“Ah, fuck all. And yourself?” I answer him, pocketing both hands once we let go from our firm handshake.
Cormac flashes a grin of overcrowded teeth. “Well, you’re in one piece. I trust the move was plain sailing?”
Close enough.
“Let’s call it survivable,” I say, selecting my words wisely.
He barks out a laugh, then tosses an arm around my shoulders. “Let me tell you, Declan. We’re chuffed to have you. Me and Taylor hand-selected you ourselves. We knew you couldhandle this role. Said if anybody’s gonna smash it to bits, it’d be Keating with his smart mouth and bollocks the size of boulders.”
We walk the rest of the way down the corridor, reaching the executives’ elevator. Cormac is busy banging on about all the perks I’ll be offered as Managing Director.
“You ever had the A5 Kobe at Hotstone?” Cormac asks, fingers pinched in the universal chef’s kiss gesture. “Bloody orgasmic, mate! You’ll come in your pants. Melts in your fucking mouth it’s so bloody good. And you’ve got a standing reservation now, compliments of Halberd.”
I’ve half a mind to ask if a bite of cow really has him blowing his load, but he moves onto the next perk.
Halberd’s Executive-level Sauna Club.
“You haven’t lived ’til you’ve sat arse-out in the company sauna with a client who signs seven-figure deals while exfoliating,” Cormac boasts. “And the towels? Egyptian. They have you feeling like bloody Cleopatra.”
“Ah, yes. Just what my life was missing. Stewing in a steam box with naked strangers.”
“You laugh now… but give it a week. You’ll be swearing by it like the rest of us sweaty bastards.”
The elevator dings and we finally make it to our floor.
It’s exactly what you’d expect out of a company like Halberd—polished chrome and glass with matte-black fixtures and soft lighting.
Everything’s curated like it’s for a fucking social media feed. I half expect some twenty-something-year-old girl to jump out and snap a photo for Instagram.
Cormac shows me to my office, a room triple the size of my last one. It’s empty except for the sleek desk and executive chair stationed by the large window.
The view of the Thames River is impressive. I’ll give them that.
Cormac leaves me to get situated. I switch on my computer and start unpacking the few things I’ve brought in my satchel, items like framed photographs of Amerie and the kids.
My phone buzzes in my trouser pocket. I check what the notification could be and see it’s the alert for Amerie’s glucose monitor.
LOW GLUOSE ALERT - 62
“Fucking hell,” I curse under my breath. I bring up Amerie’s name and select the call button. It rings several times before sending me to voicemail, her sweet voice coming on to tell me to leave a message. I hang up and try a message instead.
According to your glucose monitor, you’re trying to die again. Confirm or deny?
I send the cheeky message through, finding myself staring at the screen for a response that doesn’t come.
I know you hate me hovering… but I’m not sitting on this all day. Let me know you’re okay.
Cormac had mentioned a corporate meeting at the start of the hour, but I’m quickly losing track of time. My pulse has elevated as dread fills me and thoughts about how far away I am pollute my mind.
This is exactly why I’d waffled on taking the job. Being an hour away wasn’t just inconvenient—it was reckless, knowing how Amerie pushes herself.
She’s the most brilliant woman I’ve ever known, and the worst when it comes to putting herself first. Two kids, a house to manage, her health troubles, and a looming book deadline.
And yet she still insists she’s fine. She never stops. Not even long enough to eat.
I’m half a second from jumping on a bloody train back to Rosethorne when my phone starts buzzing in my hand.
She’s calling me back.
