Page 75 of The Darkest Chase
I don’t know if I should explain my ideas or just shut up and let him think, so I say nothing and just look around the office slowly, skimming the spines of books. They’re just old encyclopedias and other reference sets. Maybe a set of Great Western literary classics.
Hmph.
There’s something soulless about a man who doesn’t keep any other kinds of books around, especially when these are probably just background décor. But I remind myself that I don’t know Xavier, much less his reading tastes.
Even if that nagging core of sympathy over his dead brothers makes me feel a little guilty, I also don’t want to know Xavier that way.
Not when his presence feels so smothering my chest wants to seize up.
I refuse to have another asthma attack over the stiff silence in the office, broken only by rustling pages as he looks the sketches over, taking his sweet time. It’s only when I glance at him and realize he’s locked eyes on me over the top of the folio that the panic hits.
He’s doing it again.
Making me squirm on purpose.
Jesus. I am definitely not wasting an inhaler hit on this asshole today.
So I start counting, timing each breath. Old trick, calming and soothing.
As I wind down, my brain refocuses. Just enough to notice things about Xavier that hadn’t filtered in before.
He’s not the cleanest man for such a pampered existence.
There’s dirt under his nails.
His eyes are too dilated for the sunlight coming through the office windows. They’re jittery, too, and the pupils aren’t just scanning across the page.
No, they’re leaping, like restless marbles he has to grab and drag back into place.
There’s a clammy film of sweat making his stubble look greasy, even though it’s actually chilly in the office—and his dark-grey tailored suit isn’t heavy enough to warrant it.
Micah would probably know what he’s looking at. He’d be able to identify it with razor precision and insight. I can only guess.
Still, between that and the little tray, I wonder.
Is Xavier coming off a high right now?
For a second, I wonder who he might be, if he’d been born into a different life.
If he had a chance even now to get into rehab and start over—would it matter?—but I’m being naïve again. Because he’s not just a drug addict.
He’s involved in distribution, and that’s a choice.
That’s not an illness.
I feel queasy, sitting across from a man who would make a choice like that and shamelessly being willing to take his money.
“Interesting.” He finally breaks the silence, loudly stroking his chin. “An arboreal theme? Are we dryads, Miss Grey, flying around the branches naked?”
I swallow hard, suppressing a shudder.
“It’s just a concept. If you don’t like it, I could come up with something else—”
“No,” he says sharply. I clamp my lips shut. “But I wonder, what would it take to add water installations in the great rooms to complete the look?”
“Contractors,” I answer immediately. “Lots of them. That’s architecture, plumbing. We’d need to hire consultants. I’m not sure it’ll work, not without ripping up the entire floor in some places. It depends on the room. Some of them have marble flooring, and that’s going to be hard to work around.”
Not to mention, I’m not sure how well it would integrate with the general structure and design of the rooms. I mean, random water fountains and falls indoors?