I PARK MY Jag in my designated spot in the Faulkner car park, a spot next to the empty one with Graham’s name on it, the familiar pinch under my ribs reminding me tomorrow is D-Day—his appointment with Harley Street’s most prominent dementia specialist.
The hotel is awash with contractors, the buzz of power tools and the smell of fresh paint filling the air. I’ve varied the time of my daily visits, but since our hedonistic weekend, where we only emerged from the bedroom to accept the regular room-service deliveries, I’ve managed to miss Blair every time. We’ve spoken on the phone every day, of course, but the easiness has vanished. And despite us both making our excuses, her busy with the renovations and me distracted by Graham’s looming appointment, I’ve only myself to blame. I pushed her to tell me something she’s clearly embarrassed by, and, rather than bringing us closer together, it pushed her away. Instead of telling her my feelings, I tried to sound out hers, idiot that I am.
I enter the foyer, amazed anew at how much more bright and welcoming the space is since the wall behind the old reception desk came down. Blair was right—the natural light works wonders. I can almost see it sparkling off the contemporary chandeliers she’s going to hang.
My chest fills with pride. Whatever my father was going through health-wise, his vision for the flagship Faulkner Hotel and his belief in Blair hit the mark with his usual innate instincts. He was right to believe in her and she was right when she promised she could deliver.
Movement near the far wall close to the entrance doors catches my eye. I step closer to see a man wearing overalls, his long hair tied in a man bun as he sketches something on the freshly painted wall in broad, sweeping strokes.
‘Hi,’ I say, extending my hand when he spins to face me. ‘I’m Reid Faulkner—I don’t believe we’ve met.’ What the hell is he doing?
‘Oh, hey, man—Zach.’ He tucks his pencil into his bun and shakes my proffered hand, his grip matching mine. ‘I’m a friend of Blair’s.’
My first reaction, a prickle of possession snaking down my spine—I’ve never heard of a Zach, and what the hell is he doing to a freshly painted wall, because he’s not fitting a light fixture or hanging a print?—is replaced with a sense of foreboding I’m beginning to dread.
‘So what are you doing here?’ I point to the wall, at this distance noting what appears to be an outline of the Faulkner.
Zach smiles. ‘It’s the mural.’
I hide my frown, my dislike of being out of the loop on anything to do with my business, especially this hotel, making my jaw clench. ‘Mural...?’
Zach’s confidence wavers, his casual smile slipping a notch. ‘Yeah—didn’t Blair tell you?’ He strides over to a small, paint-splattered table covered with a stack of art supplies and hands me a roll of paper. ‘It’s the tribute she conceived.’
At my blank look, he continues, only now his eyes are darting anywhere but at me as he fully understands I clearly have zero knowledge of any mural or tribute.
‘You know—to Mr Faulkner...’
I unroll the paper, rage and sickening dread unfurling in my stomach with every inch that’s revealed. Because what I see brings everything crashing down around me, as if my beloved hotel itself is crumbling.
It’s a timeline. Scanned photos artfully blended together, from a youthful Graham cutting a wide red ribbon outside the Faulkner the day he reopened it not long after purchasing the building, through a family portrait of me, Drake and Kit as boys, sitting on the reception desk, our grins missing various teeth, to a shot of Graham the day he officially retired next to the brass plaque he placed outside, which reads A Faulkner Hotel, established 1979.
My head spins with the flood of memories. These walls have housed almost every significant date in my life, and those in my brothers’. This...tribute, absolute confirmation that Graham is part of the Faulkner’s past, not its future, may as well be an obituary for the violent reaction which courses through every cell in my body.
How could she do this without telling me? How could she plan to wipe Graham from the hotel’s heritage with such finality? Why the hell would she think I’d want to see this every time I walk through the doors? A reminder of my father’s past glory.
I grow aware of the time that has passed, swallowing hard to get myself back under control. ‘Can I keep this?’
Zach nods, nervously. ‘Sure, man. Of course. I have another copy.’
I roll the collage up, handling it as if it’s a live snake. ‘Why don’t you take a break, Zach? Have the rest of the day off.’
He senses the unspoken in my words, offering a brief nod before turning to pack up his equipment.
I’m just entering the Faulkner Group building when a call comes in from Zach.
‘Blair?’
‘Hi.’ I smile, excitement for the mural quickening my pace. ‘I’ll be with you soon. I’m just at the Faulkner Group offices.’
An ominous pause. ‘I’m not at the hotel—Reid asked me to leave.’
I freeze, shock and outrage forcing my hand to grip my phone tighter.
‘I just wanted to let you know,’ says Zach.
My high at seeing Reid and making sure things are right between us dissolves, my mind shuffling through the implications of Zach’s words and Reid’s actions. But first I need details.
‘What? Why?’ I deflate, my heart sinking at the realisation that Reid has interfered, sent home one of my contractors without so much as a courtesy call, let alone a mature client-contractor discussion.
‘He didn’t say, but he didn’t seem pleased,’ says Zach.
I cringe. While I was preparing to see him again, sappily imagining I’d finally tell him how I feel about him and he’d reciprocate my love, he was checking up on me again, undermining my work and assuming he knows best. He simply couldn’t trust me to do my job, even after I told him what Josh had done and its impact. My stomach falls and nausea grips my throat.
‘Hey, it’s not a problem from my point of view,’ says Zach. ‘I can resume the painting any time you’re ready...but just to let you know Reid has settled my account in full, so... I don’t know what that means for the mural.’
I do.
He hates it. He’s vetoed it without discussion and despite its being personally commissioned by Graham. I swallow hard, fighting the burn of furious, frustrated tears. Why couldn’t he have trusted me? It was supposed to be a surprise. But I should have known that, whatever progress Reid and I made in private, the trust element was an illusion. One I was a naive fool to believe.
‘Thanks, Zach. Sorry for the confusion—I’ll be in touch.’ I disconnect the call while a strange numbness settles over me as I head inside the building. I won’t jump to conclusions—perhaps he had genuine reasons for halting the work. I take my visitor’s pass from the building’s receptionist and turn for the bank of lifts, the tight, wooden smile on my face making my cheeks ache.
My body is restless, adrenaline pumping, but I stand before Reid’s PA, my face tight with the effort of projecting an impression of calm professionalism.
‘I’m sorry, Ms Cameron. He’s out of the office at the moment,’ she says.
I sigh, the delay in our showdown fuelling my frustration. Reid reacted with emotion. He should have called me first, not rushed in and paid off my contractor without consulting me. Of course, I understand he’s protective of the Faulkner—it’s home to him, his life’s work and his father’s before him. I get it, especially in light of Graham’s diagnosis. But...
‘I’ll wait, thanks.’
I’ve barely taken a seat in Reid’s empty office when the door swings open, revealing the man himself. ‘Blair...’
Heat pours through me at the sight of him—last time I saw him he held me so tightly as we came together, I thought we’d become one person—only to drain away at the memory of what he did, at the knowledge that no matter how hard I’ve fallen, Reid still sees me as incapable, someone to be undermined and professionally embarrassed without thought. Shivers threaten to take hold. I clear my throat and stand tall. However this goes, I can fight my corner. I’ve done it before, despite the odds. I rebuilt something prosperous from the nothing left by Josh.
I accept his chaste kiss, which, for a moment, lulls me to believe everything is okay. That we’re back in our hotel suite, still lost in those few blissful minutes when anything seemed possible.
Reid pulls back, his face drawn with fatigue and his eyes haunted with regret. My stomach twists and I look away, still clinging to denial for a few more minutes until I’m forced to face reality.
I take a seat in the same spot as I did at our first meeting, my body equally gripped by the conflicting visceral emotions, but my mind clear for the first time in years. ‘You’ve halted the mural?’ There’s little point beating around the bush.
He nods, smoothing down his tie. ‘Yes. I didn’t know anything about it.’ He wears the steely, cloaked wariness of our first meeting, and this drains more hope from me. ‘Why is that, Blair?’
I ignore his question, too focused on the way my body wants to curl in on itself at his confirmation of what I suspected, but I tilt my chin. ‘And you didn’t think to call me? To discuss it with me before you paid off my contractor?’ I can’t help the accusation in my tone, because everything I’ve done has come from a place of love and respect for his family, particularly Graham, and if he can’t see that he really doesn’t know me at all or he’s choosing to dismiss what he knows, and I can’t tolerate either.
‘I was going to call you. Look—’
I hold up my hand, blocking his words. I know they’re going to hurt too much. Confirm my worst fears. I trusted that he’d respect my professionalism and my creative instincts. I trusted that when I told him about Josh, he’d understand how important my business is to me. I trusted that he, of all people, saw me as his equal, not some young, naive fool, playing with her little design projects.
‘I assumed you’d finally handed control of the Faulkner renovations over to me, but now I see I’ve again been a misguided idiot. You may have been able to set everything aside to get laid,’ I swallow hard, battling a wave of nausea, forcing out the words he hasn’t said aloud that I can’t allow to go unspoken, ‘but you just can’t do it, can you? You can’t trust me to do my job. You can’t trust me, full stop.’ It’s not a question. And the bigger statement refuses to emerge from my burning throat—that he can’t trust us. That perhaps for him there never was an us, that too an illusion. That it was nothing more than sex, and even then he couldn’t keep his promise to separate it from my work.
His eyes soften, but then he pulls back, once more the ruthless, in-control businessman. ‘You’re right—I should have discussed the mural with you. But when I asked Zach to stop, it wasn’t personal against you. I felt threatened, I felt my business and my family’s slipping through my fingers. And I put that first.’
My mind fills the blanks.
Before you.
Before us.
I force the emotion from my voice. ‘You know, Reid, you’re wrong. This is personal to me. My business is personal to me. And you knew that—I told you what Josh did. I’ve worked long and hard to claw something back from the wreckage. I thought you understood me better than that. You of all people, because you’ve been through the same with Sadie. Yes, I’m ten years your junior, but I know what I’m doing, and you’ve been keeping tabs on me from the start. You’ve never separated us from the contract between our companies. And, while you have the final say at the Faulkner, I’m in control of my life. So, you see, business is always personal to someone. That’s what you know too, because of what Sadie did to you. But I’m not her. I just wanted to do my job.’ Everything clicks into place, the blurriness becoming crystal-clear.
He can’t trust me. He never did.
His hand scrubs at the spot above his eyebrow and I falter at the sight of his elegantly masculine fingers, wincing at the memory of his touch. His frown is so deep it conceals his eyes from view. ‘I admit I messed up—look, if you give me a chance to explain—’
‘Like you gave me a chance to explain the mural.’ I breathe through the pain of a million jagged glass shards, fighting the sting behind my eyes. But I can compartmentalise. Time to wrap up this meeting and get the hell away from him, because just sharing air with him hurts—a bitter realisation after everything else I thought we’d shared. ‘So, I’ll finish the Faulkner renovations, as contracted. I’ll expect your written confirmation, one way or the other, on completion of the mural and then I’ll be out of your hair.’
I leave, my legs shaky but growing steadier with each step, unsurprised when he doesn’t chase after me.