Page 21 of If You Stayed

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The following Monday, I waited at the bakery. Kierra never arrived. I did my best to keep busy. Ramona was still giving me the cold shoulder, but I didn’t mind. If she got her work done, I couldn’t care less about how cold her shoulder was. At least that would’ve been true if Ramona wasn’t half human, half pain in my ass.

“I made you an afternoon tea,” Ramona mentioned, walking into my office. As she set it down, she spilled it over my desk, making me leap up from my chair. I hurriedly gathered the paperwork in front of me, trying to save all I could from the spill.

“Shit, Ramona!” I yipped, snatching up my phone, which was now dripping in tea. “What are you doing? I don’t even drink tea.”

“Oh? You don’t?” she sarcastically asked. “I guess it turns out that I don’t know who you are at all, Mr. Sinclair.”

I groaned.

Well, well, well, will you look at that.

The consequences of my own actions.

“Ramona,” I started.

“Yes, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Why are you calling me Mr. Sinclair?”

“Because I figured calling you ‘dick’ would inappropriate. Almost as inappropriate as you tongue fucking me one weekend and ghosting me the next.”

I blinked at her a few times before nodding. “All right. Mr. Sinclair it is.”

“Oh, fuck off, Gabriel.” She huffed as she turned on her heels and stomped out of my office.

I stared down at the mess on my desk and couldn’t help but blame myself. I was somewhat shocked that Ramona didn’t go with her normal “I was so wasted I can’t remember anything from the night before” routine, but then again if she had gone that route, she wouldn’t have been able to gloat to all the other employees about attending one of Henry Hughes’s parties. It was like she’d tossed a coin on which one mattered more in the moment, and the party of a century was where she’d landed. Which meant I’d receive spilled tea and Ramona’s attitude.

After heading to the kitchen, I grabbed some paper towels and went back to my office to clean up the results of that woman’s scorn.

“Maybe you’ll learn to listen to your mother when she tells you not to mix work with pleasure,” I heard as I wiped up the last of the spill. I looked up to find my mother standing therewith a wicked I-told-you-so smirk on her face. Despite her petite figure, she still made me feel like a damn kid when she looked at me like that.

Mom worked for me at GS Architecture. She had been our office manager for the past five years. I told her she should enjoy retirement since she’d been working her whole life. I also told her that she’d never again have to worry about money, seeing how lucky I’d been with my business. The amount of success I’d found over the years was remarkable, and I knew I wouldn’t have had said success without my mom standing in my corner through some of the darkest periods of my life.

If I was successful, she was successful. Easy as that.

Still, she was a hard worker. She wasn’t one to take a handout, so when she said she still wanted to work, it seemed only right to create a position in my office for her. Office manager seemed fitting since how Mom was a professional at managing all things—including me.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” I said as I laid out my paperwork to dry. Luckily, none of my blueprints had been out for Ramona to ruin.

Mom shook her head. “You cannot think I’m that naive. I know you and Ramona hooked up.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because Ramona has a terrible time hiding her emotions. I might be old, but I can still put two and two together.” She took a seat across from my desk. “How was the event last night?”

“Interesting, to say the least. Henry Hughes is just what you would imagine him to be.”

“Somewhat of a show-off?” she asked.

“Exactly. Everything’s an event to him.” I pulled out my phone. “He had us take photographs in front of the plot where we’re building. He said it was a good way to manifest his ideal property. Then, he told me a story about how he’d once seen a polar bear while hiking in Alaska.” I turned my phone to show Mom the pictures. The moment she saw them, the small smile on her face faded.

“Who’s that beside him?” she asked. “She looks familiar, but I can’t quite place it.”

“I thought the same thing. It’s his wife, Kierra. It turns out she frequents Florence Bakery. I bet you’ve crossed her path there, too.”

She sat back, still staring at the photograph as if she’d just witnessed a ghost. Then she gave herself a slight shake. “Maybe that’s it.” She handed the phone back to me and smiled once more. “Henry Hughes always seemed like the type to lie about seeing polar bears. Everyone in my book club has at least one of his gadgets in their houses, too. They talk about him as if he’s some kind of saint. When I told them you were designing his home and you’d be going to one of his parties, they all gasped as if they’d fallen into an orgasmic state.”

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