Chapter 5

Nell’s POV

“Did anyone text you last night?” Cal asked.

I was still half in the blankets. Gray morning light slanted through the blinds of my apartment. He stood by the window in yesterday’s shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, hair sticking up in the back, holding a mug of my terrible coffee. He didn’t look at me. He looked at the street.

That was the first sign that trouble had come.

The second sign was that he asked it lightly. Like a man asking about the weather.

“No,” I said.

It was the smoothest lie I had ever told.

“No one?”

“My mother. She sends a Bible verse every Sunday.”

“Which one?”

“Ecclesiastes. The one about seasons.”

He nodded slowly. He set the mug on the sill. His left thumb moved over his right wrist, over and over, where a watch should have been.

“Right,” he said.

I watched his back. I watched the line of his shoulders under the cotton. I thought, very clearly, I’m going to remember this. This exact minute. The one where I lied to a man who slept in my bed.

I should explain.

I had woken at ten past three that morning. The mattress had shifted beside me. I’d opened my eyes a slit and seen Cal sitting up in the dark, my phone in his hand, the blue light on his face. He’d been reading it. Then he had put it down, very gently, like a man setting down a live wire, and lain back without a sound.

He thought I was asleep.

I lay there for two hours, and I read the message after he finally drifted off.

Triple your f*e. All I need is a look at the Doyle owner’s Friday nights. Your fiancé works in that building, doesn’t he?

I read it eleven times. Then I put the phone face down and stared at the ceiling.

Because here was the thing Cal did not know.

On Thursday night, after Brendan’s photograph, I had gone home and opened my laptop. I’d searched two words. Doyle Grand. The hotel’s website had a page called Our Story, and on that page, in a handsome navy suit, stood a man with dark hair and green eyes and no smile at all.

Cillian Doyle. Thirty-one. Chief executive. The Chicago tabloids called him the Ghost of Michigan Avenue, because he never showed up to his own parties.

I had stared at that photograph for a long time.

Then I’d closed the laptop and decided to do the stupidest thing I’d ever done.

I didn’t tell him I knew.

Not on Friday. Not at the dinner, when he stood up and said my name like it was worth defending. Not in the hall of my apartment, with his hands in my hair, when I might have said stop. I’d wanted to know why a billionaire would hide in a ball cap and pretend to be a man for hire. I’d wanted to know who lied like that and still gave a toast like that.

And I’d wanted him. That was the part I hadn’t planned on.

Now Desmond Fitzgerald knew a secret too.

“I should go,” Cal said.

“Stay. I’ll make eggs.”

“You don’t have eggs.”

“I have a can of soup.”

His mouth twitched. It was almost a smile. “I have a meeting.”

“On a Sunday?”

“I’m a busy bartender.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

His eyes lifted to mine. A shadow moved in them. It was there and gone.

“So I’ve been told,” he said.

He crossed the room, bent down, and kissed my forehead. Just once. Very lightly. His mouth stayed against my skin one second too long.

Then he was gone, and the door clicked, and I lay back in my blankets with my heart going like a jackhammer.

“Oh, Nell,” I said to the ceiling. “You idiot.”

~

“He is a billionaire,” Roisin said.

“Keep your voice down.”

“He is a billionaire, and you slept with him.”

“I’m aware.”

“And he doesn’t know you know.”

“I’m aware, Roisin.”

We were in the back kitchen of the Fitzgerald house at noon on Sunday, huddled by a rack of catering trays. The cake tasting was in ten minutes. A hundred and forty tiny lemon tarts sat between us, glistening under plastic wrap.

“So what’s the plan?” she hissed.

“I don’t have one.”

“You always have a plan. You have a plan for plans.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Nell. You spent the night with the man who owns the ballroom. The ballroom our whole business depends on. And a man who owns half the block is offering you a quarter of a million dollars to spy on him.” She held up her hands. “It’s like a very sexy soap opera.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Roisin.”

“Okay, it’s not funny.” She squeezed my arm. Her eyes were gentle. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to turn Desmond down.”

“You’d give up that much money?”

“I’d never spy on anyone.”

“Even for the lease?”

“Especially for the lease.”

She let out a long breath. “You are the worst businesswoman I have ever met.”

“I know.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

I laughed. It cracked in the middle.

“Nell?”

I turned.

Aoife stood in the kitchen doorway in a soft gray sweater, her hair twisted up in a messy bun. She wasn’t smiling. She held a lemon tart in one hand and had clearly forgotten it was there.

“Can I talk to you?” she asked. “Alone?”

Roisin melted away. Aoife came in and closed the door.

“I’m sorry about the toast,” she said. Her voice wobbled. “Brendan shouldn’t have said that. It was unkind. I told him so.”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not.” She sat on an upturned crate and pressed her palm to her forehead. “I’m not stupid, you know. Everyone thinks I am. Daddy does. Brendan does, sometimes. But I saw how he looked at you at dinner, when you stood up. Like he’d lost the very thing he came in for.”

“Aoife.”

“And I saw how he looked at me.” She lowered her voice. “Daddy told Brendan to hire you. I heard them. He said you’d be cheap. And desperate.”

My throat tightened.

“I think he wants a favor from you. I don’t know what.” She lifted her eyes, big and blue and worried. “Just don’t sign anything without a lawyer. Please. And your fiancé. Cal? He’s kind. I don’t think he’s what he says he is. But I think he’s kind.”

“How do you know?”

“He carried my grandmother’s chair to the fire. Nobody asked him to.” She stood, smoothing her sweater. “I hope it works out for you. I really do.”

She squeezed my hand and left.

I stood alone in the kitchen with a hundred and forty lemon tarts and a knot behind my ribs.

My phone buzzed in my apron.

Unknown number.

It’s Desmond. I know who Cal Dunne really is. You should too. Meet me at the boathouse tonight. Midnight. Come alone.

I read it twice. The kitchen went quiet. Somewhere, a tap dripped.

I put the phone in my pocket, straightened my apron, and picked up a lemon tart.

Then I ate it in three bites, because it was the only thing I knew how to do, and started planning how to meet the devil.