Chapter 29 The Wrong Man
SCARLETT
"Kieran... It's so beautiful," I coo in admiration, stepping out onto the open terrace.
The top floor of Haven Hotels is private and intimate. Kieran rented the entire level for the night.
We can do whatever we want for as long as we want, and we'd have our privacy.
Kieran smiles, leading me to the candlelit table for two where a bottle of vintage Bordeaux waits in an ice bucket beside two crystal glasses. "This is the least of what I have planned for you... for us."
I stop for a minute to admire the breathtaking view.
I've been in New York for five years and never have I seen the city like this—high enough to feel like I'm floating above it, sprawling below like a sea of stars.
Kieran pulls out my chair for me, and I sit, smoothing my simple red dress over my thighs.
He pours the wine, and we clink glasses.
The first sip warms me from the inside. I let out a small, contented sigh.
"So… how's work been?" Kieran begins lightly, "Still surviving the terrifying Moore?"
I laugh. "He was in London for a few days last week. I have a feeling he'll be there again soon." I take another sip of my wine. "It was… peaceful in his absence,"
Kieran's eyes sharpen a little. "London. Does this have to do with his mother?"
I nod. "Yes. I heard she's ill." I pause briefly. "How'd you know about his mother?"
He smiles a little. "Lawrence and I have a bit of history."
I stare at him curiously. "What sort of history?"
"I once helped his mother."
"Oh."
He rings a small silver bell on the table, and a waiter appears almost instantly from the terrace doors, wheeling in a second cart laden with covered dishes.
We both watch him arrange the plates, adjust the candles, and refill our water glasses. When he's done, he bows slightly and retreats as quietly as he came, leaving us alone again.
Kieran unfolds his napkin with a flourish and drapes it across his lap.
"So," he says, casually but curiously, "when he's away in London, you basically run the place?"
I shrug, lifting the silver dome off my plate to see a perfect mound of fragrant Chinese fried rice garnished with shrimp and scallops.
It smells delicious.
"Well, not exactly," I say, picking up my fork. "I just keep things organised. Handle his calendar, prep his briefings, make sure nothing explodes while he's gone… that sort of thing," I take a spoonful of the rice and nearly moan in delight. "But the real decisions are still his."
Kieran smirks, cutting into his own dish—grilled sea bass with some kind of citrus glaze. "Same thing as running the place, honey."
"It's part of the job," I say dryly.
"You have no idea how much power you hold, babygirl."
I bite into my shrimp. "It's just admin work. Anyone could do it if they survived a week with him."
"Anyone?" He raises an eyebrow. "I doubt that. He's not exactly known for being easy to work with."
"True."
"Knowing Lawrence, I'm surprised he hasn't already had you replaced. He's very picky." Kieran continues, taking a sip of his wine. "You must be quite special."
My heart skips a beat. "I'm good at my job," I mutter. "That's all."
He nods, turning his attention to his food. "He's so closed off, you know… like a machine. Sometimes I wonder if he lets anyone in. Someone to tell his secrets…"
"Kieran," I interrupt softly. "Can we please stop talking about my boss?"
He lets out a low laugh. "Forgive me. I got carried away." He reaches across the small table and takes my hand. "What's your favourite place in the city?"
I shake my head, pulling my hand back gently to reach for my water instead.
"No, that's enough about me. Tell me about your childhood."
"Okay." Kieran leans back in his chair, smiling. "I grew up in Boston."
"Are you serious?" I ask rhetorically in surprise. "I never would've guessed. Did you lose the accent completely?"
"No, miss, I did not," he says suddenly in a thick, exaggerated British accent, complete with a posh little head tilt.
I burst out laughing. "Oh, my god."
His grin widens.
"I've always wanted a British accent," I say. "But sadly, I don't have one. And my impression of it is terrible."
"Let me hear it."
"Oh, heck no."
"Come on." He lightly bangs his fist on the table, playfully. "I won't let you off the hook until I hear it."
"Fine. Fine." I give in, still giggling. I clear my throat dramatically, sit up straighter, and attempt the worst British accent imaginable. It's high-pitched and over-enunciated, with all wrong vowels.
"Cheerio, old chap! Fancy a spot of tea and some crumpets, eh wot?"
Kieran bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. "Absolutely pathetic."
"See why I didn't want you to hear it?" I say, my cheeks flaming from the embarrassment.
"Alright, alright, I'm sorry for laughing." He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, still grinning. "You did great, though. Truly. Oscar-worthy."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling.
We talk about other things.
Kieran tells me about the pressure of his family name, how he started his company, Black Forge, because he hated being handed everything.
In the middle of telling him about the first time I realised I loved organising chaos, Kieran suddenly stands.
He leaves his side of the table, rounds the candlelit setup, and stops in front of me.
I look up at him, wondering what he's doing, when he takes my hand and gently pulls me up from the chair.
"Kieran,"
He kisses me, his palms cupping my face.
I close my eyes and kiss him back.
It's a tender, affectionate, sweet kiss.
But it doesn't make me melt.
It's off.
I'm not consumed by it.
My heart doesn't stutter.
There's no rush of heat, no feeling like the rest of the world just disappeared.
It's merely nice. And nice isn't enough.
Kieran's hands slide down to my waist, the other threading into my hair.
He moans softly into my mouth, and I try to match him. I try to lose myself in it… to feel what I'm supposed to feel.
But I don't.
Suddenly, the terrace doors fly open with a loud bang, causing us to break apart, and Lawrence storms in.
He's still wearing his shirt and waistcoat from earlier today, meaning he hasn't gone home to change or clean up since the office games.
There's still glitter caught in his shirt and along his collar. His sleeves are roughly rolled up, his hair tousled.
The more I study him, the more I know something is wrong. I've never seen Lawrence look this un-put-together (if that's a word)
He looks like he ran straight from the Law and Moore building. And he's staring at Kieran like he wants to tear him apart with his bare hands.
"Get away from him, Scarlett," he growls, his eyes furious as he stalks toward us.
"I beg your pardon?" I hiss furiously, stepping out of Kieran's arms.
"He's not who you think he is," he says.
"Lawrence, let this be the last time you interfere in my private life!" I exclaim in anger and humiliation.