Page 1 of I Almost Do

That's My Girl

Clarissa

Present Day

In almost two and a half years of marriage, I’ve never been to my husband’s apartment here in the city. And I have never been inside James’s office in the gleaming high-rise that boasts my maiden name in polished letters twenty feet tall.

I stand on the sidewalk, craning my neck to look up, and up. As if I can somehow peer through concrete and steel to see what kind of reception I’ll get. I rub sweaty palms on my pencil skirt and let the sea of pedestrians flow around me. I’m a boulder in a current, but I vibrate with a combination of nerves and hopeful excitement.

I wonder how he’ll react when he sees the paperwork I’ve brought with me. I wonder if he’ll smile and hold his arms out for a hug or if he’ll give me that cold, hard stare he reserves for people he wants to step back in line.

Maybe he’ll just give me that slow shake of his head and flat-out refuse. James has never been afraid to let “No” act as a complete sentence.

Maybe he won’t be here at all, off on one of his international business meetings.

Wouldn’t that be a kick in the pants after all my planning? To have simply forgotten to confirm that he’d be here today?

I didn’t try to go to his penthouse first. Security would never have let me in. They don’t know me from Eve.

But I’m counting on some of the same security officers being here at the office frombefore. Before I married my dad’s CFO. Before my father died. Back when I was a freckle-faced teenager who sprawled in her dad’s office after school, doing homework, scrolling IG, and waiting until he was ready to take me home.

I’ve spent a lot of time waiting, but we’re finally done.

I push through the revolving doors into the echoing space of the foyer. Directly in front, beyond a wide expanse of marble floors, a double staircase of glass and steel looms. To the sides, groupings of modern furniture cluster, all hard lines and symmetry. The effect is softened by washes of warm light and living greenery. Soft music plays in the background. The air smells subtly expensive.

I asked my father about that once. Why some buildings, like ours, smell wonderful all the time. He told me small things matter. Visitors might not actively notice the way The Harcourt Tower smells, but they often act on their subconscious feelings and impressions without even realizing it.

For a while I thought there was a single employee traipsing from floor to floor, hiding until no one was watching, then stealth spritzing perfume around like some kind of smell ninja.

I was a little disappointed to learn the scent was pumped through the vents.

Of course, I was six at the time. Now I’m an adult. And everything has changed.

The structure of the building is the same, but the furniture, the huge curving front desk, the names on the sign next to the elevators, and yes, even the smell of the place are subtly different.

“Well, now! Here comes trouble!”

Ah, yes, that old joke. I’d never been “trouble.” Once upon a time, I was the most docile, easy-to-please girl in the world. Until I wasn’t.

I turn with a huge smile for my favorite security guard, Tony Moretti. His hair is now solidly gray, not the salt-and-pepper I remember.

“Mr. Moretti, are you working hard or hardly working?”

His eyes twinkle. “You know how it is. Have to keep Eleanor in dogs and oil paint.”

He takes me in with that Proud Papa grin and says, “You sure are a sight for sore eyes. You haven’t been back in a long time.”

I give him a hug. “Too long. I don’t have a key card for the elevator.” I nod at the gleaming silver doors. “Care to do the honors?”

He shoots a glance at the reception desk. I know what he’s thinking. I’m supposed to sign in. They’ll call up for permission and give me a temporary keyed ID.

I bump him with my shoulder. “I want to surprise my husband.”

That’s the idea, anyway.

I see the quick calculations going on behind his eyes before he throws in the towel. I am Marcus Harcourt’s daughter and James Mellinger’s wife, after all.

He swipes his card.

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