I say, shaking my head. ‘Ring down to Reception and have this woman shown up to our waiting area.’ I could cancel, but that level of unprofessionalism isn’t typical for my tightly run ship. The sooner I see this woman, the sooner I can send her on her way.
I head past Sue’s desk, ushering my brothers out. ‘You two have enough on—so, usual drinks Friday?’
My brothers nod, reassured. I watch them walk away, pride that they’ve both recently found happiness—Drake in the first stages of love and Kit weeks away from becoming a father—affirmation that all will be well. Aside from walking in Dad’s very large footsteps, steering the family business for my brothers and the generations of Faulkners to come is a privilege. We’re going to be okay. Dad’s going to be okay. I’ll make sure of it.
The minute they’re out of sight, my mind works on the newest problem to be solved. I turn to Sue. ‘What can you tell me about this company?’ I check my watch. I won’t have time to do extensive research, as I prefer. But going in blind... Never a good idea. But could Graham have sanctioned major changes at one of the hotels without my knowledge? Has his confusion reached levels where he’d behave so...erratically and out of character?
My efficient assistant is already nodding, typing away. ‘I’ve just sent you through a link to their website. I’m sorry, Mr Faulkner. It must have slipped past Graham’s old PA.’
‘No worries, I’m sure the mix-up can be easily rectified, but can you please ensure Graham has no other meetings on the horizon?’ I rub a spot above my eyebrow at my mounting sense of irritation. What else has gone unnoticed? What else have I missed before recognising the extent of Dad’s confusion went beyond pre-retirement pulling back of his workload? If I’ve been remiss, overlooked my usually competent father’s decisions these past months, the ‘t’s need crossing and ‘i’s dotting.
I shrug into my suit jacket, an expectant brow raised at Sue.
‘The company is a small boutique business,’ she says, scrolling down her computer screen. ‘There’s a news story—C&L Interiors, as it was then, winning some prestigious industry award in the small-spaces category.’
I nod, mind whirring. ‘That’s all? No big-name commissions?’ Why would Graham choose a company with no track record for hotel renovations?
Sue shakes her head, looking apologetic.
My shoulders relax—whatever accolades C&L Interiors holds, they’re small fry and in no position to undertake renovations on a Faulkner hotel. ‘Send a companywide memo to Kit and Drake and the other heads—all new business requires my sign-off.’ I ignore Sue’s hastily concealed look of horror. I’ve allowed Dad’s diagnosis to distract me and now I have this unscheduled meeting cluttering up my lunch hour.
‘This mix-up will be dispensed with in ten minutes, tops. Why don’t you take your lunch break now?’
I head for the waiting area through the open-plan offices acquired around the same time the Faulkner Group bought its third hotel. Until then, my father operated out of a converted suite at the Faulkner, our first hotel and the place Drake, Kit and I grew up.
I walk a little taller, remembering the day I joined the family business. As a naive twenty-year-old, I assumed I’d be sitting behind a desk, a carbon copy of my father’s, with my business degree framed on the wall. Instead Graham took me downstairs and introduced me to the housekeepers. I spent my first month changing sheets and cleaning bathrooms, my second trailing the concierge staff and another month working on Reception. He was right to teach me from the bottom up—he’s taught me everything I know, which is our hotels inside out, especially the Faulkner.
I exit the admin offices, my resolve primed to undo whatever Dad has discussed with C&L Interiors. I smooth my tie—calling on my slightly rusty charm, anticipating victory.
I come to a halt on the threshold of the waiting area.
Blair Cameron sits on one of the leather sofas, her familiar face severe with concentration as she focuses on a tablet in her lap. I conceal my shock as my pulse hammers with the surge of attraction I’ve spent years ignoring.
Blair’s family and mine go way back. The daughter of my father’s friend, business rival, albeit a friendly one, and fellow golf crony, she grew up in similar circles, although she’s closest in age to Kit, and it’s been years since we’ve personally had any contact.
I straighten my tie and approach, scoping the length of her body, down spectacular legs, which I can tell, even from this distance, are bare. She’s wearing a fitted red dress, her hair caught up in a high ponytail and sunglasses perched on top of her head, as if she’s casually pushed them there on entering the building and perhaps forgotten their presence.
Heat stirs in my veins. Despite our ten-year age gap, her beauty has always caused a flicker of appreciation. I might have had my fingers burned by my money-grabbing ex-wife, but a woman like Blair is hard to ignore. A cool blonde—smart, classy, almost untouchable.
Still, appreciation is all it ever can be.
I arrange my features into something approximating a warm welcome and announce my arrival. ‘Blair—it’s been a while.’
She stands, her surprise that I’m not my father turning into a smile of greeting as she accepts my handshake with a flush. Her smile, slightly lopsided and pinching one cheek into an adorable dimple I recall she hated as a teenager, and the mildly taken-aback delight I spy lurking there, turns this morning’s debacle into a minor hiccup.
‘Reid. It’s been years.’ She laughs, a throaty sound that slides over me as surely as the glide of her palm as she disengages from our handshake. A fresh surge of heat pounds through me at her subtle coconut scent. Why didn’t I greet her more fondly? Touch my cheek to hers, a woman who, because of our age gap, has been off my radar? For some inexplicable reason, I glance at her left hand—the last thing I heard from Dad, she was engaged—but there’s no ring, only long, elegant fingers capped with red nail polish.
Interesting, but what am I doing?
I tuck my hand into my pocket and drag my head back into the game, noting the art satchel at Blair’s feet. I vaguely recall her sidestep from working for her father, who owns a hotel in direct competition with the Faulkner, my suspicious nature kicking into overdrive and dampening the flare of attraction to Blair. Is that why she’s here? To use Graham’s forgetfulness and vulnerability as an opportunity to scope out the competition?
Fuck, I’m jumpy. Just because Sadie, my ex-wife, cured me from trusting members of the opposite sex, I shouldn’t condemn her for industrial espionage just yet. I clear my throat, my suspicions beneath me.
‘Well, this is unexpected.’ I stretch out one arm, indicating she follow me back to my office.
‘Yes—I was expecting Graham.’ Her sideways glance, a sweep of those pretty eyes down the length of my body, forces my shoulders back a notch and fills my stride with swagger.
I nod as we walk side by side, the air tense with my new awareness of this woman. Has she ever looked at me with interest? I scour my memory for the last time I saw her, calculating I was still married and she was in a relationship with a guy she’d met at university.
At my office door, I pause so she can enter first, my smile concealing the cogs working in my mind on a revised game plan. How much of Graham’s diagnosis should I reveal? She’s no stranger. But my
