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CHAPTER ONE
CHLOE
Acrash sounds behind me, and the bowl slips from my hands, plunging into the sudsy water. I whirl around to find Dad standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at a pool of orange juice spreading rapidly across the tiled floor. Shards of glass catch the morning light, glittering within the liquid.
“I’m sorry, love,” he says, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. “I was just trying to help.”
“It’s okay.” I keep my tone light and my features relaxed, not wanting him to feel worse than he already does. “I can clean it up.”
After quickly drying my hands, I grab a roll of paper towel off the counter and tear off a few sheets. I lay them on top of the puddle to start soaking it up, then take Dad’s arm gently and smile at him. “Let’s get you settled in your chair while I sort this out.”
As I guide him toward the small living room, I focus on taking steady breaths and make sure not to rush him, even though I can almost sense the clock ticking.
Once I’ve eased him into his chair and tucked a pillow behind his back, I help him prop his feet up on his footstool. “Are you comfortable?”
He leans back with a sigh. “I’m fine. Go on, love. I know you have a bus to catch.”
“I’ll just finish cleaning up, and then I’ll head out.”
In the kitchen, I dig out a plastic bag from under the sink and gingerly pick up the shards of glass. Then I mop up the rest of the juice, wash my hands, and check that the mess didn’t transfer to my cream-colored blouse. A relieved breath escapes me when I don’t see any. Thank god. I really don’t have time to change.
I gather my phone and keys and dump them in my purse, then fill a glass of water and take it to Dad.
“Thank you.” He takes it with stiff fingers, giving me a smile that looks more like a grimace.
My heart pangs as he carefully brings it to his mouth for a sip before shakily placing it on the table next to him.
I confirm that he has easy access to his library book and move the TV remote closer. “I’ve got to go now. Susan should be by in a little while to check on you.”
He mumbles something probably unflattering under his breath, and I hide my smile. Our neighbor, Susan, isn’t the friendliest of women. But I pay her to drop in a few times a day to make sure Dad’s okay while I’m at work. It’s not the ideal situation, since the two of them aren’t exactly the best of friends, but it’s all we can afford right now.
I brush his thinning hair back from his forehead, noting how much gray has taken over the once blond strands, then bend down and press a kiss to the top of his head. “Love you.”
The scents of soap and shampoo instead of the familiar paint and turpentine send a sudden surge of homesickness through me. Is it possible to be homesick for a smell?
The slightly disgruntled expression he wore after my mention of Susan softens, affection seeping through. “Love you too, sweet pea.” He squeezes my hand weakly, the strength in his grip barely there. “Go on, then. I don’t want you to be late.”
I look at my watch and suppress a grimace. “Okay. Have a good day.” After grabbing my bag, I cast one more look at him over my shoulder, then hurry to the door.
As always, on my way out, I brush my fingers against the frame of the large painting that hangs in our hallway. It’s a beautiful depiction of Manhattan at dawn, when the mist is giving way to the soft light of a new day. It’s my favorite of Dad’s works, which is why he’s never sold it.
With another glance at my watch, I rush out of the apartment. After taking the stairs as quickly as I can, I speed walk to the bus stop, praying I make it on time. I swear Geoff is looking for an excuse to let me go, but I need this job. And I’m good at it, even if I don’t love it.
As I round the corner, the bus pulls away from the curb. I rush to the stop, waving frantically, but the driver doesn’t even glance my way. Swearing under my breath, I pull my tote bag against my stomach and brace myself to wait.
All I need now is for the sky to open up. Head tilted back, I survey the threatening gray of the clouds overhead and mentally cross my fingers that it holds off, just for a little while.
Miraculously, I’m perfectly dry, if a little frazzled, as I dart out of the office elevator thirty minutes later. I throw myself into my chair, hoping Geoff hasn’t made it in yet. At a quarter past nine, there’s still a chance, since this is about the time he usually strolls in. He likes me to be here before him. Probably because it gives him some kind of executive high to strut past my desk and toss out his daily coffee order like I exist solely to cater to his caffeine needs.
Unfortunately, I’ve just logged in to my computer and started sorting through my inbox when his door opens and he saunters out, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face.
“Glad to see you finally made it.”
Considering I was less than twenty minutes late, and I’m almost always on time, his comment is unwarranted. But I grit my teeth and force a smile to my lips. “I’m sorry, Mr. Clarkson. I had to?—”
He waves dismissively. “I don’t need excuses. I need you to do the job I pay you for.”
I bite back the urge to remind him that the job he pays me for doesn’t include being cornered in the copy room so he can proposition me—but that didn’t stop him.