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“The Henderson file, sir,” I announce briskly as I enter his office again. He doesn’t look up from what he’s doing as I drop it on his desk. This time, instead of leaving immediately after being dismissed by Mr. Holt’s grunt, however, I hesitate as curiosity gets the better of me.
“Sir,” I start, swallowing hard to dispel any trace of nervousness in my voice. “May I ask about a client?”
Mr. Holt looks up at last. His eyebrows furrow together, and his eyes flash with annoyance.
“I suppose.” He folds his arms over his chest and leans back in the chair. “Who?”
Working up my courage to actually get the name out, I take a long, deep breath. “Parker Thompson.”
Mr. Holt’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh,” he says after a moment of awkward silence. “Parker, huh? What about him?”
“I noticed his name on a property listing,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. “One of his family’s renovations?”
Leaning back in his chair, he studies me with an arch look, and I have to struggle against the urge to squirm. "Indeed, it is. We do a lot of business with the Thompsons. They renovate, we sell. Why do you ask? I thought you were already familiar with our working relationship since Lauren got you the job here.”
I feel my cheeks heat up, and I’m suddenly grateful for the dim lighting in the room.
“Oh, we-we grew up together,” I say with a shrug. “Went to the same school. I’m just curious about what he’s been up to, that’s all. He hasn’t come around Lauren’s, so I haven’t seen him yet.”
“I see,” is all Mr. Holt says for a while. He swivels his chair slowly to face the window before turning back to me again. His gaze is penetrating, as if he is trying to read something from my face.
“It’s a Victorian,” he finally says, breaking the awkward silence. “A good neighborhood. Completely updated from the foundation to the chimney. It should do well once it’s on the market.”
It sounds lovely. I’m sure it’s gorgeous inside and out, especially if Lauren has had anything to do with its design.
“Thank you, sir,” I say. “I appreciate you answering my questions.”
When he doesn’t say another word, I awkwardly turn and hurry out of his office, my cheeks burning. Why did I have to be so nosy? I can only imagine what Mr. Holt is thinking of me now.
Reaching my desk, I sink back into my chair with a low groan. I shouldn’t have asked about Parker. I should have just squashed my curiosity and kept my mouth shut. The last thing I need is to give Mr. Holt any excuse to consider me unprofessional. I glance at the clock again and release a sigh of relief. Five o’clock. Time to head home.
The rest of the pile of paperwork can wait until tomorrow. Right now, I need a stiff drink.
***
Striding into Carl’s Pub, I head straight for the bar, my heels clicking on the smooth, wooden floor. Plopping down onto a stool, I release a long sigh and wave the bartender over.
“Chardonnay, please.” Rubbing my temples, I replay the events of the day in my head.
The bartender nods and reaches for a bottle from behind the counter, expertly pouring the liquid into a glass. He slides it towards me, flashing a sympathetic smile. I thank him and take a long sip, letting out a sigh of relief as the cool wine refreshes my dry throat.
As I sit there, nursing my drink, I can’t help but wonder what life would have been like if I hadn’t left Newport. If I’d never gone to the city to begin with. Had I been too ambitious back then? Would I have a better career now? My own home? A family, even?
I don’t know. I don’t usually like to think in what ifs, but it’s hard when I feel like I’m struggling to climb up from rock bottom.
My thoughts are interrupted by a commotion at the pub entrance. A group of people enters, their laughter echoing around the room. Among them is one face which stands out from the rest.
“Parker,” I whisper to myself, nearly choking on my wine.
He hasn’t changed much from how I remember him. He still wears his hair slicked back and a little choppy, and his hazel eyes still hold that mischievous gleam. He’s wearing a blue suit that looks tailored, and he walks with such confidence, it’s like he owns the place.
I watch as he mingles with his friends, his laughter resonating above the other voices around him. His eyes eventually land on me across the room and widen in clear surprise.
Before I can even ponder on whether to wave or pretend to be engrossed in my drink, he detaches himself from his group and strides towards me with purpose.
“Chloe?” His voice holds a note of uncertainty as he approaches the bar stool next to mine.
“Well, if it isn’t Parker Thomspon,” I say, flashing a grin as I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. “What brings you to this side of town? Looking for trouble?”
