Say You Still Love Me: A Novel

“No!”

“Come on . . .” David’s on my heels as we enter the building after an industry breakfast meeting. “Just lend him to me for the day!”

“Mark is not a damn pen to be passed around!” I take a calming breath as my gaze settles on the cluster of people loitering around the front desk. Visitors, waiting to get signed in. Kyle sits somewhere behind them, taking down information, handing out badges. Offering them polite smiles and banal greetings, with no more familiarity than he has shown me these past two weeks since he started working in the building.

My intelligent, mature self keeps telling me to let it go. That what we had was thirteen years ago. We were teenagers then. Stupid kids, really. We’re adults now, and complete strangers. If Kyle wants to keep it that way . . . fine.

Except he was the first boy I ever loved—my first in many ways—and he crushed me. How can he keep treating me like I mean nothing to him?

I have to stop thinking about the mischievous, playful guy from Camp Wawa. The one who was chasing and charming me from the moment he first laid eyes on me. The one who grabbed my attention from forty feet away and seized my heart not long after.

Clearly, that guy is long gone.

Plus, Kyle’s involved with someone else. I’m not getting in the middle of that.

“Piper!” David’s annoyed bark startles me. He asked me a question. What, I have no idea.

“What was wrong with that lady from a couple of days ago? The one with the thick glasses. Carla said she was perfect.”

“Who? Grandma Ethel?” David snorts derisively. “She called me dearie three times during her interview.”

I mock-gasp. “Oh, the horror!”

“And she flat-out refused to do dry cleaning or coffee runs, or work past four P.M.”

The crowd ahead dissipates. As much as I want to stroll right past without glancing, it’s impossible. My eyes veer toward Kyle, sitting in his chair—to his chiseled jaw and high cheekbones and his full lips, noting how much thicker and more stylish his hair looks now. He was attractive as a seventeen-year-old boy; he has become dangerously handsome as a man.

And his steady gaze is on me.

“Come on, Piper . . . help me out,” David whines. “Just for the week.”

“A minute ago, it was for the day!” This is so David, asking for an inch, then reaching for a mile, as if he’s entitled to it. “Ask Greta to help you out.”

“Are you kidding? Greta doesn’t have time. Plus, Kieran doesn’t share well.”

“Neither do I, so you had better hire someone soon.”

David curses under his breath.

“You know you’ve done this to yourself,” I lecture. There’s been a steady trickle of potential executive assistants passing through his office door, courtesy of Human Resources’s efforts. All vetted, all with extensive experience.

And all problematic, according to David.

“What’s with you lately, Piper?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, you’ve been in a fucking mood for the past two weeks.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my mood,” I hiss, feeling Kyle’s and Gus’s attention on us as we bicker not five feet away.

David drops his voice. “Is this because I’m seeing other women? You’re the one who told me to go out and find someone. You’re the one who ended our engagement, remember.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t care who you’re with. Stop making this about us, David.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

“No! It’s about you finding an assistant so you stop torturing mine. You’ve been a complete dickhead to him since day one.”

“Okay, seriously, Piper? I’m on my knees begging you for just a bit of help so I can nail this project down for your company, and you’re calling me names? This is what we’ve come to?” He swipes his badge over the scanner and shoves through the security barrier in a huff, without so much as a nod toward Gus, whose eyebrows are raised.

And I’m left standing awkwardly in front of Kyle, suddenly feeling like the bad guy.

Kyle curiously watches David’s retreating back a moment before focusing on me. He’s not actually buying David’s sob story, is he?

“He broke Mark’s windmill!” I blurt out, as if that explains everything.

The corners of Kyle’s lips twitch. “Have a great day, Miss Calloway.”

I sigh heavily. Strangers it is. I pass through the security gate, feeling his penetrating gaze on me the entire way.

What is he doing?

My gaze trails Kyle’s graceful stride as he strolls along the corridor at a leisurely pace, casting nothing more than a perfunctory glance my way. That’s the second time today—fifth time this week—that he has walked by a meeting room I’ve been in. Did Ivan patrol the floors like this, too? If he did, I never noticed him. It’s a bit ridiculous, really. I might understand the need for security patrols during the dead of the night, but it’s ten A.M.

Mark’s elbow gently nudges my arm, pulling my attention back.

To the four sets of eyes steadily watching me.

“Tripp’s recommending we go with KDZ for the construction of the Marquee,” Mark murmurs softly, a prompt for what I missed while ogling our new security guard.

I feel my cheeks flush as I quickly scan the proposal in front of me again. “I’m sorry, who? We’re using Jameson for the Marquee. Who the hell is this KDZ Construction Company, anyway?”

“They’re from Boston, but they’ve recently expanded into the area. They come highly recommended, and their contract will be competitive.” Tripp smooths his tie down over his belly as he recites what sounds like a planned response. “I’ve been in talks with them about the Marquee for months now.”

I feel my eyes widen. So Tripp has gone from telling the engineers not to bother with the project to now being highly involved, and with a construction firm that he’s never mentioned lined up?

What the hell is going on?

When was he planning on looping me in?

“Well, we’re ready to sign on with Jameson, who has a proven track record with us. So why on earth would we back out now? Especially when we’re already behind?”

“You demanded that we tighten the timeline by almost three months. KDZ can deliver on that. They’re already working on their proposal. I’m meeting with their president on Friday to review and make the decision.”

Tripp has no business offering up a construction contract without approval from both me and my father, and he knows it.

I bite my tongue before I blurt as much out in front of the broader group, and force a patient tone. “As I’ve said, we are ready to proceed with Jameson, but I’m willing to review this proposal once you have it—”

“Kieran’s already given KDZ the go-ahead. If you don’t like it, you’ll need to take it up with him.” Tripp heaves his body out of his chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting to attend.” He strolls out the door, but not before I catch the smug curl of his lips.

It takes everything in me to school my expression, even as I feel heat crawling up my neck. “Mark will send the follow-ups. See you all on Thursday.” I wait until everyone has left the room and the door is shut before I snap.

“When’s my father back from LA?”

“Thursday, I think. Hold on.” Mark is frowning as he madly types an instant message to Greta. “Yeah. His plane lands at five P.M.”

I’ll have to call him about this. I hate confronting my father over the phone. He’s that much more abrupt.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Son of a bitch.” I’m not quite sure who deserves the title more. Is this another one of Tripp’s dick moves to save face and make me look like the fool? Or should the blame land squarely on my father’s shoulders this time? “What do I have next?”

“A meeting with David and Jim.”

“Great. Just what I need right now. Another pompous ass to deal with,” I mutter.

Mark tucks his laptop under his arm. “You okay?”

I sigh, collecting my things. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” he presses, making me wary.

“Why are you asking?”

“Nothing. Just . . .” He shrugs. “You’ve seemed, I don’t know, not yourself lately. Distracted.”

First David accusing me of being in a mood, and now Mark? I duck my head as I collect my things, mainly to hide another flush of my cheeks. “I just have a lot going on right now. You know, the Waterway project . . .” Lie. “The Marquee.” Lie. “And this ongoing Tripp bullshit. It’s getting worse.” Partial lie.

Technically, all those things are real and should be dominating my focus and raising my stress levels. Should is the operative word. But the truth is, if I’m distracted, it’s because my attention keeps getting snagged on the new security guard, my thoughts lingering in the past.

Mark nods slowly, as if understanding. “Håret i postkassen.”

“Pardon me?”

He offers a shy smile. “Just something my grandmother used to say. It’s a Danish proverb. It means ‘you’ve got your hair stuck in the mailbox.’ ”

“What?”

He smiles. “You’ve found yourself with a tricky problem.”

“Oh. With Tripp? Yeah, I guess I have. I just don’t know what to do about him. He’ll clearly never accept me as his superior.”

“Få hul på bylden.”

I wait with raised eyebrows for the translation.

Mark shrugs. “ ‘You’ve got to lance the boil.’ ”

I cringe at the mental image that spurns. “So your grandma thinks that if I poke Tripp with a long, sharp needle, he’ll go away?”

He chuckles. “He’d learn to keep his distance.”

“It would definitely make me feel better.” I sigh, hauling my weary body out of my chair.

“Off to lunch, Miss Calloway?” Gus asks as he tosses his Alejandro’s hamburger wrapper into the trash behind him. The man rarely leaves the desk, even to eat.

“And a meeting.” I don’t mean to sigh as I take in the empty chair next to him, but it slips out anyway.

“You just missed him. He went to check something in the parking garage.”

Of course he did. My gaze drifts to the bank of monitors behind the desk, to the screens showing the elevators. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happening.

We’re at week three and Kyle is outright avoiding me now, bolting the second he spots me on my way down. Off to test an alarm or patrol the building or to pee. Anything to not have to see me, it seems.

My annoyance flares, but I push it aside. “How’s it going so far with him?”

“No complaints. He’s punctual, disciplined, quiet. Takes his job seriously.”

Not at all like the version I knew. “Good. Well . . .” Loitering here talking about Kyle feels awkward. “I’ll see you later.” I turn to leave.

“I heard he requested a transfer here, from San Diego,” Gus says.

San Diego. So that’s where he went. Has he been there all this time?

I feel Gus’s steady gaze on me, as if waiting for my reaction.

“Makes sense. Lennox is a great city. I could see why he’d make the move,” I say casually. Why did he make the move? For his girlfriend, maybe?

“Not this city. This building,” Gus clarifies, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Apparently, he’s been trying to get in here for a while now. Put in a transfer request with Rikell’s HR for this building.”

I frown. “How many buildings in the city does Rikell do security for?”

“Fifteen. Twenty. Something like that.” Gus’s eyes study me as I try to process this bit of information.

If it were Lennox that Kyle wanted to move to, he’d accept a transfer at any of those buildings. So why did he want to work at this one specifically?

Unless . . .

“There must have been something about this place that made him want to come here,” Gus says, as if reading my mind.

“The architecture,” I murmur absently, more confused now than before.

Something.

Or someone.

“Yes. The architecture.” A knowing glimmer shines in Gus’s eyes, but his brow is pulled with worry. “Anything I should know about?”

What would Gus say if he knew everything about Kyle that I know? If he knew our entire history?

Would he be so quick to throw out kind words about him?

“Yes. There is.” I lean in, as if to share a secret. “These burgers are terrible for you. Start eating healthier.”

His laugh trails me as I head for the exterior doors, my mind swirling.

Why would Kyle make the effort to move across the country to work in my building, only to then keep me at arm’s length?

What the hell are you up to, Kyle?