“What? He didn’t tell me that,” Larkin says, giving me a suspicious look. “You know the breakfast would be a thousand times better here.” Suck-up. I hold back my smirk.
“That is precisely what I told him, but he decided to deny you my pancakes. The nerve.”
“Larkin will survive,” I say.
But, of course, Larkin plays along and drapes the back of her hand over her forehead. “I won’t. He has me living on kale smoothies.”
“Preposterous. Is that what you had this morning?”
She nods. “Forced it down my throat via straw.”
“Way to be dramatic,” I say, rolling my eyes and making my way to the kitchen.
“It was horrible. He said, ‘Drink this or you’re fired,’” Larkin drones on as they follow closely behind.
“You poor dear. Shall I make you some scones while you’re here?”
“Oh, you don’t have to, but if you do, you know I’ll eat them.”
As I enter the kitchen, I spot Palmer at the kitchen table hovering over a bowl of Froot Loops, head down and giving off a “stay the hell away” vibe. She glances in my direction, her face completely emotionless, and I realize our spat from yesterday has not simmered. It’s still full-on boiling.
Why did I think she wasn’t going to be here? From the look on her face, she wasn’t expecting me to show up either. She drops her spoon in her bowl and pushes away from the table before standing and bringing her bowl to the sink. She sidesteps me and heads toward the hallway, where she runs into Mom and Larkin.
“Palmer, hi,” Larkin says in a cheery tone. “How’s your wrist?”
“Broken,” Palmer answers flatly as she pushes past them and heads toward the stairs, her irritation in full bloom.
“Don’t worry about her,” Mom says. “She’s been cranky lately. I think she’s missing her friends in New York.”
“Then why doesn’t she go home?” I ask, casually.
“I think she’s working on some sort of travel thing about Washington, but then again, she hasn’t done much since she’s been here.” Yeah, the PNW thing she’s mentioned, but not a single person has seen her work on it, which only helps confirm my suspicion that there’s more to her story. “Can’t be quite sure with that girl; just glad she’s here.” Mom clutches Larkin’s hand to her chest. “Can I have a few minutes with Larkin before you make her do whatever she’s here to do?”
“Clean my room,” I answer.
Mom’s brow pulls together in distaste. “Excuse me? She’s here to clean your room? Oh no, sir, that will not be happening. Have you lost your mind? She’s your assistant, not your maid.”
“I offered to help,” Larkin says kindly.
“I know he pays you a lot, dear, but he doesn’t pay you that much.”
Larkin laughs, and the smile that pulls at her lips makes her look so sweet that just one glance in her direction puts me at ease.
“It’s really okay, Mrs. Chance. I have a mission to find some incriminating evidence to use to my advantage.”
“Ahhh.” Mom nods sagely. “Very smart lady, indeed. If that’s the case, I’d start with his closet and the green boxes on the top shelf.”
“What the hell’s in the green boxes?” I say, not recalling any such things. Worry prickles at the back of my neck as my mind wanders to the kind of “incriminating evidence” Larkin could find. Maybe I didn’t think this all the way through. The last thing I want right now, especially with all these confusing thoughts running around in my head about Larkin, is for her to find something embarrassing about me.
It’s bad enough she had to see me question myself; she had to see me at an all-time low. It’s bad enough she’s seen my armor crack, my strong determination falter. And the things I value so much, like my family and the business, she’s seen me question my knowledge of, my understanding. It’s been humiliating, humbling. For my assistant, it’s been enough for her to witness for a lifetime.
“Oh, you’ll see.” With a laugh, Mom lets go of Larkin’s hand and heads over to her apron, which hangs on the pantry door by a Command strip hook. My parents are firm believers in Command strips. They’ve even gone as far as to claim they’ve changed the home-decor industry. “While you two are discovering little trinkets of damning knowledge about our dearest Ford, I’ll be making some cherry-honey scones. I will call you down when they’re ready.”
“Sounds great, thank you, Mrs. Chance.” Larkin takes off toward the stairs, and my anxiety kicks up. She’s moving far too fast for my liking. I need to get ahead of her. “I am so excited to see your childhood room and find those green boxes.” Shit, she’s really fast.
As she “sprints,” I try to take a mental inventory of what I could possibly have kept in my childhood room. What would be damning enough to make me want to act like an ostrich—stick my head in the ground and pray for tomorrow.
But as I rack my brain, I can’t recall anything. But it has to be something, because Mom made a big deal of pointing it out.
“What could you be hiding in those green boxes?” Larkin’s voice bounces with humor.
Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. I don’t fucking know. “There are no green boxes,” I hiss. At least I hope there are no green boxes.
Are there green boxes?
No . . . there aren’t. Are there? Fuck, I have no idea.
Her pace picks up; so does mine. And as if we’re in a race, bumping against the walls and trying to pass one another, we head up the stairs. Panic sears through me, embarrassment clawing at my throat while Larkin brims with excitement.
She reaches the landing before me, and she looks around while asking, “You know, I don’t even know which room is yours.”
Oh . . . duh. I inwardly chuckle: here I am, trying to bulldoze my assistant up the stairs, when in reality, she’s never been to my childhood home before.
I scratch the back of my neck. “You know what, I just remembered something: I already moved all my things out of my room a few years ago.” I motion with my thumb toward the stairs. “Maybe we just head back to the hotel.”
She slowly steels me with those eyes of hers. “Nice try, boss. If you’re not going to tell me, then I’ll just find out for myself.”
She takes in both sides of the hallway and unfortunately is smart enough to turn right.
“Did you hear that? I think my mom just called your name. Maybe she wants help with the scones,” I say as she opens the bathroom door and then closes it.
“She didn’t call my name. She’s singing along with the Rolling Stones currently.” She opens Cooper’s door, and I watch her take in the space. She shakes her head and shuts the door. “You would never have sheets that don’t match the comforter.”
In this very moment, I hate that she knows me so well. I could have passed Cooper’s room off as mine. Then again, I have NO idea what kind of damning things Cooper might have in his room, and I’m not willing to take that kind of risk.
She gets closer to my room, and panic heightens, my brain working in overdrive as I do the first thing that comes to my mind.