Professor Barclay walked down the aisle and passed me by without a second look or greeting. I frowned and turned to watch him take his seat at the back of the cabin with Mr. Banks across from him. Immediately, people descended on them. Lewis and the other managers have each put in their time kissing ass as if paying tribute to their monarchs.

  Not five minutes ago, Professor Barclay looked up and caught me peering back at him. Startled, I whipped around and faced forward before I could register anything in his indiscernible expression.

  I’m still getting used to this new proximity. It’s hard to believe that after four long years, I have him within reach. It’s impossible to keep old feelings from bubbling up to the surface, to keep the events from the past from mingling with the present, and it’s evident in the fact that I can’t seem to stop calling him Professor Barclay.

  To everyone at the firm, he’s Mr. Barclay or Jonathan.

  I can’t imagine ever calling him Jonathan.

  I refocus my attention down on my phone, annoyed that I can’t find a dress I like for the gala that’s not over a thousand dollars. Just as well since the captain of the plane alerts us that we’re approaching our final descent into Greenwich. I should probably get my head refocused on work anyway.

  Out on the tarmac, SUVs are waiting for us. There’s no rhyme or reason for how we’ll travel to the estate; we aren’t splitting up by department, so I head straight for the last SUV, opting to climb in the third row to be out of everyone’s way.

  Zach, another new hire from a different department, joins me. We haven’t had much time to get to know each other over the week, but I saw him in the break room yesterday and he cracked a joke about the piss-poor coffee. Side note: I actually think it’s great. The company has one of those fancy Nespresso machines and there are a ton of milk and creamer options. Still, I laughed along, grateful to meet another person my age at the firm.

  “Cool plane, huh?” he asks, sliding into the back seat with me.

  His sudden nearness has me hyper-focused on him in a way I haven’t cared to be before now. It’s like he’s been drawn out of mere background noise. He has blond hair that goes every which direction in that cool British way, his clothes are trendy, and he’s wearing Jordans with his slacks instead of dress shoes.

  I smile. “Yeah. I was not expecting that this morning.”

  “Perks of the new job, I guess.”

  The car door opens again, and Mr. Banks slides into the middle row of seats. Zach and I immediately go silent, sharing a private alarmed look before Professor Barclay follows after him.

  There were two other SUVs they could have chosen; why did they have to get into ours?

  Mr. Banks settles into his seat, and then, realizing the two of us are back here just staring dumbfounded, he offers a friendly nod.

  “Remind me of your names?”

  Zach and I speak at the same time like overeager children.

  I laugh, more than a little embarrassed. Why do I always have to blush? Always?

  “I’m Zach, and this is Emelia.”

  “Right. Engineering department and conservation department, respectively. I remember now. Good to have you both here today.”

  My gaze flits to Professor Barclay. I wait for him to turn back and acknowledge us too, but he doesn’t. He keeps his attention down on his phone as he types away on a message or an email or whatever it is that’s so important.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I gift myself a fleeting moment to look at him, to take in the details I’ve yearned for the last few years: the tan skin between his neat hairline and crisp shirt collar, the cut of his suit jacket across his wide shoulders, his sharp jawline in profile. These are things I’ve been deprived of, the angles never shown on social media.

  The SUV suddenly seems shrunken. Though I’ve never been one to feel claustrophobic before now, it’s hard to overcome the sensation. Professor Barclay acts as a vacuum in the confined space. His cologne, while subtle, is a constant reminder that he’s there, within arm’s reach, even when I turn to distract myself by looking out the window.

  As the SUV pulls away from the tarmac, Mr. Banks goads Professor Barclay into conversation. It’s clear they make a good team. Even if I wanted to eavesdrop, I can barely keep up with them. They basically speak in shorthand.

  “Cincinnati issued the demolition permits this morning for the ancillary buildings,” Mr. Banks notes.

  “Already? Did Joan go down to grease the wheels a little?”

  Mr. Banks snorts. “You think she had anything to do with this? It was me and my charm.”

  “What about developer permits?”

  “Delayed.”

  “Sewer and sign?”

  “Delayed. Delayed.”

  “Who’s running Cincinnati permits again?”

  “Dan Keller.”

  “I thought Royce replaced him?”

  “We wanted Royce to replace him, but no, Dan’s still in charge.”

  Professor Barclay shakes his head. “It’ll be another six months before we break ground.”

  “We’ll get going on demo and hope for the best. I meant to ask—is Miranda coming in this weekend?”

  To say my ears snap to attention is an understatement. I’m so tuned in to what Professor Barclay is about to say I might as well be leaning over the seat, holding my breath, unblinking.

  Who’s Miranda? The blonde from his pictures? The woman I’ve seen so much of over the last year? Are they still talking about work or…

  “No.”

  I try to dissect that word, to decipher if it’s a content no or a distressed no, but I can’t tell.

  “So you’ll be solo?” Mr. Banks wonders.

  “Looks like it.”

  “You know…if you need help in that respect, I’m your guy. I can set you up with a date.”

  Professor Barclay replies with a short laugh and nothing else.

  My hands have turned into mutinous little fists at my sides. The idea of Professor Barclay with a date, someone new for him to prance around with, has my blood boiling.

  Zach edges slightly closer so he can speak quietly, oblivious to the conversation taking place one row forward.

  “I didn’t know you were a Dartmouth girl,” he says, pointing down to my old college tote bag sitting at my feet. It barely gets any use anymore, but I brought it with me today to carry all my stuff for the construction site.

  “Dartmouth?” Mr. Banks asks, turning back to look at me inquisitively. “When did you graduate?”

  I tell him then try with all my might to keep my gaze from slipping to Professor Barclay.

  Mr. Banks frowns and looks at his partner. “You were there still, weren’t you? Did you two know each other?” He turns back to me. “Did you take his course?”

  “No.”

  I have that word locked and loaded. It’s shot out so quickly and vehemently that I leave no room for Professor Barclay to contradict it.

  Mr. Banks’ thick brown eyebrows furrow in confusion. “That’s odd…given your major.”

  I shrug and look out the window. “It’s a big campus.”

  “Even if we had crossed paths, I can’t possibly keep track of all my students,” Professor Barclay adds.

  The statement stings, and I have to remind myself that it’s a lie. He does remember me; he proved that yesterday on the elevator. He’s simply corroborating my story. Don’t let it hurt.

  “It takes something truly memorable for a student to really stand out.”

  His words sound eerily familiar…and then my brain puts two and two together. It’s easy enough to do. Our last conversation at Dartmouth is branded in my memory.

  Immediately, my hackles go up, and before I know it, I’ve spoken.

  “And what would a student have to do to gain your attention? Bow down at your feet?”

  The air in the vehicle suddenly feels like it’s sparking with electricity when Professor Barclay slowly turns to look back at me over his shoulder.

  I forgot just how blue his eyes can be. Glacier blue. Unfeeling blue. Tear-you-in-two blue.

  I barely manage to hide my gulp.

  What have I done firing off a statement like that?

  One of his dark brows barely rises, and yet my gaze hits the floor, all that strength gone instantly.

  Zach laughs awkwardly and scoots a little closer to me, as if trying to protect me from our boss. “She was just kidding.”

  Mr. Banks laughs. “She’s right, you know. Your god complex is showing.”

  I don’t say another word for the remainder of the trip, which is blessedly short.

  We arrive outside the Belle Haven Estate to find it’s a property rimmed with overgrown hedges. A security guard waves us past a rusty wrought iron gate. Its intricate design arches toward the sky, and it’s clear a craftsman—or team of craftsmen—put a great deal of effort into the showpiece. I lament the fact that it’s been so poorly looked after all these years, then I remind myself of where I am. Everything about this estate is going to be decaying and old and in poor condition. That’s why we’re here.

  It’s immediately obvious that the property stands apart from others in the area. For one, it spans almost five acres, a good swath of which is waterfront and has direct access to Long Island Sound. Once we’re past the gate, we wind through dense forest that was never cleared, even when work was underway on the estate in the early 1900s. The forest is the main reason the home was never discovered before now. Even using drones to capture aerial views of the land, it would have been impossible to make out the road and estate buried beneath the canopy of trees.

  I know from the briefing we had at the office yesterday that the home was still nearing completion when funding ran out. The scaffolding on the porte cochère’s dormers where carved ornament was being finished still remains, though a good deal of it has collapsed in on itself. The right side of the esplanade had been cleared and graded, and excavation of the front fountain had begun but was never completed. Stone carvers were midway through work on the ornamentation of the exterior walls on the grand staircase, and carpentry and cabinetry were going to be among the final touches.

  Even the work that was completed is likely in a bad state because of the unfinished roof that runs down the center of the estate. Without proper care and protection from the elements, everything will have sustained some amount of damage. Today, we’ll discover the extent of it.

  The SUV pulls up through a break in the trees, and I see the house for the first time.

  Like other famed Gilded Age mansions, this one was designed and modeled on the richly ornamented style of the French Renaissance. Many of the details have been adapted from famous early-16th-century chateaux, specifically the steeply pitched roof, limestone facade, symmetrical turrets on each of the four corners, and arched entryways and windows. In short, it looks like a castle that should be nestled on a European countryside.

  My heart quickens as I lean closer and peer through the window. I ignore the debris and wreckage, the leftover scaffolding and pallets of forgotten stone and wood. I see the home for what it was intended to be and am nothing short of awestruck.

  It’s magnificent.

  We park and start to unload. Zach holds out his hand for me as I try to climb out of the back seat. It’s a chivalrous act that I don’t feel like turning down. I smile and thank him and try to ignore the fact that Professor Barclay has chosen this moment to look over at me.

  He’s paused nearby while everyone else has started to convene in a clearing directly in front of the estate. I start to join them until his voice captures my attention.

  “I’d like a moment.”

  Oh, now he wants a word? He had all the time in the world to speak to me while we were in the SUV, but apparently now is better. Now is on his terms. How convenient.

  Zach shoots me a sympathetic look. He knows I’m in trouble, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Even Mr. Banks walks off, leaving me in the clutches of his ogre of a partner.

  Professor Barclay keeps a healthy distance, and I don’t look at him even as he says my name.

  “Emelia.”

  I bristle at his harsh tone. “Professor.”

  “I should have you call me Mr. Barclay.”

  He should, but he doesn’t.

  He lets that statement linger between us as the group starts to head for the front of the estate, leaving us behind. Before, it would have been difficult for them to hear our quiet voices, but now there’s absolutely no chance our conversation will be overheard.

  “Why have you come to work for my firm?”

  I stare at the sprawling estate in front of me. Isn’t it obvious? “To help restore the Belle Haven Estate. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  Why does that suddenly feel like a lie?

  “Look at me.”

  My gaze sweeps to him instantly. My body is such a traitor where he’s concerned.

  “The mistakes of the past…” He sniffs and looks away as if disgusted by himself. “They will not be repeated.”

  I bite down on the inside of my cheek.

  “Furthermore, outbursts like that one in the car will not be tolerated.”

  “You goaded me,” I blurt out rudely.

  Like a whip, his gaze lashes me. “You don’t know the meaning of goad.”

  The threat ripples through me, obvious in the cascade of goose bumps that spread down my body.

  Professor Barclay watches me, and he knows. He must know.

  His jaw tenses, and then he’s moving, heading past me toward the house, leaving me behind. “Keep your distance.”

  My jaw drops as he walks away.

  Okay, he is truly insane. I’m not the one who needs to keep my distance. I wasn’t the one to get into that SUV with him! He could have picked any of the cars. He’s the boss! Furthermore, yesterday in the elevator was his doing as well. He didn’t have to swoop in and save the day. He should have just left me milling around down in the lobby for eternity.

  After a few seconds of me cursing him in my head and trying to reabsorb my anger (impossible, for the record), I heave a deep breath and hurry to catch up to the rest of the group.

  Zach is waiting for me.

  “Was he pissed?”

  I nod but otherwise stay silent.

  “Jesus, I knew he could be a prick, but that was on another level, don’t you think? What did he say?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Mainly because I swear I still feel Professor Barclay’s gaze on the back of my head. The last thing I want is for him to catch me talking badly about him. It would just be another excuse for him to treat me poorly.

  He wants me to keep my distance, and I will. With pleasure.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Emelia

  * * *

  I’m chatting with Sonya on Saturday evening while I’m hunched over a small table at my apartment, desperately trying to fix my dress for the gala before time runs out. I grab my scissors and cut off a piece of thread then lean down to inspect the hem. It’s nearly finished.

  “How was the estate?” she asks.

  “Stunning.”

  “Did you take any pictures?”

  “We weren’t allowed to. An official photographer from Banks and Barclay took reference photos, but the rest of us had to keep our phones put away the entire time we were there because of the NDA.”

  I finish sewing a few more stitches then cut the thread. In a second, I’ll have to just give up and wear it like it is. I still need to steam it. And my makeup isn’t done.

  “Jeez. They’re taking this secret thing seriously, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah. It’s likely a little overkill, but it’s better than having things accidentally leaked, I suppose.”

  “And what about Professor Barclay—was he there when you toured the estate?”

  I don’t even have enough bandwidth to care that she wants to talk about him. “Yes.”

  “And did you two speak or anything? Has he realized who you are yet?”

  “It’s come up.”

  I wince at her ear-shattering squeal.

  “AND?”

  I yank my dress free of the sewing machine and hurry to the steamer so I can get rid of the few wrinkles I caused during my alterations. Hot steam is already billowing out. “And nothing. He acknowledged that he remembers me, and we’ve decided to continue on as if I’m any other employee at the firm. Because I am.”

  She sighs. “Okay. That’s…slightly disappointing, but hey, I learned from my mistake last time, right? You won’t hear a peep out of me where he’s concerned. I won’t question you about how hot he is now…though I bet he’s SCORCHING. Right? Just give me that much, at least.”

  “Yes.”

  Another squeal.

  “SONYA.”

  “I’m sorry! It’s just too tantalizing!”

  I switch to speakerphone then toss my phone onto my bed so I can finish steaming my dress, and I shimmy into it while Sonya talks my ear off about honeymoon plans. The zipper in the back is almost impossible to reach. I contort my arms and hop around, trying to finagle it. The issue is that the dress is fitted around my chest—some would just call it tight—and I need another set of hands to yank the two sides together so I can force the zipper up.

  I found the dress on the clearance rack at Saks Fifth Avenue yesterday after work, the color grabbing my attention right away. It’s not just red; it’s crimson. It’s a dress for an assassin—someone out for blood. I felt the soft fabric between my fingers and imagined myself having the guts to pull off something like it…then I let it fall back in place, forgotten.

  I moved on to a more practical black option, but the crimson dress kept calling to me.

  I went back, looked at the size, and confirmed it would work. I looked at the price. It was a steeply discounted Oscar de la Renta dress from last season with an obvious rip along the hem.

  My mother taught me to sew when I was younger. I am by no means a professional seamstress, but I knew I could repair the dress easily enough.

  I bought it before I could chicken out, and now I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, trying to get a good look at myself in it. It has thin spaghetti straps and a plunging square neckline with a natural waist, floor-length hem, and column silhouette. It’s understated and beautiful, and I think I even managed to pull off my alterations.