Barely even friends, p.7
Barely Even Friends, page 7
The man shuddered before shuffling the pile of papers in front of him. “Mr. Oliver Killington, your grandfather, as you are aware, is in charge of your trust.” He coughed, and a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. “You are required to do the following by your thirtieth birthday, September third of this year.”
Good, in case Oliver had forgotten his own birthday. What was this family?
“You are required to accept an executive position in Killington Holdings and begin shadowing your grandfather, as well as establish a residence in the city. A timeline will be set to announce you as CEO.
“If you do not comply with these terms, you will only be eligible to receive a tenth of your remaining trust, in dividends, at the discretion of your grandfather.” With a swipe of his sweaty forehead, the lackey glanced at Mr. Killington.
“I am throwing an end-of-summer dinner party the last week of August. The restoration will be completed, coinciding with the announcement of your role within the company, Oliver.”
The pronouncement was met with silence. The panic wasn’t rising—it was fully enveloping my body. But Oliver hadn’t even twitched, as if he had been expecting this.
“I won’t fix the stock value,” Oliver finally responded.
Mr. Killington steamrolled forward, as if his grandson had never spoken. “Does that timeline present a problem for anyone?” His tone made it clear that no was not an option.
“We will have to pay a premium on materials in order to ensure that timeline,” I hedged. It was the truth. I needed the cheap billionaire to help me out with this impossible deadline in order to complete everything in less than half the time that I needed.
“Forward all receipts to my office. They will be paid promptly. I will also add a bonus incentive if everything is finished on time, if not early, and to my standards.”
I made one last attempt. “These projects are delicate, sir. It’s often not until you dive in that the structural and underlying issues are revealed.”
My father’s eyebrows raised, and it wasn’t at the thought of the money. I was committing to an almost impossible promise, setting myself and our business up for failure. That nightmare of ending up homeless and never working again felt like a real possibility.
But also, fuck Adrian Killington.
Mr. Killington rose to his full height, teaching me a thing or two about intimidation through a computer screen.
I held in my frustration. “Price Restoration is the best.”
“Good. The details about the party will be forwarded once I receive the plans for the west wing.” And with that, he was gone. A moment later, so was Oliver.
My dad and I were the only ones left. “Bells—” The concern was evident in his tone.
“It’s fine, Dad. Money talks, and I won’t be stingy with my estimates.”
“I believe you can walk on water and are the most brilliant person in the world, the single best thing I’ve ever done in my life.” I could hear it in his voice. There was a but coming. “But not even you can make the impossible happen.”
My emotions were sliding back and forth from What the heck did I do? to Fuck yeah, I can do this. “I got us into this mess, it’s on me to solve it.”
“All for one, and one for all,” Bl8z3 chimed in. It was still on my shit list, but I couldn’t deny the advantage it would be to this project, and I needed every advantage I could get.
This would either be the greatest accomplishment of my life or blow everything up.
The only way forward was to break into the west wing and ignore Oliver’s very specific instructions. Changing his mind seemed as impossible as the deadline I had been given.
The moment Dad signed off, I allowed one emotion to override the others. Anger. I was fucking furious at the audacity of Oliver to let himself become my unofficial boss for this project. Who did he think he was? After that disastrous almost-date, why would he even want to stay here?
The stakes had exponentially increased. Now he wasn’t merely being difficult; he was impeding on my livelihood. Unacceptable. I was going to be the Bib’s newest curator, and Oliver Killington would not stop me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
165 Days Until the Deadline
Storming out of my room, I made it to the study in record time. I twisted open the knob, without knocking, to find him still sitting there, glaring at his computer screen. “Oh joy, it’s you.”
“Could you be any more of an ass?”
“Please, Price, tell me how I’ve wronged you.”
I tried to think calming thoughts, but the sight of him reclining in his leather chair, arms up, palms behind his head, flashing his forearms at me … I had never wanted to commit violence more.
“What are you doing? Why did you agree to oversee the restoration? You don’t want me here, and you hate everything about this project. You’re only going to hold things up.”
“Just because I have zero interest in your HGTV show—”
“Do you see cameras anywhere?” I gestured around, even though a crew of camera people and producers would be impossible to miss, even for him.
“Fine.” Oliver pushed out of the chair, letting it slam against the wall, and stalked over to me. “My grandfather owns this place and is fully aware of how desperately I want it. I have no choice.”
We stood face-to-face, both of us breathing hard, my hair falling out of the barrette I had used to clip the straightening ironed strands back. Oliver’s cheeks were ruddy, fists balled at his side. All I could see was red when it came to him; I had never been this irrationally angry in my life.
“Fine. Then tell me, why is this place so important to you?” The wisps of hair around my face fluttered in my exasperation.
“It doesn’t matter.” Oliver gave nothing away in that stoic manner of his. “If I don’t do what he says, he’ll kick me out. If I follow his rules and begin a miserable life as upper management, I’ll be able to have this place but never see it with how busy I’ll be.”
“Sounds like a very warm family.”
He brought his hands down to rest on the curved edge of the desk, knuckles turning white. “Sure.”
“How would you describe him, then?” I worried my lip, unable to imagine his grandfather ever offering someone a hug.
“Stubborn. Driven.” Oliver’s voice reverted to that flat tone I associated with him, his hand tugging at the scruff of his beard.
“Even after your parents died?”
His shoulders stiffened, making me regret my words. “He gave the twins a home, something I’m not capable of. He’s”—another breath—“he’s done his best.” His eyes narrowed on me, warning me from challenging him further. Clearly his sisters were a touchy subject.
What he hadn’t learned about me yet was that I never backed down from a challenge. “There are a lot of ways to show you care.”
Oliver scoffed, tilting his head to meet my gaze. “Like what?”
“Like apologizing when you snap at a person who has suffered through the world’s most awkward dinner.”
He rubbed at the back of his neck, avoiding my gaze. “I have to imagine there have been more unpleasant dinners than that.”
“You want to keep doing this for six months?” I gestured between us.
Oliver squeezed the desk again before returning to his full height, head ducked to ensure our eyes caught. “We don’t have a choice.”
In the gray of his eyes, closer to the iris, I could almost see flecks of blue. “Fine.”
He took a step toward me, his lips pressed together, slightly hidden by that stupid beard of his. Those gray eyes were inescapable as they bored into mine, examining all my layers in a way no one had before. It was unnerving.
My skin broke out in angry, fury-filled goose bumps.
“Then I guess we’re stuck with each other.”
* * *
164 Days Until the Deadline
I spent the evening spiraling through all my feelings. Mostly, a single sensation: rage.
Experienced it, let it flow through me and motivate me, but I refused to let it overwhelm me. Instead, I reread one of my favorite romance novels, curled up on the bed, returning to the safety of a story I adored, as two beloved characters fell in love, squeezing my heart in the best way. I was a romantic solely when it came to fictional relationships.
But tomorrow was a new day. Oliver did not get to ruin this opportunity for me.
The next morning, armed with my stack of stickies, I stalked around the mansion, marking pieces that would go directly to storage, for trash, and those that would need to be restored. It was tedious. Every vase, lamp, picture frame, and knickknack needed a tag. Which gave my brain space to stretch, breathe.
And yet it was still empty of any idea of how to convince Oliver to let me into the west wing.
A sparkle of laughter, a foreign sound in this house, made me glance around. Another laugh. I pressed my nose to the window facing the backyard, the sitting room already half covered in my stickies. The glass had been distorted by age, but I could just make out Nick outside. Her smile wide, she wore her standard outfit of overalls and a T-shirt.
I slid the pane open, needing to confirm what I was seeing. Oliver was with her, tossing a football, taking a step back after each arc of the ball through the air. He wasn’t smiling, but there was an ease to his shoulders. It was off-putting, watching him out in the sunshine rather than sulking around the halls. I was too far away to hear what he and Nick were yelling back and forth, but it was nice to know not being mean to children was his asshole line.
There was a satisfaction to his movements—he was skilled; those articles had not lied. Watching him in his prime must have truly been something. He easily tossed the ball to Nick, each throw a perfect spiral whizzing through the air before it landed in her arms.
Oliver was still mostly a stranger to me. A stranger who, even I saw, could use a friend. I wrapped my arms around my middle; it was impossible not to recognize he had insulated himself from the world in this crumbling estate. His words were a defense mechanism to make sure I stayed far, far outside his walls, away from the west wing.
Nick caught the ball with a resounding smack as it made contact with her skin, before she sprinted past Oliver, spiking it on the ground, and throwing her arms up in triumph.
Inspiration had struck.
* * *
Ultimately, it took a lot less convincing than I had been expecting, which likely spoke to how badly they felt. But this was for all our benefit. I needed to get into the west wing, and I wasn’t above guilting Rue, Ambrose, and Nick into conspiring with me. They all wanted the mansion restored too—the kitchen updated, a sewing room—and this was the only way for us all to get what we wanted.
Oliver strolled into the dining room, blinking rapidly as I sat at the table set for two. At my instruction, Nick had asked him to help with her homework over dinner. He peeked over his shoulder, and I couldn’t blame his paranoia. I struggled to shut any more doors after our recent incident.
“I thought we should talk.” My foot jiggled under the table as I waited for him to decide.
After a roll of his shoulders, Oliver took the seat next to me and glanced down at his mushroom risotto. “This is my favorite.”
I silently gave thanks to Rue, tilting my head down, the full force of my smile aimed at my own plate. “Oh?” My voice broke. I was not one for subtlety.
“Price.”
“Hmm?”
“What’s this about?” He pointed his spoon at me, accusing me of wrongdoing like some sort of made-for-TV detective.
I smiled. “If we’re going to be stuck here together, I thought there should be a peace offering.”
“Meaning you asked Rue what my favorite meal was?”
“Hmm?” I shoved a bite of food in my mouth. I mean I had, but solely to butter him up, not because I actually cared if he enjoyed his dinner.
Oliver smirked, an eyebrow arching, before diving into his own plate.
The door to the butler’s pantry swung open, wood cracking as it slammed against the wall, my coconspirators appearing. Both dressed in suits, Rue carrying a tray stacked high with cupcakes, and Ambrose playing the bagpipes. I didn’t have many options at my disposal, so I’d work with what was available. The assignment had been to show Oliver the benefits of restoring the estate, and I had allowed them to decide, wrongly assuming it was the best course since they knew Oliver better than I ever could.
“May I present dessert?” Rue slid the tray in between us, pride brightening their face. “Red velvet with cream cheese topping. Though if I had the tools …” Rue let out an exaggerated sigh, eyes lifting to the ceiling as Bl8z3 played backup music to Ambrose’s bagpipes. “I wanted to pipe them with liquor filling, but with my oven, I—” They let out a wail in time with the sound of the bagpipes.
I pressed my napkin to my lips, sneaking a horrified glance at Oliver for his reaction. There was a crinkle around his eyes I couldn’t read, and his hands were hidden underneath the table. What had seemed like the perfect idea a half hour ago was quickly blowing up in my face.
“If only I had the precise tools to truly feed those I care about—oh!” Rue cried, and with the bagpipes, I had to stop myself from covering my ears, my shoulders rising. “Even these clothes, practically threadbare compared to what we could have with a proper tailoring room.”
Rue stepped back, and my posture relaxed against the back of my chair.
But it still wasn’t over. “If there is ceiling plaster in the food, my apologies.”
Oliver started coughing, mid-bite, my palm rising to smack his back as Rue’s jaw dropped, looking between me and their employer, raising their eyebrows as if to ask if that was too much. You think?
Once his risk of death was over and he took a sip of water, Oliver nodded to Rue, offering proof of life.
“Well, we’ll leave you to it.” Ambrose sucked in a deep breath before resuming his blaring tune as he and Rue exited the dining room, and none too soon. Maybe Oliver would understand their passion? Maybe he’d experienced a blackout?
“They’re kidding about the ceiling plaster,” Oliver said as he used his fork to dig through his meal.
I couldn’t help myself. “If it makes you feel better, it presumably has been in your food for a while, what with the state of this place. You’ve probably built an immunity or something.”
It was time for Act Two: Nick shuffled in, wearing what looked like a version of Rue’s and Ambrose’s suits, except that a pair of scissors had been taken to hers, poorly shortening the length, threads hanging at her ankles.
“I am but a young, pathetic child.” Nick’s voice was monotonous, almost robotic. What in the hell was she doing?
“This was not what your card said,” I hissed. I had provided some suggested language, things for them to highlight. How was this supposed to convince Oliver of anything?
“Have you ever heard of method acting?” Nick whipped out a handheld fan with expertise, fluttering it, but it didn’t improve her performance. “Without the restoration, I will be forced to join the circus, with my horse, and live the life of a nomad without a home. And hope I never come across a witch”—she started waving a shaker of salt in the air with her other hand—“who would curse me to an eternity of—”
“Okay.” I clapped. “I think the point was made. Thank you, Nick.”
Oliver had his fist pressed to his jaw as the resident thespian gave a deep bow to every angle of the room before leaving with a final flourish.
He bent his head, but when his shoulders shuddered with laughter, I knew it was safe. This was going to work.
“All right, ’fess up.” Oliver tilted his head to meet my gaze, lips parted.
“Funny you should ask.” My iPad was hidden under the cloth placemat. Things hadn’t gone exactly to plan, but I could adapt. “I’m almost ready to get started on the restoration. All that’s left is—”
“No.”
The rage would not win, nor would this stubborn man. “Listen, it doesn’t matter how rich you are: magic and wishes can’t hold this place together. This isn’t about appearance; the structural integrity is at stake.”
Oliver raked his fingers through his hair, yanking it out of the ponytail, leaving it to fall around his shoulders. “We’ve been through this.”
“Yesterday changed that.”
“Why can’t you leave it alone?” The gravel in his voice caused my stomach to flip over.
It wasn’t so simple as “I’m wrong and he’s right.” This was something I had to do. Otherwise, I’d be replaced by another firm, someone less competent, who would never even consider his feelings or how special this place was.
I felt for him, but not in place of my self-preservation. This was my life, my career on the line. I was sick of tiptoeing around him, catering to each and every whim of the Young Asshole.
“You heard your grandfather—this is my business.” My fingers splayed on the screen of my iPad protectively as I hardened my voice. Frustration was filling me. He’d made us enemies—it had never had to be this way.
“Price.”
I stood up, the feet of the chair squeaking, catching on all the grooves worn in the floor, the opposite of the smooth movement I’d intended. “It’s not fair of you to set me up for failure. My life, my family, my future depends on this.” My fists clenched at my sides. I was frustrated with him, and angry at his grandfather for putting me in this situation, but walking away would solve nothing.
“It’s not fair? This is not fair?” Oliver gripped the arms of his chair, all of him wild—his poorly maintained beard, the hair he’d finally let loose, the way his gaze met mine. “Go, then. If the wing is so important, don’t let me stop you.”
Snatching up my iPad, I marched out of the room before he could change his mind. Forward was the only direction I ever lived my life in.
The music cut off the moment I left, silence following me as I made my way through the front foyer, my footsteps echoing off the hardwood. Momentum propelled me to the west wing. With only a nudge on the handle, the doors swung open.
