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“I didn’t think you’d notice.”
“I noticed.”
I smile at Daniel, stretching back in the leather chair.
Our headquarters is modern, a design we purposely selected to mimic our forward-thinking philosophy. We moved our headquarters five years ago, after we realized we needed new space for our growing in-house production—casemaking, components production, finishing, post-production—as well as all our support staff. There wasn’t room in Geneva’s city center, and the building Abry was always housed in was an old five-story building on the bank of the Rhône with manufacturing partitioned around the city. When my dad and grandad ran Abry, everyone was headquartered in those old stone buildings. There were large windows with light that shone over work desks, tinkling bells heralding the tea-service cart, and gifts of ham to every employee at Christmas. It was a different time.
Now we have sleek leather chairs, cream marble floors, a six-story lobby with a giant glass entrance, and bronze wheels and springs and pinions decorating the white walls next to a ten-foot replica of the Chronomachen.
It’s not quite as cozy as the old stone building that housed our family for more than a century. But we’ve stayed in business and we’re still moving forward.
“I’m keeping busy,” I tell Daniel, swallowing the last of the coffee. I can already feel a buzz flowing through my veins.
He considers me, and I hate to admit it, but for the first time in six months I think he sees right through me.
“Maybe we shouldn’t keep so busy all the time,” he says, shoving his fingers tiredly through his collar-length hair.
I feel a pinch in my chest. I have a memory of my dad making the same exact gesture in his office chair when he told me one day, if I worked hard enough, I’d be a watchmaker too.
“And why not? Life is great. I have Abry, I have you, Mila, Max. Me being busy is a reflection of how happy I am.”
Daniel narrows his eyes and drops his elbows to the table, cradling his chin in his hand. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I am not.”
He flashes a smile. “I was thinking, you used to worry about me ... finding someone who appreciates all my charm.”
“I don’t worry anymore. I gave that up. You’re hopeless. If I see another reality-show star on the yacht with you, I’m going to?—”
“What? At least I go out. The last time you went out, it was to pick out a hedge trimmer with Max.”
“That counts.”
“It doesn’t, and you know it.”
I don’t argue. There’s no use. “What’s your point? I have another meeting.”
“My point is, Fi, this can’t keep on. Ever since Christmas Eve”—he can’t bring himself to say, “since you were shot”—“you’ve been running yourself to the ground. You need to take a break. You need to, maybe ...”—he narrows his eyes—“open yourself up.”
He holds up his hands at my protest.
“I’m only saying,” he says, “I think ... you want me to find someone to appreciate me. I want the same for you.”
I press my hands to the cold shellacked surface of the wood table. Outside the conference room someone knocks on the door. When they open it, Daniel shakes his head and gestures them away.
“Why are you such a meddler?” I ask him.
“Fi.”
“You know it isn’t the same for me. You know why. I can’t do it.”
Daniel doesn’t say anything—he only watches me with eyes as calm as the ocean on a windless day.
Then he says the exact thing he said to me that day nearly a decade ago. “Then we’ll do it together.”
My heart squeezes at the memory of those words. I can almost hear the crash of the ocean that went along with them.
So I say the exact same thing I said then too. “All right. Together.”
