Page 15 of More than Fiction (Misty Springs #1)

Corbin

My flight to New York arrived early enough that I decided to have my driver, Eddie—who was blissfully quieter than Hank—take me to the office.

Buescher Enterprises occupied two sprawling levels of a high-rise in Midtown, with an unencumbered view of the city that never slept—always moving, always flashing, always demanding.

I liked coming in on the weekend. The usually frantic space—the constant hum of phones, the chorus of conversation spilling over cubicle walls—was silent, unlike the vibrant city below.

During the workweek, it was chaos, various pop-ins from department heads who seemed more concerned with posturing than with actual business-critical items. My associates—loosely labeled as friends—Davis and Sullivan, never failed to interrupt me with stories of weekend conquests or cleverly hurled jabs.

But on weekends? The space was mine.

No distractions. No interruptions.

Just me and the silence, a blank slate to focus.

Or at least, that’s how it was supposed to be.

I sat at my desk, fingers poised over my keyboard, staring out the massive window as the sun sank lower on the horizon.

Instead of diving into emails or strategies, my mind jumped between thoughts of antiquated keys, weird themed dishes, Tinder profiles, and a gossipy taxi driver winding through picturesque streets.

But the truly invasive thoughts, the ones that kept coming back, no matter how many times I tried to forget them, were of tight shorts, eyes that lured me in, and lips I ached to taste.

I forced myself to refocus, pulling up the latest quarterly reports .

Numbers. Projections. Market trends.

Things I could control.

But even as I clicked through the spreadsheets, her voice, her lips, and the desire swimming in her deep blue eyes played on a loop in my mind.

“What are you doing here?” a voice boomed, shattering the silent air and stilling my thoughts.

I looked up to find Davis leaning casually against the doorframe.

Arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in silent challenge.

Gone was his usual Tom Ford suit, replaced by something deceptively unassuming—black slacks and a gray pullover.

But nothing about Davis was casual. Even dressed down, everything about him was deliberate, an opportunity to flaunt his status.

I leaned back in my chair, feigning ease despite his presence, which felt both a relief and a challenge. “I should ask you the same thing.”

“Well, considering you just left yesterday for your new assignment ,” he drawled, “I’m going to lob that question back to you.”

Most things with Davis were a test, a constant chess game of calculation. Just because I’d known him for years and called him a friend didn’t mean I could give him any ammunition.

“I just needed to lay eyes on the space. I don’t expect it to take long to launch, this isn’t my first rodeo. Besides, I couldn’t stay in that crap town all weekend.”

A damn charming crap town. I thought bitterly to myself.

Davis chuckled as he eased off the doorframe, rubbing a hand over the close buzz of his dark hair. No frills, no fluff—just sharp.

“Speaking of rodeo, I half expected you to be wearing a cowboy hat and chaps, saying howdy when you returned.”

“You think all small towns are synonymous with cowboy culture?” I asked, grabbing a nearby pen and tapping it softly on my desk.

“I reckon.” Davis fake-tipped an invisible hat. “Since you’re here, are you coming to The Loft tonight?”

The Loft was owned by Emilia Augustin, an effortlessly glamorous second-generation Austrian jeweler whose wealth was the stuff of urban legend.

She had purchased the entire top floor of a mid-rise apartment building off Fifth Avenue, converting it into a sprawling expanse of opulence designed for entertaining.

The place was part luxury penthouse, part exclusive club.

Every Saturday, like clockwork, she hosted extravagant soirées that rivaled the best events in the city.

Davis leaned against my polished desk, and I considered the night ahead. The fatigue from a restless and sleepless night tugged at me, but a part of me still felt disarmed from my excursion to Misty Springs. Maybe a night out at The Loft was precisely what I needed.

"Sure," I said reluctantly, rubbing the back of my neck. "I’m in. I’ve got dinner with Buzz and Toni first, though. Meet you there?"

"Deal." Davis nodded, a flicker of a smile crossing his face as he turned to leave.

He turned back halfway, his dark eyes appearing soft with concern, a look he didn’t wear often. “How is your grandmother? I haven’t heard anything in a while. Buzz never talks about it.”

I swallowed hard, the question hitting me like a sucker punch. "She’s... not doing great. Doctors think it’ll be less than a year.”

The words tasted bitter.

Toni—or Antoinette Jones-Buescher, as the world knew her, was diagnosed with cancer just over a year ago. It was inoperable, and she’d refused chemo—claiming it wasn’t worth the fight.

The treatment would’ve wrecked her body, made her miserable, and bought her, at best, a few extra months. She’d chosen quality over quantity—a decision I respected but hated at the same time.

The last time I visited her, she looked so different—frail.

Her once-vibrant presence seemed faded. It was a gutting contrast to the woman who had tamed a rowdy, self-made businessman like Buzz Buescher and turned him into a devoted husband—the strong, commanding matriarch who stepped in and raised me.

Davis nodded solemnly. For all his posturing, seeing Gram’s illness was hard on him, too.

Buzz may run this place with an iron fist, but Toni was the heart of this company—the maternal figure whose nurturing presence had touched everyone within these walls.

"I’ll see you tonight, then.” Davis left abruptly, his footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving me drowning in more thoughts than I’d started with .

I stared at the door, as if waiting for answers that weren’t coming, then shook my head to clear the fog. I glanced at my watch—one hour before my driver would be here to pick me up.

Cracking my knuckles, I returned to my laptop, focusing on the familiar.

Work. Numbers. Strategy. The comforting, methodical rhythm of checking off my to-do list.

This was what I knew. This was where I thrived.

Women? New surroundings? Love? Loss?

Those were chaotic, messy things, full of unknowns and pitfalls.

But this ?

This, I could control.