Work In Progress Read online

  Work In Progress

  Olivia Lucas

  For Lucy and Oliver

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  Books By This Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Naomi

  Upstate New York in October can feel like an arctic tundra, so why is a barefooted woman in a short skirt hurtling down our driveway in the evening?

  Good question.

  I mean, I, for one, am glad it ended a riveting discussion about mining cryptocurrency, but she must have rocks in her head wearing something like that in this weather.

  Adam starts laughing. “And I thought I’d put you to sleep, but a mere mention of a semi-clothed woman has you launching across the room at the speed of light. So easy to pique your interest, Naomi Robson. So easy,” he snorts, twirling the end of his wispy mustache. “I’ll hire some naked models for my next lesson on Bitcoin, shall I?”

  I try to hide my giggle, but it’s impossible, and instead punch him in the arm as hard as I can, which is probably not that hard at all. “Idiot.”

  Adam groans dramatically and stumbles back, and I shake my head, grinning into the window, but my eyes never leave her. Not for one second.

  Okay, what Adam said might be a teeny bit true.

  With a ratio of four men to one woman, small-town Harmon Valley is hardly a bastion of available women. Add the fact that you are gay, have two gay friends, and well, the dating pool shrinks inevitably to like one - Mary Shawley, who is somewhere between seventy and one hundred.

  I’m not ageist by any means, but even I have my limits.

  So, yes, maybe I’m a little curious about the stranger. My eyes quickly fixating on her above-the-knee pencil skirt, hips shifting left and right, and a pair of long, athletic legs that go on forever.

  Obviously, it’s an impressive sight but hardly something you wear in Harmon Valley.

  “She’s definitely not from around here,” I confirm. Her face finally comes into frame, and I zero in on her expression under the glow of our outdoor lights. “Actually, she looks kind of angry.”

  Adam pushes his glasses up with his finger, but they immediately slide back down. “She’s hot. Who cares if she’s angry?”

  Wild chestnut hair, fierce strut, and a face that is anything but friendly. Her dark coat spreads out behind her like a villainous cape, red heels swinging wildly from her left hand, and this strange sense of foreboding settles in my stomach.

  I quickly glance at my watch, my shift ending in just under two minutes.

  Hot or not, might be a good idea to bail before she blasts in through the door with that sour face. I wheel around to see if I can spot Wendy, our office lady/cook, and part-time everything else.

  Ten hours on my feet, and I’m ready for bed.

  Meanwhile, Adam is still glued to the window, leering. He catches me mid-eye roll. “What?”

  His smile so big that I can count his teeth, and I can’t help but laugh as we wander back to the reception desk.

  “Wendy!” I call out, and a yawn escapes me.

  She’s normally loitering around here somewhere, but she’s brilliant at hiding when she doesn’t want to be found. Most notably around spring clean.

  Suddenly, Wendy comes tripping in from the back office wearing her owlish spectacles and a blinding lemon-yellow shirt that is far too bright for my eyes.

  Jesus.

  Okay, well, there’s no hiding in that shirt, and perfect timing – I’m out of here. I take a quick swig from my water bottle and unclip my nametag from my sweater.

  “You called? What’s with all the commotion?” Wendy coifs her curly white hair, and we silently point out the window as she waddles past.

  Leaning on the tips of her rubbery-looking shoes, she presses her face against the frosty pane. “Hmm. Must be that woman from New York. Reagan Randall. You know, the one who is going to flip this place,” Wendy says in a puff of condensation. Stepping back, she turns to me. “Wasn’t she due next week, Nay?”

  I nod uneasily.

  I’d been trying to block out her impending visit, unsure as to what it all meant.

  Wendy and I received notification from our holding company, Myer Randall, a month ago. It came as a shock, but rather than invoke fear in the entire town, we decided to keep it to ourselves until we got more information. Unfortunately, that never came.

  “Hang on. Are we losing our jobs?” Adam snaps his coffee-colored eyes to me, Wendy’s mouth starts twitching, and I feel a shiver up my spine.

  Oh, God. It’s infectious.

  But then I hear my voice say calmly, “No. No one is going anywhere.”

  Since when am I the voice of reason?

  I really have no idea, but it just sounds like the right thing to say.

  “We haven’t been told anything, Adam. Other than when to expect her, so don’t get your knickers in a twist. But just quietly, I’ve heard she is an absolute nightmare.” Wendy quickly turns and run-skips down the hallway, yelling, “Just got to um, pay the gas bill!”

  Oh no, she doesn’t.

  “Wendy! Wait! I’m clocking off right -” I call after her, waving my nametag in the air, but the door slams shut, and with it, any thought of escaping.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Reagan

  I have no idea why I have been sent here.

  My time is precious, and this, this feels like…the ass-end of the world.

  The evening air is bitter and gusty, lifting my hair in all directions. The wind stabbing me like tiny little daggers. Red, brown maple leaves are sticking to my body, and my legs feel like popsicles. I’m beyond freezing. Even my teeth want to chatter.

  I’ve rolled my ankle three times and counting on this ridiculously uneven gravel, and now the stupid wheel on my suitcase has fallen off. I curse under my breath, then crouch down to scoop it up before giving my bag a solid, well-earned kick.

  Maybe this property was grand in its prime, but it’s no longer. There are overgrown hedges to the left and right, an unkempt lawn with God knows what living in there, and thick, creepy woods lining the perimeter.

  As I follow a curve in the driveway, a dull and inhospitable Victorian manor shrouded in mist comes into view. It has two turrets, a wrapping porch, turned posts, and spindlework.

  “What the -” I stop dead, and my suitcase barrels into my legs.

  Rifling through my handbag, I fish out a photograph given to me by Uncle John and hold it up next to the Inn.

  “This can’t be the place,” I mutter furiously.

  Everything looks worn and weathered.

  This photograph must be a hundred years old. In the photo, the paint is gleaming, the gardens prim and proper, and the pla
ce looks fit for royalty.

  “You are even worse than I thought,” I say to it. And it’s like it heard me because a moment later, my left heel snaps, and I almost break my ankle. “For fuck’s -”

  This time, I scream into the air.

  I take off my heels and bend over to pick them up. Right on cue, I hear a strange animal noise. My eyes dart into the darkness, and I’m pretty sure I can see sets of beady, yellow eyes sizing me up for their dinner plate, so I angrily walk-run up the path that leads to the front porch and get into a fight with some unruly shrubbery close to the stairs.

  “Get off me, you stupid -” I furiously shove a stack of branches off my face while a twig valiantly tries to penetrate my scalp.

  As I yank my shoulder forward in an expletive-laden tirade, there is a snapping noise, and I cop a lashing of leaves across the mouth.

  “For God’s sake!” I spit out.

  Wait till I speak to my uncle…

  By the time I reach the landing, I am in the worst possible mood. Not only have I gone a few rounds with the shrub, but the arm pulling my suitcase wants to detach from my body and now I can’t feel my feet through my sheer black tights, so I’m walking like I am half drunk.

  Pushing through the iron-studded wooden front door with the last bit of energy I can muster, I immediately notice a smell of dusty books and dried potpourri that I associate with old houses lingering in the air.

  My suitcase wobbles to a halt, and I start smoothing down my unruly hair, which flew every which way as I was legging it down the driveway. I pluck off a mishmash of leaves and twigs, and when I look up, conversation has dwindled to a hum.

  Two faces standing behind the broad reception desk are just gawping at me, then at my skirt, my legs, and mainly at my bare feet.

  A scrawny, weird mustache guy in his early twenties, and a slender blonde-haired woman who I would normally register as attractive but not after the day I’ve had.

  Oh, and did she just smirk?

  Okay, definitely not now.

  I will myself forward with gritted teeth and look around, but nothing, I mean nothing, is making me feel better.

  The carpet is worn and some horrendous mint-green color while the wallpaper is peeling in parts and faded to delicate, dusty shades of rose and gold. A coffee table and a lumpy, brown chaise lounge sit in front of a recessed fireplace on the far-right wall. And to the left, a grand staircase with an intricately carved balustrade, but I can already tell that it's an occupational health and safety nightmare too.

  So, I can’t help but be a tad riled up when I blurt out, “Can you tell me why the damn cab driver didn’t drive me to the damn door? I had to traipse close to half a mile to get here. Is that your idea of customer service?”

  “Did you ask him to?” The young guy asks stupidly. His mustache twitching as I gaze at him in horror.

  Something sets off my sinuses. I sneeze once, then twice.

  “Do I really need to state the obvious? Isn’t that just common sense? I told him to take me to Brior Inn. Not to its damn mailbox.”

  The blonde woman casually shrugs. “Fred probably wanted to save on fuel. He is pretty frugal.”

  “Fuel prices have gone through the roof.” Mustache guy is nodding, then turns his head to her. “I heard he cuts the engine when he goes down a hill. Is that true?”

  The blonde laughs. “Uh-huh. Wendy was almost catatonic after he dropped her home from Sue’s wedding last Friday night. Said she was clutching the handbrake the entire way. God love Fred. He is such a catch.”

  They chatter amongst themselves like a pair of chipmunks, and it seems they have forgotten I am there.

  Rolling my eyes, I march up to the counter, circulation slowing returning to my feet.

  “Excuse me,” I interrupt. They stop jabbering, and I blow a recalcitrant lock of hair off my face. “But it can’t be more than thirty degrees outside. It was highly irresponsible dropping me miles from the front door. I could’ve got hypothermia. I also could’ve been attacked by wolves or a mountain lion…And how do you know the cab driver’s name was Fred?”

  The blonde just stares at me blankly, then blinks through lashes that mascara companies pay a fortune for. “Well, there are only two cab drivers in town, and Jack is holidaying with his fiancé Gayle down in Myrtle Beach, so you know.”

  She shrugs, and I snort loudly. Why doesn’t that surprise me?

  I’m out in Hicksville.

  The blonde is tapping at the computer, then looks up. “You must be Miss Randall…”

  I feel my lip curl and look at the nametag clutched in her hand. Does she hold that thing all day? How odd.

  “Yes, that’s me.” I tilt my head to the side to read the tag. “Na-mi.”

  Sounds Japanese. She doesn’t look Japanese. Blue eyes. Blonde. Natural, I think. But these days, you never know, do you? I’m a quarter Eskimo, and no one ever suspects -

  “Naomi.” She glares at me. “The o fell off…It’s Naomi.”

  I just blink.

  God, I have my work cut out for me here. Even the nametags need repair.

  Naomi continues. “We were expecting you on Monday, Miss Randall. This is my colleague, Adam. Welcome to Brior Inn.”

  I give them a curt smile.

  Adam is compulsively smoothing back the wing of his mousy brown hair that is flopping over his forehead, and I assume it’s a nervous tic of sorts.

  “Well, I came here as soon as I could. I want to wrap this up quickly and get back to New York asap,” I say rather bluntly. I’m too tired, and it’s too late to engage in courteous conversation.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” replies Naomi, straightening a pile of papers. She runs a hand through her lazy, loose waves, then angles me a look. “We won’t be holding you up.”

  I definitely pick up on a tone in her voice, an inhospitable one. Her steely blue eyes are also rather frosty, and for a moment, it feels like she wants to chop me into a million pieces. Something fleeting registers inside me. I thought I was the only one who could pull off that icy stare, I -

  Naomi slaps her hand down on the counter, interrupting my train of thought.

  “Luckily, your room is ready. Here’s your key, WiFi password. You're on the second floor, end of the hall on the left. Take the elevator,” she says coolly.

  “Right…”

  Well, that was surprisingly efficient.

  “If you need anything else, please let me know.” Naomi gives me a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

  I am used to seeing this in the corporate world, and I give her the same fake smile that I have perfected over the years.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, scooping my key and password from the counter. “Well, excuse me, I'm just going to go over to the fire to thaw out for a moment.”

  I turn, knowing they are rolling their eyes at me, and I’m so caught up in my own head that I inadvertently stumble over the elephant leg of the mahogany coffee table seconds later.

  Someone sniggers behind me, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. I curse under my breath, then straighten my skirt and step in front of the fire, letting the heat run through me.

  It’s obvious my stay in Upstate New York is going to be unpleasant. It already is. This whole thing is a monumental waste of my time, and I’m not going to lie; I’m fuming.

  You see, my Uncle John basically forced me to come here. Possibly to push me closer to the edge of insanity, and certainly to get me out of his hair. There’s no doubt about that.

  I’m the Chief Operating Officer of Myer Randall, a boutique branding and strategy agency, but he is the CEO, so I don’t have much say in the matter.

  Not that I didn’t put up a darn good fight. I even canceled my flight. He rebooked it. Twice.

  John has given me eight weeks to get this place in order so it can be sold. In an effort to streamline our investments, we are offloading assets that don’t make sense. Like this one.

  The Inn was purchased in the late eightie
s by the original founder of our firm, Bert Myer, who grew up in the area and recently passed away at the spritely age of ninety-six. The purchase was purely personal and added practically nothing to our bottom line, so the board agreed to look elsewhere for a better return.

  But still. Why me?

  I’m a businesswoman, first and foremost. I’m not even remotely practical. John even had the audacity to say that I would learn “new skills” and, wait for it, have fun. Clearly, our definitions of fun are wildly different because mine involves cocktails and women, not rotting timber and power drills.

  My day-to-day job is just like New York - fast-paced and stressful. I work hard because of where I’ve come from.

  Turns out I was born with a plastic spoon, not a silver spoon, and spent my time being fed by a grouchy but kind, silver-haired old lady named Dawn in the local laundromat since most of my foster parents didn’t give a crap about me, or my twin sister, Bree. It changed me, made me more driven and focused, and…

  Oh, shit. Work.

  I start rummaging around in my handbag. Pens, keys, Carolina Herrera perfume, lipstick, more stabby pens, a crumpled protein bar. Until, finally, my fingers brush up against a jagged edge that I recognize as my phone.

  The imperfection from a near mugging last fall, when a hooded guy in a tracksuit snatched my phone mid-call as I was rushing to an ad briefing in Chelsea. Naturally, I gave chase, and well, I used to be a runner, so the hapless robber kind of jumped out of his skin when he found me bounding behind him, promptly dropping my phone ten yards later on the sidewalk.

  The company offered me a new one, but I earned those battle scars, so I’m keeping it.

  I quickly dust off my phone as I rattle through my to-do list in my head and punch in the WiFi password. I urgently need to forward Ashleigh, our marketing manager, the amendments to Marley’s ad campaign from my late meeting, or it will miss tonight’s cut-off for the print run.

  I start thumbing through my inbox. Now, where is that email from Emil with the changes?

  Hang on. It’s not updating.

  “You’ve got to be…” I slap my screen on my hand and then start swooshing my phone back and forth in the air. “Excuse me, Nami…Naomi!” I say panicked because this honestly can’t be happening. My breath hitching with every syllable. “WiFi. What is going on with the WiFi?”