Her smile widens, and she turns her attention to whatever’s on her laptop.
I grab my purse and pull out my phone, about to call Elliot, then remember he’s meeting Keith at four thirty. Hmm. How long will that take?
Pursing my lips, I tap the side of my phone. I don’t want to sit around until he’s done. Seems like a gross waste of my special extra hour off.
Dropping the phone back in my purse, I make an executive decision. I’m going home to freshen up. If we can, we’ll go out. If not, then we’ll stay in and order some Thai and watch whatever looks good on Netflix while snuggling. The perfect plan for a Friday evening befo
re my birthday.
As I head toward our penthouse, I make a quick detour—only a few blocks—so I’m driving past the building that houses Keith Shellington’s office. It’s an impressive skyscraper with reflective glass sides glittering in the sunlight. I can’t see anybody inside, but my mouth dries anyway. Apprehension slithers down my spine as I sit at the red light. Keith’s using me to target Elliot seems so far-fetched. At the same time, it does feel…odd that he bumped into me right outside Galore and spilled all that coffee. It was almost as though he was waiting for me…
Now I wish Elliot wasn’t confronting the man, or at least that I was going with him for backup, but that’s being silly. Elliot made it clear he needed to do this to put all the past baggage behind us. I don’t want to ruin what we have with groundless fears.
Besides, they’re meeting in Keith’s office. What’s the worst that can happen? Raised voices and some nasty, heated words? Elliot can be hotheaded, but I doubt things will get physical.
By the time I’m home, I’m feeling better, almost convinced that things will end well between the two men. Nonny’s still not back from school—I remember her saying something about sleeping over at her friend’s today, and that’s totally fine with me. I want her to have a great high school experience. She deserves that.
I drop my purse on the kitchen counter and get a big glass of cold water. Maybe I should call a few restaurants and see if we can get a reservation rather than waiting until Elliot comes home to see what we should do. If we decide not to go out, we can always cancel.
I take my phone out and unlock it just as someone knocks at the door. I wonder who it could be. The front desk doesn’t allow people to come up unless they’re on the approved list or they can show that they have legitimate business—like express delivery.
A quick look at the intercom screen shows a guy in a T-shirt with a local florist’s logo on the chest and a cap with the same logo on his head. His face is tilted down, and he’s fooling with a small tablet for delivery confirmation signatures. He’s also holding a large bouquet of flowers—roses, lilies and some others I don’t recognize.
Elliot. He must have ordered them for tonight, I think, ridiculously pleased at his thoughtfulness.
After grabbing a few small bills for a tip, I open the door. Holding the bouquet in front of his face, the deliveryman pushes forward with enough force to make me stumble back. Once inside, he kicks the door closed and drops everything on the floor.
My body goes numb, and the money slips from my fingers.
“Hello, Annabelle.”
* * *
Elliot
In deference to my wife’s work schedule, Keith is meeting her in his downtown office near OWM at four thirty on Friday. That means I need to select my attire with care. Office drones don’t suspect anything so long as you look like you belong there.
So I chose clothes that say entrepreneur with an edge. A black silk V-neck shirt. Impeccable black trousers. Black loafers. No jewelry except the wedding band.
I step out of the elevator and take in the vestibule. Sand-blasted letters on the thick glass doors read SHELLINGTON FUNDS. The receptionist’s desk is gleaming, a computer and a phone sitting on the spotless surface. The golden color scheme is a bit much, but I suppose if you want to make it look like you have the Midas touch, you gotta do what you gotta do. And Keith, it seems, has done well for himself since I last laid eyes on him.
The secretary outside his door is a slim brunette who looks remarkably like Annabelle Underhill. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought she was Wife Number Three’s long-lost sister.
She gets up at the sight of me. The blue dress she has on is tight but covers everything adequately. “Hello. You are…?”
“I have an appointment. Annabelle Reed.”
She does a double take. “Annabelle…? Uh…”
“I know. Mom really wanted a girl.” I wink at her and walk into Keith’s office before she can stop me.
The room is spacious, with a decent view of the city. The focal point is a giant desk, which is cluttered with paper and three laptops. Two couches face each other, with a coffee table between. A decanter half full of amber liquid and three empty glasses are on the tabletop. Some things don’t change. Keith was never one to keep his workspace tidy.
He swivels in his chair. Shock registers in his gray eyes, a wide smile slipping from his lips. The change pleases me immensely.
He’s thirty-nine, although he can pass for forty-five. He sports a thousand-dollar haircut, his jaw shaved clean. His charcoal-gray suit fits well, but it can’t hide the fact that he’s a skinny bastard with a soft body.
I take an empty seat. “You’re moving up in the world. Offices in L.A. now.”