The Contract (The Contract 1)

“Christ, I’m getting old,” I grumbled. “Reading glasses.”

She laughed. “Yes, thirty-two is ancient. You’ll be fine. I’m sure you’ll make them look good.”

I quirked my eyebrow at her. “Oh yeah? Are you saying I’ll look even sexier wearing glasses?”

“I’m saying nothing. Your ego is big enough. Dinner is in the kitchen if you want it.”

With a snicker, I switched off the light, following her to the kitchen, still wary. Some of my clearest memories of my childhood were of my parents’ constant disagreements. My mother was like a dog with a bone, refusing to give an inch. She would harp away at my father who would eventually explode. I was worried Katharine would attempt to pick up the threads of our earlier conversation, but she said nothing. Instead, as we were eating she slid a paint chip my way.

“What do you think?”

I studied the greenish color. “A bit feminine for my taste.”

“It’s for my room.”

“If you like it, then go for it.”

She slid another one to me, and I picked it up. The deep claret hue was strong and vibrant. I liked it. “For?”

“I thought the wall around the fireplace. To anchor the room.”

Anchor the room? What the hell did that mean?

“Just the one wall?”

“I thought I’d paint the others a deep cream.”

I could live with that. “Fine.”

A swatch of material appeared next. It was tweed with the same claret color woven in it and the deep brown of the sofas. “What is this for?”

“A couple chairs for the room.”

“I like my furniture.”

“I do, too. It’s quite comfortable. I thought I would add to it; change it up a little. They would look nice by the fireplace.”

“What else?”

“A few pillows, some other touches. Nothing major.”

“No frills or girly shit out here. Do what you want in your room.”

She grinned. “No girly shit. I promise.”

“Who is doing the painting?”

“What?”

“Who did you hire?”

“I’m doing it.”

“No.”

“Why?”

I turned in my chair, indicating the vast space. “These walls are twelve feet tall, Katharine. I don’t want you on a ladder.”

“My room has regular height ceilings. I like to paint. Penny and I did it together, and I’m pretty good at it.”

I tapped the top of the counter with one of the paint chips. How could I make her understand she didn’t have to do these things anymore? I kept my voice patient as I tried again. “You don’t have to paint it. I’ll pay to have it done.”

“But I like doing it. I’ll be careful.”

“I’ll make you a deal. Paint your room, and we’ll discuss this one when it’s time.”

“Okay.”

Another swatch of material caught my eye. Leaning over, I picked it up, fingering the thickness of the weave. Bold navy and brilliant green plaid woven on a rich background. I held it up, studying it. It didn’t look like something for either room.

“Do you like that?”

“I do. It’s striking. What’s it for?”

She looked down at the table, color bleeding and gathering under her skin.

“What?”

“I thought maybe you might want your room done when I finished the others. I saw it and it reminded me of you.”

“I look like plaid?”

“No,” she answered with a small laugh. “The colors, they’re like your eyes. The green and the blue mixing together—such an amazing combination.”

I had no response, but for some reason, I felt as if I was the one blushing now. I pushed the swatch her way and stood. “We’ll see how the rest comes out. Anything else?”

“I, ah, I need to move my clothes in the closet. I don’t want paint getting on them.”

“My closet is massive. I don’t even use half of it. Hang your stuff in there. There are some really high rods—your dresses can go there.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“It’s fine.”

“Thank you.”

I inclined my head and went back to the den. I mulled over the conversation in my head, chuckling when I realized how domestic the whole thing seemed. Discussing paint chips and material over dinner with my wife. I should have hated it.

Yet, somehow, I didn’t.Thunder rolled, and the clouds hung low and heavy overhead. I turned my chair, gazing outside into the darkened skies of the late afternoon. Grimacing, I rubbed the back of my neck, recognizing the telltale signs of a headache. They were rare, but I knew the beginnings of them well—the unexpected storm the determining factor.

The office was calm that afternoon, the usual hum of activity absent. Adrian had left on a last-minute business trip, Adam was with clients, and Jenna was out of the office. Graham had whisked Laura away for a surprise weekend, and the rest of the staff was busy within their own spaces.

In the time I had been at The Gavin Group, I discovered a completely new atmosphere in the business world. The energy was still high, the place buzzed with voices, meetings, and strategies, but it was a different sort of energy than had been at Anderson Inc. It was positive, almost nurturing. As Graham told me, they worked together as a team: administrators, PAs, designers—everyone was involved and treated equally. Amy was as important of an asset as I was. It took some getting used to, but I was beginning to acclimate myself.