Some bozo had bought Rufus as a puppy, then, shocker, learned that the breed tended to get a wee bit large. But the idiot’s loss was her gain, because, as Bryce Campbell had suspected, Rufus and Colleen were kindred spirits.
She called Rushing Creek and talked to Joanie, the night nurse in her grandfather’s wing, and ascertained that Gramp was having a good night. Then, with a sigh, she got the snacks, made Rufus balance his cookie on his nose before allowing him to inhale it, then flopped down on the couch with the box of Oreos. Because really, no one had just one Oreo.
Love was in the air. It was all around her, as a matter of fact—Faith and Levi maybe percolating a baby; Honor and Tom getting married; Brandy and Ted now engaged. Paulie and Bryce (complicated on several levels...but maybe a chance for Colleen to do something good).
Connor and someone.
That one gave her the biggest pang. Granted, there’d been many times over the years when Colleen would’ve cheerfully sold Connor to the gypsies (and had, in fact, put him up for adoption when they were twelve and he announced the fact of her period in the cafeteria). When their parents went through their ugly, horrible, terrible divorce, she and Connor had become closer than ever. They often called or texted each other simultaneously. Saw each other every day.
It was strange, thinking of her twin married, a dad. She certainly wanted him happy, of course she did. It was just that she always pictured it in the happy, sunny future, in which she would have a great spouse and adorable tots.
But that picture always held a dreamlike quality, the image overexposed, as if the sun shone too brightly, and her husband’s face was blurred.
Once, she’d known exactly who the face belonged to, and it hadn’t been blurry at all.
“MOMMY SAYS YOU’RE emotionally shut down.” The voice came from the child standing in the doorway of Lucas Campbell’s office at Forbes Properties. A female child of the smallish variety. One of his four nieces, specifically.
“That’s adorable. I thought I banned you from visiting me,” Lucas said. He pressed the intercom to his assistant. “Susan, please call Security and have my niece escorted from the building.”
“She’s five years old,” Susan said.
“Have them send a team.”
Chloe grinned, flashing the gaping hole in her teeth. Too soon for dentures, probably. “Mommy says you’re constibladed.”
“I’d have to agree,” Susan said, then clicked off.
He leveled a stare at his niece. “The word is constipated. If you’re going to talk about me, you need to up your game. Why are you here? Didn’t I pay you not to bother me?”
“I spent your money.”
“So?”
“So give me more.” The kid had the soul of a Beverly Hills trophy wife. She skipped over to him and climbed onto his lap.
“Don’t think this show of affection will win you any points,” he grumbled.
“What are you looking at?” Chloe said, settling back against him.
“Mr. Forbes is building a new skyscraper,” he said.
“I want to live in the penthouse.”
“You’re broke. And you have no earning potential, I might point out. You can’t even drive. Not very well, anyway.” This earned a giggle, and Lucas smiled into his niece’s hair.
“Is that a princess you have there?” came a voice.
“Hi, Frank!” Chloe scrambled off Lucas’s lap and charged into Frank Forbes’s legs. “Uncle Lucas showed me your new skyscraper, and I want to live in the penthouse!”
Frank picked up Chloe and laughed. “Well, you can stay overnight before we sell it, how’s that? You and your sisters?”
“Hooray!”
“Little girl, whatever your name is, go see Susan and tell her to let you answer the phones,” Lucas said. “You can be her boss until your mom comes to get you.” Steph, Lucas’s older sister, worked in Accounting seven floors down, and often sent her youngest up to bother him. Chloe was in the after-care program that Forbes offered its employees. Cara, Tiffany and Mercedes—Chloe’s sisters—had all been in the same program, though they were now extremely mature at ages fourteen for the twins, and sixteen for Mercedes.
Chloe stampeded for the reception area, the promise of power the best bribe possible.
“When can we hire her?” Frank asked, sitting down in the leather chair in front of Lucas’s desk.
Lucas smiled and waited. Frank only came by to talk about one thing these days—why Lucas should stay with Forbes Properties and not leave, as he planned to, once the Cambria skyscraper was finished. But Lucas was done here, as grateful as he was. Frank Forbes, his boss and former father-in-law (and yes, a relation to that Forbes) had been good to him.
“I wish you’d stay, son,” he said, almost on cue. “There’s no need for you to leave.”
“Thank you. But I think it’s time. More than time.”
Frank sighed. “Maybe. It won’t be the same without you, though.”
The truth was, it was still hard for Lucas to believe he worked here—him, a kid from the South Side, taking an elevator to the fifty-third floor every day. He’d first worked for Forbes Properties the summer of his freshman year of college, doing grunt-work construction, mostly cleaning up after the union carpenters and electricians, schlepping supplies, then working his way up being able to drive nails and cut wood.
Four years later, he’d been given a promotion, a health care package and a title.
That’s what happened when you knocked up the boss’s daughter.
And despite the fact that Frank had forgiven him for that transgression, had treated him far better than he deserved, had truly made him part of the family—and not just him, but Steph and her kids, too—Lucas couldn’t stay anymore. His debt to the Forbes family was paid as much as it would ever be.
“Have you seen my daughter lately?” Frank asked now.
“We had dinner the other night.”
There was a pause. “She looks good, don’t you think?”
“She does.”
Lucas’s intercom buzzed. “A call for you on line three,” came Chloe’s voice.
“Did you get a name?” Lucas asked.
“No,” she answered. “Get it yourself.”
Frank smiled. “I’ll see you later, son.”
“Thanks, Frank.” He waited until Frank left; the guy would stop to talk to Chloe, no doubt, who collected souls like a tiny Satan.
“Lucas Campbell,” he said into the phone.
“Lucas? It’s Joe.”
“Hey, Uncle Joe,” he said. “How you doing?”
There was a pause. “I’m not so good, pal.”
Something flared in Lucas’s chest. “Are you okay?”
“Well...the tumor’s getting bigger, and I think I’d like to...you know. Wind down.”
The words seemed