“How was your day off?” She took a sip of coffee, and stepped into the elevator.
“Good.”
“Do anything special?” Okay, she was fishing. She had spent all of yesterday obsessing over how Tyler and his probable significant other were spending their day.
“No.” And there went the arms, folding across his chest, as he tilted his head back to watch the floor numbers tick by.
“Great,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Hugh arrived home quite late last night. And it’s official, he and New Guy—uh, Stephen—are officially a couple.”
No response.
“They went to frikken Paris. Can you believe that? My unromantic big brother gets to spend a steamy weekend in Paris with his new boyfriend, and I get felt up by a rando drunk guy in Soho. So unfair.”
His jaw twitched but still nothing.
Vicki sighed and folded her arms over her chest. An unintentional imitation of his stance. But their reflection on the mirrored doors told her that the gesture looked defensive rather than badass on her.
The lift dinged, and the doors glided open.
Tyler’s arms came down, and his stance opened up as he went on immediate alert. She had seen him go from seemingly relaxed to battle-ready more times than she could count, and it still disconcerted her. His left arm swept out in front of her, halting any forward movement, until he moved the bulk of his body out of the lift to make his usual quick perusal around the foyer of the building.
He shifted slightly, and his arm lowered, granting her permission to proceed. He did this often—a subtle shift of his body, a touch on her arm, or a press to the small of her back—non-verbal cues that she was so familiar with, she followed them unconsciously and without question. She hadn’t realized until now how in synch she’d become with his moods, how attuned to his every movement. It was a dance they did every day, and she’d learned the choreography without even being aware that he was teaching her.
Ty’s hand dropped to the small of Vicki’s back, and she barely had time to wave at Frank, the morning guard at the front desk. Or greet Simon Atwell, the porter, who hastened to open the door for them.
There was an odd exchange between Tyler and Simon, a dismissive jeering sound from the former and a sneer from the latter. Vicki hadn’t noticed any kind of personal interaction between the two men before and wondered what that was all about.
“Morning, Miss Hollingsworth,” Simon greeted with an urbane bow as she and Tyler swept by him.
“Morning, Simon,” she rushed to reply, before Tyler hustled her into the backseat of the waiting Mercedes.
Tyler curtly nodded at the valet, and deposited a bill into the young man’s hand, before climbing into the driver’s seat.
“Seatbelt,” he commanded her tersely, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror.
“All buckled up,” she informed him, and his eyebrows shot up. It was the first time she had managed to get it done before his inevitable reminder, and she felt somewhat smug about that. Usually, his impatient prompt interrupted her while she faffed around with her bag, or adjusted the headrest, or touched up her lipstick.
He grunted and easily slid the car into morning traffic. They could get to her shop—Bloomin’ Paradise—a lot faster if they took public transportation, but Tyler claimed there were too many variables to consider. And Miles had naturally backed him up on that.
So now she took the extra commute time to catch up with her family. In the beginning, she had attempted to converse with Tyler, but he hadn’t proven to be very forthcoming, so she rarely bothered anymore.
She checked to see if her mum or Miles were online. They’d both relocated to the Western Cape in South Africa last year. Miles had fallen in love with their former housekeeper, Charity. And their mum had fallen hard for Miles’s driver, George Clark. Both couples were now blissfully co-habiting in separate homes.
Vicki was happy for her mother and brother, but she missed them both so much.
Her mum was online. Even though South Africa was an hour ahead of London, Miles was rarely available in the mornings.
She lifted her phone and FaceTimed her mother. The older woman answered almost immediately.
“Hello, my love! How are you? How was your weekend?” Her mother was wearing rollers in her too-black hair, and her face was bare of make-up. She was in her favorite baroque print housecoat.
Everything about Enid Hollingsworth was bold and brassy and confident. And Vicki adored her.
“Hi, Mum, I’m fine. Had a lovely night out with Bells on Saturday. Hit a few pubs, did some dancing—” Okay, was that a snort from the driver? She glared at his impassive profile, but he kept his eyes forward, not acknowledging her in any way. She wondered if she’d imagined that scoffing sound and refocused her attention on her mother. “And I had a relaxing day at home yesterday.”