The Dare Collection August 2019. Christy McKellen

hovers at my elbow.

      I raise my eyebrow in question.

      ‘Um...is Mr Faulkner popping in today?’ Her eyes, which are laced with sympathy, dart between me and my brothers. We’re a tight-knit company, our staff longstanding and loyal. Dad’s episodes of confusion prior to his retirement won’t have gone unnoticed.

      ‘No—he’s at his club today, I believe,’ answers Kit.

      Sue frowns. ‘There’s um...someone in Reception who claims to have an appointment with Mr Faulkner. Will you be taking it, Reid?’

      ‘Appointment?’ Unease stiffens my neck—my father has no more official Faulkner engagements. Drake’s and Kit’s blank faces tell me they’re equally clueless, but it’s not a feeling that sits well with me.

      ‘Does she have an appointment?’ I ask Sue, a growing sense of frustration clipping my tone. Dad entrusted this company to me, Drake and Kit. I won’t tolerate cock-ups on my watch.

      Sue returns to her desk in the outer office, and all three of us follow.

      ‘Yes.’ Sue shoots me an apologetic look. ‘There’s an entry on Mr Faulkner’s schedule for a meeting with an interior-design company at twelve.’

      ‘Why would Dad have engaged an interior designer?’ says Drake.

      I hide my wince at this unforeseen twist. It’s my job to know everything that goes on at the Faulkner Group. My job and my personal preference to keep a tight rein on the company entrusted to me—a company Dad spent his life building from nothing.

      ‘Do either of you know what this might be about?’ I ask my brothers, compassion for my father flaring anew. He worked long hours for forty years to leave a legacy for his sons, steering the Faulkner Group to success and prosperity. This slip-up, albeit insignificant, provides further evidence of how he might have lost control towards the end.

      ‘We did discuss renovations a board meeting or two back in your absence,’ says Drake, ‘but I thought we’d shelved the idea for now.’

      Kit nods. ‘Yes. We never actioned anything.’

      Sue’s voice takes on a rarely heard flustered cadence. ‘I’m sorry, Reid—the appointment must have slipped past unnoticed, what with Mr Faulkner’s retirement. Should I...reschedule?’

      ‘No need,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Ring down to Reception and have this woman shown up to our waiting area.’ I could cancel, but that level of unprofessionalism isn’t typical for my tightly run ship. The sooner I see this woman, the sooner I can send her on her way.

      I head past Sue’s desk, ushering my brothers out. ‘You two have enough on—so, usual drinks Friday?’

      My brothers nod, reassured. I watch them walk away, pride that they’ve both recently found happiness—Drake in the first stages of love and Kit weeks away from becoming a father—affirmation that all will be well. Aside from walking in Dad’s very large footsteps, steering the family business for my brothers and the generations of Faulkners to come is a privilege. We’re going to be okay. Dad’s going to be okay. I’ll make sure of it.

      The minute they’re out of sight, my mind works on the newest problem to be solved. I turn to Sue. ‘What can you tell me about this company?’ I check my watch. I won’t have time to do extensive research, as I prefer. But going in blind... Never a good idea. But could Graham have sanctioned major changes at one of the hotels without my knowledge? Has his confusion reached levels where he’d behave so...erratically and out of character?

      My efficient assistant is already nodding, typing away. ‘I’ve just sent you through a link to their website. I’m sorry, Mr Faulkner. It must have slipped past Graham’s old PA.’

      ‘No worries, I’m sure the mix-up can be easily rectified, but can you please ensure Graham has no other meetings on the horizon?’ I rub a spot above my eyebrow at my mounting sense of irritation. What else has gone unnoticed? What else have I missed before recognising the extent of Dad’s confusion went beyond pre-retirement pulling back of his workload? If I’ve been remiss, overlooked my usually competent father’s decisions these past months, the ‘t’s need crossing and ‘i’s dotting.

      I shrug into my suit jacket, an expectant brow raised at Sue.

      ‘The company is a small boutique business,’ she says, scrolling down her computer screen. ‘There’s a news story—C&L Interiors, as it was then, winning some prestigious industry award in the small-spaces category.’

      I nod, mind whirring. ‘That’s all? No big-name commissions?’ Why would Graham choose a company with no track record for hotel renovations?

      Sue shakes her head, looking apologetic.

      My shoulders relax—whatever accolades C&L Interiors holds, they’re small fry and in no position to undertake renovations on a Faulkner hotel. ‘Send a companywide memo to Kit and Drake and the other heads—all new business requires my sign-off.’ I ignore Sue’s hastily concealed look of horror. I’ve allowed Dad’s diagnosis to distract me and now I have this unscheduled meeting cluttering up my lunch hour.

      ‘This mix-up will be dispensed with in ten minutes, tops. Why don’t you take your lunch break now?’

      I head for the waiting area through the open-plan offices acquired around the same time the Faulkner Group bought its third hotel. Until then, my father operated out of a converted suite at the Faulkner, our first hotel and the place Drake, Kit and I grew up.

      I walk a little taller, remembering the day I joined the family business. As a naive twenty-year-old, I assumed I’d be sitting behind a desk, a carbon copy of my father’s, with my business degree framed on the wall. Instead Graham took me downstairs and introduced me to the housekeepers. I spent my first month changing sheets and cleaning bathrooms, my second trailing the concierge staff and another month working on Reception. He was right to teach me from the bottom up—he’s taught me everything I know, which is our hotels inside out, especially the Faulkner.

      I exit the admin offices, my resolve primed to undo whatever Dad has discussed with C&L Interiors. I smooth my tie—calling on my slightly rusty charm, anticipating victory.

      I come to a halt on the threshold of the waiting area.

      Blair Cameron sits on one of the leather sofas, her familiar face severe with concentration as she focuses on a tablet in her lap. I conceal my shock as my pulse hammers with the surge of attraction I’ve spent years ignoring.

      Blair’s family and mine go way back. The daughter of my father’s friend, business rival, albeit a friendly one, and fellow golf crony, she grew up in similar circles, although she’s closest in age to Kit, and it’s been years since we’ve personally had any contact.

      I straighten my tie and approach, scoping the length of her body, down spectacular legs, which I can tell, even from this distance, are bare. She’s wearing a fitted red dress, her hair caught up in a high ponytail and sunglasses perched on top of her head, as if she’s casually pushed them there on entering the building and perhaps forgotten their presence.

      Heat stirs in my veins. Despite our ten-year age gap, her beauty has always caused a flicker of appreciation. I might have had my fingers burned by my money-grabbing ex-wife, but a woman like Blair is hard to ignore. A cool blonde—smart, classy, almost untouchable.

      Still, appreciation is all it ever can be.

      I arrange my features into something approximating a warm welcome and announce my arrival. ‘Blair—it’s been a while.’

      She stands, her surprise that I’m not my father turning into a smile of greeting as she accepts my handshake with a flush. Her smile, slightly lopsided and pinching one cheek into an adorable dimple I recall she hated as a teenager, and the mildly taken-aback delight I spy lurking there, turns this morning’s debacle into a minor hiccup.

      ‘Reid.