I feel my eyes widen. So Tripp has gone from telling the engineers not to bother with the project to now being highly involved, and with a construction firm that he’s never mentioned lined up?

What the hell is going on?

When was he planning on looping me in?

“Well, we’re ready to sign on with Jameson, who has a proven track record with us. So why on earth would we back out now? Especially when we’re already behind?”

“You demanded that we tighten the timeline by almost three months. KDZ can deliver on that. They’re already working on their proposal. I’m meeting with their president on Friday to review and make the decision.”

Tripp has no business offering up a construction contract without approval from both me and my father, and he knows it.

I bite my tongue before I blurt as much out in front of the broader group, and force a patient tone. “As I’ve said, we are ready to proceed with Jameson, but I’m willing to review this proposal once you have it—”

“Kieran’s already given KDZ the go-ahead. If you don’t like it, you’ll need to take it up with him.” Tripp heaves his body out of his chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting to attend.” He strolls out the door, but not before I catch the smug curl of his lips.

It takes everything in me to school my expression, even as I feel heat crawling up my neck. “Mark will send the follow-ups. See you all on Thursday.” I wait until everyone has left the room and the door is shut before I snap.

“When’s my father back from LA?”

“Thursday, I think. Hold on.” Mark is frowning as he madly types an instant message to Greta. “Yeah. His plane lands at five P.M.”

I’ll have to call him about this. I hate confronting my father over the phone. He’s that much more abrupt.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Son of a bitch.” I’m not quite sure who deserves the title more. Is this another one of Tripp’s dick moves to save face and make me look like the fool? Or should the blame land squarely on my father’s shoulders this time? “What do I have next?”

“A meeting with David and Jim.”

“Great. Just what I need right now. Another pompous ass to deal with,” I mutter.

Mark tucks his laptop under his arm. “You okay?”

I sigh, collecting my things. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” he presses, making me wary.

“Why are you asking?”

“Nothing. Just . . .” He shrugs. “You’ve seemed, I don’t know, not yourself lately. Distracted.”

First David accusing me of being in a mood, and now Mark? I duck my head as I collect my things, mainly to hide another flush of my cheeks. “I just have a lot going on right now. You know, the Waterway project . . .” Lie. “The Marquee.” Lie. “And this ongoing Tripp bullshit. It’s getting worse.” Partial lie.

Technically, all those things are real and should be dominating my focus and raising my stress levels. Should is the operative word. But the truth is, if I’m distracted, it’s because my attention keeps getting snagged on the new security guard, my thoughts lingering in the past.

Mark nods slowly, as if understanding. “Håret i postkassen.”

“Pardon me?”

He offers a shy smile. “Just something my grandmother used to say. It’s a Danish proverb. It means ‘you’ve got your hair stuck in the mailbox.’ ”

“What?”

He smiles. “You’ve found yourself with a tricky problem.”

“Oh. With Tripp? Yeah, I guess I have. I just don’t know what to do about him. He’ll clearly never accept me as his superior.”

“Få hul på bylden.”

I wait with raised eyebrows for the translation.

Mark shrugs. “ ‘You’ve got to lance the boil.’ ”

I cringe at the mental image that spurns. “So your grandma thinks that if I poke Tripp with a long, sharp needle, he’ll go away?”

He chuckles. “He’d learn to keep his distance.”

“It would definitely make me feel better.” I sigh, hauling my weary body out of my chair.

“Off to lunch, Miss Calloway?” Gus asks as he tosses his Alejandro’s hamburger wrapper into the trash behind him. The man rarely leaves the desk, even to eat.

“And a meeting.” I don’t mean to sigh as I take in the empty chair next to him, but it slips out anyway.

“You just missed him. He went to check something in the parking garage.”

Of course he did. My gaze drifts to the bank of monitors behind the desk, to the screens showing the elevators. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happening.

We’re at week three and Kyle is outright avoiding me now, bolting the second he spots me on my way down. Off to test an alarm or patrol the building or to pee. Anything to not have to see me, it seems.

My annoyance flares, but I push it aside. “How’s it going so far with him?”

“No complaints. He’s punctual, disciplined, quiet. Takes his job seriously.”

Not at all like the version I knew. “Good. Well . . .” Loitering here talking about Kyle feels awkward. “I’ll see you later.” I turn to leave.

“I heard he requested a transfer here, from San Diego,” Gus says.

San Diego. So that’s where he went. Has he been there all this time?

I feel Gus’s steady gaze on me, as if waiting for my reaction.

“Makes sense. Lennox is a great city. I could see why he’d make the move,” I say casually. Why did he make the move? For his girlfriend, maybe?

“Not this city. This building,” Gus clarifies, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Apparently, he’s been trying to get in here for a while now. Put in a transfer request with Rikell’s HR for this building.”

I frown. “How many buildings in the city does Rikell do security for?”

“Fifteen. Twenty. Something like that.” Gus’s eyes study me as I try to process this bit of information.

If it were Lennox that Kyle wanted to move to, he’d accept a transfer at any of those buildings. So why did he want to work at this one specifically?

Unless . . .

“There must have been something about this place that made him want to come here,” Gus says, as if reading my mind.