawer and hoped the office hadn’t moved since the book hit doorsteps a decade ago. At times like this I longed for a smartphone. I slid into the cab and relayed my destination to the driver.

We pulled up to the guard shack I recognized from Saturday night. The security guy waved us through without question, and we drove between the shipping containers and pulled up in front of a tall steel warehouse. A one-story section jutted out into the parking lot, and a sign that read “Office” hung on the brick façade. My heart rate kicked up a notch when I saw Simon’s X5 parked alongside the building. I paid the driver and slid out of the cab, hoping like hell I wouldn’t be walking home.

Shouldering my bag, I pulled open the glass door that led into a sophisticated reception area. Twin black leather sofas lined two of the steely gray-blue walls. A modern art sculpture sat encased in glass on a pedestal in the corner between them. It was ugly as hell, and in my experience, that meant it was probably expensive. A woman sat behind a sleek black desk topped with dark granite. I glanced at the closed door just beyond her, knowing I would find Simon behind it somewhere. She lifted her head and smiled up at me. Her eyes widened as she took in the tattoos peeking out from beneath my shrug.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” Her smile was tight and guarded.

I straightened my posture, infusing myself with the imperious I own this place quality my mother had always exuded. “Please tell Simon Duchesne that Charlotte is here to see him.” I had no idea why I used my real name. I supposed it fit better with the attitude.

My authoritative tone had the desired effect. She replied with a meek, “Yes, ma’am,” and picked up the phone.

“Mr. Duchesne, you have a visitor. She says her name is Charlotte…”

Pause.

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell her.”

Tell me what? If he refused to see me, I was going to … I had no idea what I would do. I hadn’t planned for that contingency.

She hung up the phone and stood. Fuck. Was she going to call security and have me thrown out?

Instead, she gestured to one of the sofas. “Mr. Duchesne asked if you would wait. He’ll be out directly.”

I didn’t sit. The nervous energy thrumming through me made it impossible. Rather, I walked toward the sculpture and read the plaque adorning the pedestal. I didn’t recognize the artist’s name, but that didn’t mean anything. I’d never enjoyed modern sculpture.

“Charlotte.”

The door must have opened on silent hinges, because when I spun, Simon was standing rigidly in the doorway. My name sounded cold on his lips. His expression was completely closed off.