I kissed him again, before pulling back with a smile.
“Chocolate.”
He tilted up my chin.
“Can’t beat the classics...”
We were about to come together again, when there was a sharp knock on the door. Nick dropped his hand, and the two of us stared toward the elevator in alarm.
“Who the hell is that?” Nick’s eyes shot to the clock. “Is it noon already?”
I took a step back with a sigh. I had met Harold Oates on several occasions before, under several sets of increasingly stressful circumstances. I was not eager to see him now.
“Yeah...it’s noon.”
We gazed at the door for a second longer, before Nick squeezed my hand again with a fresh burst of determination. “Hey—it’s going to be fine, alright? You and me. Say it back.”
I forced my lips up into a tight smile.
“You and me.”
He winked.
“That’s the spirit.”
With that, he left to go and get the door, while I collapsed back onto the sofa feeling like I was about two seconds away from a full on meltdown.
You and me, huh?
A sharp voice echoed down the halls, and I closed my eyes with a grimace.
I was afraid it was going to take more than a hopeful ‘you and me’ to weather a man like Harold Oates.
Chapter 3
HAROLD MILDRED WINSTON Bartholomew Oates the Third (no, I’m not kidding) had been with the Hunter family longer than Nick had been with it himself. He had been hired by Mitchell back when the two of them were still considered ‘young men,’ and so great was his influence, that when Nick’s mother went into labor—he was her first phone call. Not her then-husband.
You could see him in the background of a million family photos—lurking like the ghost of parliaments past. From baptisms to baseball games. Birthdays to graduations. He was there for them all. Unsmiling. Unflinching. Unyielding. An emotionless, inflectionless statue with severe posture, impeccable tailoring, and a renowned abhorrence for all members of the working class.
Oh—and he was also British. This was a fact he would take great care to remind you at least three times over the course of every conversation.
“Well speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Abby,” Nick called, as he led our new taskmaster into the living room, “of course you remember Harold.”
He and his father were the only people in the world granted the privilege of calling the man by his first name. Everyone else—myself included—were demoted on principle.
“Mr. Oates.” I stood up with a forced smile and extended my hand. “It’s a pleasure as always. Thank you so much for coming on such short notice.”
He looked as immaculate as ever. Three piece suit. Gray hair slicked back to perfection. I even spotted the chain of a pocket watch in his inner jacket pocket.
“It’s Sir Oates, actually.” His eyes swept me up and down with their usual disdain. “And I must say, I wasn’t given much of a choice in the matter. It seems you children got yourselves in a spot of trouble...”
He pursed his lips indulgently at Nick, then pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief as he turned back to me. Before I could even register the pretentious embroidery, he used it to wipe clean my peasant hand before deigning to shake.
My jaw dropped open in disbelief. Nick flashed me a twinkling smile.
> “Harold,” he clapped the man lightly on the shoulder, gesturing for him to take a seat on the plush sofa, “I’m afraid we need your help.”
“I’m afraid you do as well.” He settled himself graciously down, taking up the precise amount of room so that Nick was able to sit beside him, but I was not. “Caught by a camera having yet another roll in the hay?” He gave Nick a conspiratorial wink. “You naughty boy.”