Say You Still Love Me: A Novel

“Five copies, single-sided, two staples in each, a half-inch apart.” Mark’s voice is thin as he relays David’s scrupulous instructions sent to him last night.

“Ignore it. He can email the presentation to them.” David has had weeks to hire a new assistant and he’s dragging his feet. There is no way in hell I’m letting him dominate mine anymore.

I pause mid–pen stroke as the red light on my office phone flashes, indicating an incoming call. I muted the ringer long ago, the sound of it grating on my nerves.

“A. Calloway,” the display screen reads. It’s just like my mom to still dial the office line instead of my mobile. She’s no doubt following up on her email from last night to discuss the merits of damask versus brocade window treatments. She got the summer house in the divorce settlement and has taken to redecorating every three years. While I always enjoy talking to her, now is not the time for that thirty-minute conversation. Not when I have no valuable input to offer anyway.

Not when I’m anxiously waiting on an update on the city planner meeting from Tripp, hoping my power play has paid off.

I let her call go to voicemail.

“You know Tripp always has Jill call me to check your schedule, right?” Mark hovers over my desk, smoothly collecting one check requisition after another as I sign and approve payments to the various suppliers and contractors. “That way he can wait until you’re tied up in a meeting and just leave a message.”

I did not know that, actually, though now that I look back, he’s always leaving me voicemails. That way he doesn’t have to feel like he’s answering to me. I shouldn’t be surprised. Coward. “So he knows I’m going to be at The Port Room over lunch?”

“I’m sure Jill will tell him.”

The Port Room is a private members-only establishment of rustic wood floors and broad leather seats, where I sometimes like to hold meetings for its comfort. The downside is that phone conversations while inside are forbidden.

And Tripp knows that.

“I guess I’ll have to make sure to answer my phone then, won’t I?” Because I want to hear what the weasel has to say, live. “And, let me guess, he’s taking the afternoon off?”

“Jill moved his tee-time to one.”

In my rush to pass the requisition on, the corner of the sheet catches my skin, slicing through. I hiss, sticking my index finger in my mouth to quell the sting and stifle the unprofessional curse that wants to scream out. “I should ask her to cancel it,” I grumble bitterly. Though they’re calling for 98 degrees this afternoon. At least the bastard will sweat in the midday heat.

“I bet Jill would do it for you.”

“Care to wager five sour apple Fun Dips on that?” Not that I’d win that gamble. It’s no secret that Tripp’s assistant, a woman in her late forties who dons purple cat’s-eye glasses and a librarian’s bun, doesn’t enjoy working for him.

He frowns curiously. “Fun Dip?”

“Never mind.” I sigh, scrawling “Piper C. Calloway”—C for Constance, after my dad’s mother—across the bottom of the last approval, giving the numbers a second fleeting glance. “Please tell me this is it.”

“This is it.”

“Thank God.”

“Except for the others coming this afternoon . . .”

With a groan, I toss my pen to my desk and lean back into my chair, inspecting my wound. Who knew this role would entail so much mundane paperwork?

Mark pauses at my office door to eye me curiously. “Wild night?”

“No, not really.” Though the bags under my eyes would lead one to believe otherwise. “Maybe too much red wine. My head’s a bit foggy.” Ashley, Christa, and I polished off two bottles while reminiscing about Camp Wawa. I was in bed by midnight, though I tossed and turned until three, my mind and heart dwelling on the possibility that the golden-eyed boy with the Fauxhawk might have crossed my path yesterday.

I’ve almost positive that it was Kyle I saw.

“You want me to hit Joe’s for a pick-me-up?”

I check the time. Ten thirty. I have an hour and a half until my lunch meeting—and Tripp’s call, if Mark is right about his avoidance tactics—and a dozen reports to go through, and I’m suddenly stir-crazy.

Besides, I have something I need to do downstairs.

“No, I’ll go. I could use a walk before I fall asleep in my chair staring at these numbers. Black, two sugars, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He frowns, as if surprised that I remembered. “You know . . . you’re pretty cool to work for.” The glass door to my office shuts before I have a chance to respond, but his words leave me with a smile. I think I know where that praise is coming from. It’s well known around the company that the executive team, including my father, has an old-school mentality when it comes to assistants. A “you take care of me” way of operating, from a time when people still readily used the term secretaries and assistants were more like Depression-era work-wives, making sure their bosses were well caffeinated and properly fed, and that the real wives received gifts on wedding anniversaries and birthdays.

It’s not that the executive assistants here are treated poorly—they’re applauded and well compensated for their mothering abilities. But it’s an archaic environment, one I can’t wait to change.

My dad may have frowned when I told him I’d hired a male assistant, but he didn’t try to dissuade me. And I’ve never treated Mark like someone who is here merely to fetch coffee and run the printer. Sure, he does those things, as well as book meeting rooms and set up appointments, but I’ve also enrolled him in tasks that teach him about the industry and prove that I believe he has a useful head on his shoulders. When Mark moves on, it’ll be to bigger and better things, and I’ll be happy for him.

I reach for my purse just as raucous male laughter carries from down the hall. A moment later, my father and David appear. “You’re kidding me,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, taking in the sight of them. They’re wearing their usual Friday golf attire—tailored wool-blend pants and collared shirts—only this week they’re dressed identically in charcoal gray and powder pink.

My dad raps his knuckles twice against Mark’s desk as he passes—his standard greeting, one that always makes Mark visibly stiffen—and then strolls right into my office.

“Welcome back! How was Tokyo?” I haven’t seen him since early last week.

“Exhausting. Glad to be home. Got my five-mile run in as the sun was coming up and then eighteen holes with my favorite guy.” Dad has a gruff, steely voice, the kind that commands attention when he speaks and intimidates people. He also can’t hold a smile for long, which only ups the intimidation factor. “And how’s my daughter? Holding down the Calloway fort?”

“Someone has to.” I smile wryly up at him. “You got some color.”

“Did I?” He frowns as he checks his sinewy forearms, already golden and toned and coated with darker hair than the full, thick mane of silvery gray on his head. He wasn’t always so focused on his health, having spent years carrying around an extra twenty pounds thanks to frequent steak dinners and daily cocktail hours. But a mild heart attack two years ago changed things. He’ll still have the occasional scotch, but now his diet consists mainly of white fish and salads, and he has all but cut out caffeine.

He wanders over to the windows to gaze down over the city, his arms resting across his chest. No doubt admiring his life’s work so far and what is yet to come. By the time he retires, Kieran Calloway will have made his mark on a city that half a million people call home, with everything from luxury high-rises to affordable condominiums, to retail and entertainment locations and even an architecturally world-renowned library.

Talk about a legacy.

“I heard about your problems with Tripp over the Marquee project.”

Straight to business.

I spear a glare through two glass walls. It’s wasted effort, though, as David’s back is to me, his phone pressed to his ear as he bounces a tennis ball against his window.

I hope it pins him in the eye.

“I’m handling it.”

“Are you?” he asks lightly, but I hear the dicey undercurrent beneath it. “I’ve known Tripp a long time. There’s a certain nuance to motivating him.”

“Does it involve a bottle of Hendrick’s?” I mutter under my breath.

“I’ve left him a message this morning, emphasizing how important his role is in—”

“You didn’t!” I burst, tossing the pen in my hand across my desk in frustration. “Don’t you see how bad this looks for me?” It looks like I’ve run to my daddy with my problems because I can’t handle them on my own. It’s exactly what Tripp expects.

Unlike my girlish shrill, his voice remains calm. “I’m not going to risk losing him for the sake of your ego, Piper. Calloway Group is not a one-man show. You need guys like him and David in your corner, whether you like them or not.”

I take a deep, calming breath and try to match his tone, all while inside I’m screaming. “I’m waiting on a call from Tripp to update me on the meeting with the city planners, and I expect things to move forward smoothly after today—”

“Nothing ever moves smoothly in this industry.”

“If I have to get more involved, I will.”

The responding sigh is one that breeds tension in my shoulders. It means I’m about to get a lecture. Wandering back to my desk, he perches himself on the edge. “You lead them. You guide them. You motivate them. And you rely on them. You don’t do their jobs for them, Piper.”

“You can’t motivate someone who doesn’t respect you.”

“Then earn Tripp’s respect.”

“How? The guy calls me a spoiled tart to anyone who will listen!”

He squeezes the bridge of his nose with his index finger, as if pained from a headache. “I’ll talk to him.”

“No, you will not, Dad!” I tack on a sigh and a calmer “Please don’t,” because my voice is bordering on hysterical.

He pauses, as if searching for another angle in this conversation. “Well, are you a spoiled tart?”

“What? No!”

“Good. I’m glad you know your worth. And I know that you are a brilliant young woman with the passion and the potential to continue leading the Calloway legacy like no one else. That’s why I promoted you.” He offers me a rare, encouraging smile before it falls off. “Now prove it to the rest of them.” There’s an edge creeping into his brusque voice. “I have no plans on going anywhere anytime soon, but as we learned two years ago, nothing is guaranteed. I want you at the head of the Calloway table now, with your feet in the fire, so everyone can start getting used to the idea of you running CG one day. But you still have a lot to learn, from me and from this executive team. That includes Tripp.”

“Yes, sir,” I manage to get out through gritted teeth. “I just don’t understand what value you see in him.”

“I will admit that Tripp has let his false aspirations cloud his judgment lately. But he has been by my side for almost thirty years. That kind of loyalty counts for something in this business.” Dad’s gaze wanders toward the skyline once again. “How is everything with the Waterway project?”

I push aside my dour mood as I pat the stack of papers next to me. “Final design approvals have come in. Seagrum and Whilcroft have signed the loan papers.”

“How short are we on financing?”

“We need another three hundred million to close the construction loan.”

“How are talks with Deutsche Bank coming along?”

“Long and excruciating, but I think we’re making headway. Jim is getting more numbers to them.” Jim, our director of investments, is a tall, slender man with a perpetual five o’clock shadow and a keen financial sense, especially when it comes to negotiations involving that kind of money.

“And the unveiling ceremony?”

“At the art gallery on Fifth. Everything’s underway for that.”

“Keep me informed,” Dad murmurs, reaching for the gift that arrived from my brother last week—made from recycled silver spoons, which I don’t think was a coincidence given he always jokes that we came out of my mother’s womb suckling on them—to study it with an incredulous look. “That’s what this thing is for? To hold my phone?”

I let out a soft sigh, relieved at the sudden switch in topic, even if it’s to a more personal one. “I take it Rhett sent you one, too.”

“Yes, and I told Greta to toss it, but the damn woman never listens to me.”

I smirk. Greta’s been my father’s executive assistant for almost twenty-five years. She’s set to retire next year and he’s already talking about doubling her salary to get her to stay. The truth is, I’m not sure my father can survive without “that damn woman.”

“I have no use for tchotchkes,” he mutters, fiddling with my iPhone perched within the cradle, shifting it this way and that.

“Works pretty well. And it’s clever.” In a kitschy sort of way.

Dad lets out a sound that might be approval—if he could approve of anything my brother does—before standing with a stretch. His hard gaze drifts to the office across the way. “You know . . . David really loves you.”

I roll my eyes. “David really loves David.” And I’ll never be stupid enough to divulge anything to him ever again.

“Confidence is important in a man—”

“Dad.”

His hands go up in the air. “You’re going to be running a multibillion-dollar company one day. You need to be with a man like David. Not like that last waste of space.”

“Who?” I frown, confused for a moment. “Wait, are you talking about Ryan?” My ex from four years ago?

Dad grunts at the name.

Waste of space . . . “He was a published author!”

“Who couldn’t pay his own rent, if I recall correctly,” he throws back.

“He could have been a lot worse.”

“Yes, you’re right. He could have been a criminal.”

I sigh heavily. In my father’s eyes, a man’s worth is set by his family name, his bank account, and his shoes.

And I want to be done with this conversation. “Say hi to Rita for me.”

He pauses, seemingly caught off guard. “Actually, we decided to take some time apart. She moved out.”

I feel my eyebrows spike in surprise. “Since when?”

“It’s been at least a month now,” he says dismissively.

“A month!” They were together for almost a year! I thought this was the one he was going to marry. “You should have told me.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t think you particularly liked her.”

Like would be too strong a word for my feelings toward Rita, but at least she’s a full decade older than me, unlike the thirty-two-year-old interior designer before her. Thankfully that one was short-lived.

“I don’t like the idea of you being alone at night,” I say instead. He was alone at home when he had his heart attack. It was sheer luck that he managed to dial 9-1-1.

“And I don’t like you being alone, period,” he smoothly pivots.

“I’m not. I have Christa, and Ashley moved in, too.”

“At your age, you should be—”

“Enjoying my life.” I smile as I firmly cut him off. “Marrying David would have been a huge mistake. And have you forgotten that he suggested I quit CG so he could take over?”

Dad waves it off with, “he wasn’t serious.”

I stifle my groan. “I would have been miserable, married to him. Is that what you want, Dad? For me to be miserable?”

Whatever rebuttal was formulating on his lips dies with a resigned sigh. “Tell the girls I say hello.” Dad reaches for the door handle.

“You know who else is happy?” I tap the spoon sculpture. “Rhett is happy.” My brother moved back from Thailand a year ago with his Thai wife, Lawan. They started an up-cycling shop in a charming town an hour outside of Lennox. I’ve only been out to see it once, but it seems to fit the composting, rainwater-preserving, recycling guru he has become.

Dad’s expression sours. “Well, of course he’s happy. His mother still pays his bills and he’s always stoned.”

Unfortunately, Rhett’s altruistic lifestyle also seems to fit the pot-smoking, responsibility-shirking stereotype my dad still has him pegged for.

I can’t help but laugh, even as I shake my head at him. “He doesn’t smoke pot and Mom doesn’t pay his bills.” She just made sure he got his trust fund, something my dad was adamant about revoking until Rhett passed this “stage” in his life. “He’s coming into town in a few weeks. I’m meeting him for dinner. You should come.”

Dad doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be away.”

“Maybe some other time, then.” I’m not feeling hopeful.

“Give me an update on the Marquee approvals by end of day.” He’s swiftly moving for his office, a room three times the size of mine and David’s, complete with solid wood walls, its own washroom, and mahogany wet bar.

With a heavy sigh—great, soon I’ll be reporting in to my father hourly—I grab my purse and phone and march out the door, sticking my head into David’s office long enough to tell him that the only thing Mark will be stapling for him is his goddamn tongue.

“So, I have a favor to ask of you . . .” I set the fancy coffee on the security desk in front of Gus.

“Whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles . . .” His brown eyes twinkle. “Must be a big favor.”

It’s quiet in the lobby for the moment, Ivan somewhere else and no one waiting to gain access to the building. Still, I lean in and drop my voice. “I saw a man in the building yesterday around lunchtime and I need his name.”

“A man.” His thick eyebrows arch curiously and I can almost see the wheels churning in his mind. Gus wasn’t impressed with my relationship with David, a truth he’s never shared out loud, but he never had to because the displeasure was plastered on his face every time David and I strolled in together.

“An old friend from summer camp. I don’t know if he works in the building or if he was visiting. Anyway, I was wondering if you could scan your entry log. I’m pretty sure it was him.” I hadn’t even thought of asking Gus until Christa, ever the quick-thinking one, mentioned checking with security.

Gus’s big brown eyes regard me curiously as he lifts the paper coffee cup to his mouth. When he pulls away, there’s a whipped cream mustache left that he doesn’t immediately wipe away.

I press my lips together to stifle my laugh.

“So what’s this friend’s name?”

“Kyle Miller.” Just saying it makes my heart leap.

“Hmm . . . Kyle Miller, from summer camp.” Gus finally wipes a napkin across his upper lip. “What does he look like?”

“Uh . . .” I try to reconcile my memories of the seventeen-year-old boy with the man I saw yesterday who, if it was Kyle, is now thirty. “About six feet tall, really fit, dark brown hair . . . and he has these pretty hazel eyes. Golden, really.”

Gus’s mouth curves in a thoughtful frown. “And was this Kyle Miller a good friend of yours?”

“Yeah.” For a while, anyway.

“Decent guy?”

“He was.” I feel my cheeks turning pink and I’m mortified. I can’t remember the last time just talking about a guy made me blush and it’s happening in front of our security guard. I need to get back upstairs and to work, like the executive I am. “So does that name sound at all familiar? Can you maybe check your computer?”

Gus’s chair creaks as he leans his girth back in it. “Don’t think I need to check the computer.”

“No . . . ?” I hold my breath as I search Gus’s face, looking for a flicker of recognition.

“Nope. ’Cause I just hired a guy named Kyle with dark hair and pretty golden eyes.”

My jaw drops as a wave of shock rushes through me. “You what?” Kyle’s going to be a security guard in my building? I’m going to see him every day?

Gus’s deep laugh carries through the cavernous lobby. “Ivan’s moving to Chicago, so I needed a new guard. Head office gave me a couple guys to choose from. I liked Kyle best. He’s in training now. Starts Monday.” Gus frowns. “Except, his last name isn’t Miller. It’s Stewart.”

Wait. “Stewart?” My frown matches his. “Maybe it’s not the same Kyle, then.” As quickly as the shock flowed through me, a wave of disappointment barrels in.

“Only one way to find out.” Gus juts his chin somewhere behind me.

I whip my head around so fast, a painful snap explodes in my neck. But I barely notice the burn of heat that follows, focused on the two uniformed men strolling side-by-side toward us. Ivan on the left.

And Kyle Stewart.

I inhale sharply.

It is my Kyle.

My stomach clenches as I watch him approach, much like it did that first time so many years ago. He’s changed so much, and yet there’s no mistaking him. He still moves with that casual, unbothered swagger. The punkish two-inch Fauxhawk has been replaced by a more mature and stylish cut, though his thick mane of chestnut-brown hair still has volume on top. He’s grown taller, surpassing me by a few inches, even in my heels.

It’s his body that has changed the most, filled out by weight and muscle in the best possible ways, his shoulders broad and strong but not bulky, his arms corded with muscle but not in an overdone way. His jaw is now hard and chiseled. His lip ring is gone, but the tattoo on his arm has grown, the ink sprawling over his forearm.

Those beautiful golden irises with rings of green, they haven’t changed a bit. And they’re locked on me.

“Oh my God! Kyle!” I burst out in a near-squeal, shocking both myself and Ivan, by the wide-eyed look he gives me. I clear my throat and add with a touch more dignity, “Long time, no see.”

“Hey.” Kyle’s chest lifts with a deep breath as he watches me evenly. He doesn’t make a move forward. Is it just surprise to see me here that holds him back?

“Seems like you already have a friend in the building,” Gus calls out.

“Looks like it . . .” A slight frown pulls his brows together. “Sarah, right?”

“What? Oh, right. Funny.” I laugh, waiting for his face to crack with a smile.

The moment drags on.

“Uh . . . Piper,” I stammer, my excitement deflating instantly. “From Camp Wawa?” You’ve got to be kidding me. I don’t look that different. And there’s no way I meant that little to him that he’s forgotten about me.

Is there?

I pause, waiting for a hint of recognition. “You know . . . turtles?” Really, Piper? Of all the things you could use to try to jog his memory . . . I peer into those eyes of his again, in search of the youthful, curious spark I remember. And realize that it’s missing.

So is the friendliness.

“Right. So . . . you work here?” he finally asks, calm and collected. Sounding every bit the stranger to me.

“Yeah. This is my company. I mean, my dad’s company, but I’ll be taking over one day.” I jab a thumb toward the “Calloway Group” emblem on the wall. Did that sound obnoxious?

Kyle’s gaze drifts to the sign. “That’s why that name seemed familiar,” he murmurs more to himself.

Oh my God. Kyle truly has forgotten me.

The disappointment that comes with that realization is staggering. That I could have meant so little to him . . . My chest aches.

Silence lingers as Kyle and I face off against each other, with Gus and Ivan an ever-attentive audience to this painfully awkward reunion.

An elevator dings and voices sound, snapping me out of my trance. “I have a meeting to get to,” I lie, feeling my face burn. Yeah, a meeting with myself, to lick my ego’s wounds. Collecting my tray of coffees from the counter, I clear my voice. “Good luck with the new job. I’m sure you’ll like working with Gus.” I don’t wait for an answer, heading for the bank of elevators, the speedy click of my heels a hollow echo. I jab at the button several times, urging it to open quickly so I can disappear.

Still, I can’t help but steal a glance back.

Ivan and Gus are discussing something on a clipboard and Kyle seems to be listening, his back to me. I’ll admit, he makes that dowdy security guard uniform look good, as if it were customized specifically for his body.

Suddenly he turns, just enough to give me his profile as he scans the newspaper sitting open on the desk.

I hold my breath, willing him to turn a bit farther, to look my way, to show me he hasn’t dismissed me from his thoughts so easily.

But his focus never strays.

When the ding sounds and my elevator doors open, I dive in, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here.