Текст книги "The Singles"

Автор книги: Emily Snow

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"It can be a tad overwhelming at first, but you'll get used to it." My companion broke through my thoughts, and I twisted to see the centerpiece of the fountain in the middle of the lobby, a massive marble replica of Emerson & Taylor's circular logo.

"Good to know." We stopped behind the line at the security check-in, and I looked in her direction. "I'm”—I sucked in a little breath before I followed through with the lie—“Lizzie Connelly, by the way"

"Stella Marchand."

When I first started escorting, I'd worked at an agency with a woman who had the same surname, and my smiled deepened as I finally placed her accent. "Trinidad?"

Dark eyes widening in surprise, she nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Lived there until I was four, then we moved to Brooklyn. And then I came ... here." She paused when it was her turn to check in, setting the coffee on top of the C-shaped desk to dig around in her Burberry satchel. Producing a rectangular badge, she handed it to the uniformed security officer on duty. He was an older, balding man—and entirely different than the guard who was on shift when I was in the office two weeks ago. After he checked her ID, Stella smiled sweetly.

"Carl, do me a favor and check her in as a guest. Lizzie Connelly."

Carl scanned his eyes over me, his scrutiny enough to make me dip my eyes to the floor. "I actually have an appointment with Dora in HR this morning," I announced. "I'm Mrs. Emerson's new assistant." Before he could ask for it, I reached inside my own purse to withdraw my false ID, not missing the little noise Stella made in the back of her throat. Handing Carl my license, I shot her a questioning look to which she mouthed, “Later.”

After adding my name to his digital log, Carl returned my ID and stared pointedly at Stella. "You know I'm supposed to call HR down to escort her if—"

She cut him off with a swift shake of her head. "Relax, I promise she'll get there without making a fuss." Plucking a coffee from one of the cup holders, she slid the offering in front of the guard with a wink. "Go on, take it. Three creams and sugars, just how you like it."

Releasing a sound of submission, he motioned for us to pass through. "You sure as hell know the way to my heart."

Stella threw her head back and laughed, then carefully scooped up the rest of the coffee. "See you later, Carl."

"Thanks," I said, catching up beside her in the wide hall. There were three elevators on either side, and after looking up to examine their current positions, Stella opted for the cars on the right. "I've got to admit, I felt like I was back in sixth grade when I had to be escorted around when I met with Dora last week."

"You drink?"

That was random. My shoulders crept up as we shuffled through the open elevator doors along with a few other people. "Occasionally. I'm guessing this has something to do with—"

Her smile taut, her eyes darted to the other occupants of the elevator. "We'll have to do drinks one night." Stepping out onto the fourth floor, she jerked her head for me to follow her. "The stories I could tell you."

"It's a date," I blurted, even though I’d made a goal not to become attached to any of my co-workers during my time at Emerson & Taylor. I would use them for information, but that was it. Already, I could tell Stella was someone I’d honestly enjoy being around. The thought of becoming genuinely close to anyone who knew me as Lizzie terrified me just as much as thinking of Los Angeles as home.

And yet, I was still chomping at the bit to hear those stories Stella alluded to. "You're paying,” I told her.

“You got it." She deposited the coffee on the desk of a woman who was in the middle of a call, and I followed suit with the box of pastries. Grabbing something from the corner of the desk, Stella crooked her finger at me. "Come on, I'll take you to HR."

She waited until we were back inside the elevator, on our way down to the second floor, to hand me what she grabbed from the desk—a matte silver business card boasting Emerson & Taylor's logo with Stella's name and job title, Marketing Manager, along with her extension and email address. "You could call Claire, the receptionist downstairs, and she'd put you right through, but this makes it easier."

"Thank you for making me feel less like the new kid. I mean that, Stella.”

The doors slid open, and she sashayed into the human resources lobby—a smaller, less luxurious, carpeted version of the main lobby downstairs. Her glossy lips were curled into a grin when she gazed back at me. "We were all new once, baby. Plus, I think it's only fair to prepare you for the crazy mess that's Emerson & Taylor." She flashed her dark eyes to the short row of black leather armchairs. "I'll let them know you're here, but Dora's usually quick if she’s already expecting you.”

I sat in the seat closest to Dora’s office and watched as Stella leaned over the receptionist's desk. Although I tried, I couldn't make out a word of what they were saying. The only thing I—and probably the rest of this floor—could hear was all the commotion drifting from behind the HR director's closed door. It was incredibly loud and definitely belonged to a woman and a man.

When I heard the female forcefully say, "Get out of my office, Oliver," shock flared through me.

Oliver?

It couldn’t be.

I tried to convince myself that it could be another Oliver, but the odds were certainly not in my favor. The door crept open, each inch seeming to take a lifetime. Even though he was still turned toward her, I had a clear view of his back. Sure, it was completely covered by a crisp, white shirt, but the tight muscles beneath the impeccable stitches sent my imagination into overdrive. He had one of those backs—the type women could picture dragging their fingernails down. A little too unabashedly, I allowed my eyes to wander over the rest of his towering form.

Medium-length, light brown bed hair, an ass that competed with his toned back, and long legs inside tailored black dress pants.

Curiosity would be my undoing, I was sure of it.

"Next time, Isadora," Oliver began in a husky voice that held a note of laughter. "Don't ask me down here if you're just going to—"

"I won’t because you don’t even work here," Dora growled from inside her office. "So get the fuck out!"

"God, the professionalism..." His broad shoulders shaking, he turned around and entered the lobby, looking both devilishly gorgeous and completely relaxed in spite of his obvious argument with Dora. When he noticed Stella and the HR receptionist gaping at him, he stopped short.

And then, he smirked. It was a cocky, deliciously sexy turn of his lips that had me gripping my bag to my chest like it would ward him off from casting his spell on me. Smiles like Oliver's...they were dangerous—they were the ones that shattered the resolve of even the most cautious, and I clearly wasn’t cautious.

"Good morning," he drawled, inclining his head politely. Noticing me, he tipped his head once more in my direction. When he lifted his chin and our eyes locked, a flash of lightning struck me full force—a current to my heart that stole the breath right from the flames consuming my body.

Blue eyes.

Somehow, the media hadn’t done his eyes—cornflower blue fringed with sooty black lashes—justice. They were set in an oval face, bisected with a slightly crooked nose, and rivaled only by lips that were—I hated to admit—distractingly pouty.

It was a face that, paired with his godlike physique and ADHD dating habits, had magazines and entertainment networks calling him "The Bad Boy Next Door."

As if he sensed my reaction to him, his grin widened roguishly. The stare I managed to return was full of forced indifference, raising his thick eyebrows.

Because I didn't think of him as the man from the magazines. The millionaire. Mr. Sex-In-A-Business-Suit. I only knew him as Oliver Manning.

An obstacle.

My stepbrother.

Chapter 2

I was nine years old the only other time I’d seen Oliver Manning in person, but I remembered that day well. He was fifteen, and when he knelt by where my mom and I were huddled together on one end of the funeral home’s front pew, his movements tentative and shaky, I knew my father’s death had broken him too. Covering my much smaller hand with his, he’d given my fingers an encouraging squeeze.

I’d looked up through the haze—through the tears—to see his soft smile.

“I’m so sorry about your dad,” he said, his bright blue eyes red-rimmed. Despairing. He seemed to search for the right thing to say before his shoulders had drooped forward. “I’d give anything to fix this for you.”

I released a hiccup, followed by a sob, and then my mom had gathered me close, consoling me quietly in Ukrainian. She said something to Oliver before he left to join his own mother, but I hadn’t heard it.

All I heard was the finality of his words: My father was gone.

Now, as he sauntered away like a man who carelessly held the world in the palms of his hands, everyone remaining in the HR lobby was left wordless, motionless—myself included. Ultimately, Stella cleared her throat.  She came over to where I was still sitting, and with a chuckle, leaned down to whisper, "Like I said, you'll want that drink. You've got my card now—let me know when you're free."

My focus drifted over her shoulder, in the direction that Oliver had taken, and I nodded briskly. "Count on it."

"Good," she purred. Shifting her hips, she stood upright and raced her hands down the front of her black pencil pants. The decadent scent of her jasmine perfume lingered behind her as she left. "I'm off to pimp fashion, but good luck today. If you need any help—and I do mean anything—you know where to find me,” she threw over her shoulder as she walked off.

"Thanks," I called after her, although she was already out of sight and likely out of earshot. Hell, she was possibly even already on an elevator—maybe with Oliver.

Nope, don’t even go there.

Still, an image of him nudged its way into my thought—his current panty-eating grin and not the wavering smile of a fifteen-year-old boy—and I closed my eyes. Before I received that call four months ago, I knew a handful of facts about the man who'd been my stepbrother. Even after, my sole focus had been on his mother, so I hadn't gone out my way to research Oliver. Ivy League, notorious playboy, and sinfully good-looking,  Oliver was the heir of a hotel magnate and a fashion mogul. Thanks to his former hard-partying habits and choice in women—he’d dated an actress or two—he was a media darling, known more for his personal exploits than his reputation as a businessman.

That seemed about all anyone needed to comprehend about the man.

That is all I need to know about that man.

As if to serve as an additional warning, Dora appeared in the doorway to her office, draping her model-tall body against the metal frame. She was visibly agitated, displaying none of the chilly reserve I noted over a week ago when she told me the job was definitely mine.

"Lizzie?" she asked shakily, and I stared at her keenly. She waved her hand for me to come into her office. "I'm ready for you."

Nodding, I followed her inside. As I sat down in the compact chair in front of her L-shaped glass desk, my gaze fell on the Honeymoon: Isadora and Franklin photo frame on her desk and the picture of her and a blond guy who had the body of a professional football player, decked out in leis with their arms wrapped around each other. They looked happy, and I felt my heart jerk.

"Lizzie?" My head popped up and Dora combed her hand through her straight auburn hair and gave me a tight smile that made my own cheeks hurt. "You'll have to excuse what you just saw," she said, her words spoken cautiously.

Taking in the bright splotches peppering her ivory face and neck, I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. What had Oliver said, or done, to provoke her? I was ashamed to admit that after some of the jobs I'd worked in Vegas, my thoughts automatically crept toward the not-safe-for-work variety, but when I inhaled, I noticed the air reeked of a lemon-scented incense warmer, not sex.

"I honestly wasn't even paying attention. I...." I cut myself off and looked down at my lap.

Dora's high-arched, burnished gold eyebrows pulled together. "You what?"

I mustered a nervous laugh and shrugged. "It's my dad. He was texting like crazy this morning, and I had to respond. He'd freak out if I didn't." It was a lie that made me nauseous, but it was also necessary. I wasn't Gemma Emerson here, I was Lizzie Connelly.

Lizzie had a family—a mother and father as well as two siblings she was extremely close to.

"Hmm ... well, in any case, let's get you all set up so you can be on your way." She fixated her gray eyes intently on the computer screen and pecked on the keyboard. "I just need a couple of things from you."

"Yes, I received your email." I reached into my purse and pulled out the ID I'd presented to Carl downstairs not even fifteen minutes ago and the folded direct deposit form I had printed and completed at home. My earnings would be going to a prepaid debit card—another one of Pen’s brilliant ideas.

"Wonderful, I'll just take this out to Pamela to make a copy for our records." Dora scooted backward and left the office, her ballet flats padding lightly on the carpet. I didn't dare turn to look at her because I knew I would give myself away and instead of going to the seventh floor—Margaret's floor—I'd be promptly escorted out of Emerson & Taylor by the police. I took Dora's absence as an opportunity to catch my breath and allow myself to grasp that I'd made it in.

I was here, in this building.

And if I were smart, I'd leave in a month or two with all of Margaret's secrets. And if those secrets included anything that had directly harmed my father or screwed me over...

"All finished." The sound of Dora's voice made me jump, but I didn’t think she noticed as she took her seat. She slid my ID across the desk. I picked it up, careful not to make contact with her so she wouldn't feel the nervous sweat dampening my palms. Leaning back in her chair, she offered me an expression that somewhat resembled a smile. "You're done here. You can go home."

Sharp fear speared the pit of my stomach. Keeping my demeanor calm, I put my ID in my bag and cocked my eyebrow at Dora. "Is anything wrong?"

She studied her computer screen, not looking at me, and my heart felt like it was seconds from exploding from my chest. I glanced at the door, confident that at any second, law enforcement would burst in and drag me away.

"Not at all,” Dora said dismissively, grabbing a half-full iced coffee from the edge of her desk that I hadn’t noticed before. I let the relief sink in as she took a sip and sighed. “As you already know from our discussion last week, Margaret's been working remotely while overseas for fashion week. She was supposed to be back in the office yesterday, but she was delayed. She’s adamant that you don't start until she returns."

"I see. And when will that be?"

Dora dabbed at her mouth with a pink lipstick-stained napkin and studied the large calendar beneath her keyboard. After several seconds, she tapped her finger on October tenth, three days from today. "She'll definitely be back and settled in by Thursday.” She glanced up at me, blowing wisps of hair from her face. "Can you be here first thing Thursday morning?"

I nodded a little too eagerly. "Yes, of course."

"I've asked Pamela to give Carl a call to let him know you'll be stopping by for your badge on the way out.” As if she’d completely brushed off whatever had happened between her and Oliver, Dora stood to dismiss me. “Welcome to Emerson & Taylor, Miss Connelly."

*

Leaving the HR department, and even as I rode the elevator back downstairs to Carl, anxiety crawled through my veins. I found the security guard leisurely sipping the coffee Stella had bribed him with, watching me with light eyes that made me feel like he could see right through me.

“Excited?” he asked, as he presented a newly printed badge on the counter in front of me. He placed a clipboard beside it and motioned for me to sign beside where my name was neatly printed. “It’s a good company. I’ve been here since ninety-four.”

He was here before my parents divorced, I thought. Had I met Carl when I was a child? Had he checked my mother and me through security so we could visit my father? If I told him who I was right now, would Carl remember me?

I responded with a smile, but my eyes unintentionally wandered to the left side of the lobby where my mom’s photo hung. “I can’t wait to meet Ms. Emerson.” My hand shook as I signed Lizzie Connelly—the name I’d practiced so many times over the last few months I could likely sign the damn thing in my sleep. “I’ve looked up to her ever since I was a little girl.” Saying those words aloud nearly choked me, but I maintained my expression.

“Every girl who comes through that door says that,” Carl mused as I shoved my new employee ID in my purse. When I forced myself to make eye contact, his forehead was wrinkled. "You can relax now; you've already got the job."

"I am relaxed."

"Uh-huh." He took another drink of his coffee, polishing it off. He tossed the cup into a wastebasket beneath the security desk. "You have a good one, Miss Connelly. We'll see you Thursday."

I felt the blood rushing to my face as I hurried away from the desk and across the lobby. My short legs seemed to take impossibly long strides in my effort to get to the parking garage. We did it, I thought, feeling weightless, invincible.

We did it.

As I rode the elevator down to the garage, I groped around in my bag for my phone. My eyes were trained on the screen when I stepped out of the steel car, so I stood to the side of the elevator, out of the line of any traffic that might come through the silent garage as I started my message to Penelope.

Margaret won't be back until Thursday, so I'm not needed until then, but I'm in. I'm officially in. You are a genius, Lisbeth. Neal. Whoever the hell you are.

I was about to hit send, but the deafening blast of a car horn drew a shriek from the back of my throat. My phone tumbled from my hands, the screen shattering on the concrete with a crack that signaled the end of the iPhone I’d only had for a few months. Furious, I stared at the splintered screen for a second before lifting my eyes, seething at the horn blower.

Sitting less than ten feet away from me was a jet black Dodge Viper.

And climbing out of the sleek car and coming right at me was Oliver.

What the hell was he doing?

Suddenly hyperaware of his every movement, I angled my body slightly away from his, hunching my shoulders defensively. Christ, he really was something to look at.

"Was I in your way?" I demanded hotly as I stalked forward to grab my phone. He beat me to it. Assessing the damage, his full lips curled into a frown. Somehow, he even made a foul expression look sensual.

"You could've walked in front of my car.”

This was one of those blonde jokes—it had to be. "Standing perfectly still?" I questioned sardonically. At his serious nod, I softly bit my tongue, sliding it from side to side between my teeth a few times so I wouldn’t respond callously. He’s my boss’ son, I reminded myself. In all honesty though, Oliver probably deserved every rough word I wanted to give him at the moment. "Thank you for the warning,” I said dryly.

A broad grin spreading across his face, he held my phone out to me. Noticing my reluctance to take it, his fingers skimmed mine as he placed it in my palm. His fleeting touch was a shock to my system, a jolt of pure electricity that sent all my nerve endings into chaos. Exhaling, he stared down at my hands. The expression in his blue eyes was unreadable.

“Thank you,” I said again, dropping the sarcasm this time.

“Anytime.” He clenched his fingers. “What's your name?" When I didn't answer, focusing instead on stowing the now useless iPhone in one of the zippered compartments of my purse, he moved even closer to me. The warm, heady scent of his cologne washed over me, causing my stomach to flutter. "Which floor are you on?"

I hoisted my bag higher on my shoulder and rolled my eyes. "So you can scare the shit out of me there, too?"

He ran his teeth over his lip. The gesture was almost ... inviting. Abruptly, the feather-soft fluttering in my stomach gave way to a sharp swell of something I didn’t want to identify by name. I always did have a thing for the beautiful ones, especially when they were so clearly out of my reach. "So I can replace your phone,” he offered, his deep voice cutting through my thoughts.

"I have insurance, but thanks." I smiled tightly and started to walk around him. "Now, if you don’t mind, I—"

When he reached out and grabbed my wrist, the first thing that registered in my brain was how hot his fingers felt on my skin. Grazing my pulse point, his touch was soft and yet commanding. It was a touch from a man used to getting his way.

"Wait," he ordered, and my pulse skipped. Unhurriedly, I turned on my heel to look at him warily. Although he should have released my arm, he didn’t. Instead, he pulled me closer to him and touched my chin with his thumb.

“What do you think—”

He tilted my face up so we were eye-to-eye. "Your name. I asked you your name.”

"Lizzie Connelly."

"Lizzie...” His voice trailed off as he tested the pseudonym on his tongue. Smirking like the cat that ate the canary—or in his case, the petite blond lady—he started, “I'm Oliver—"

I cut him off by tugging free of his distracting grip. Taking the hint, he moved his other hand from my face, and I released a breath of relief. "I already know exactly who you are."

He didn’t look surprised. If anything, his grin only grew bolder. Man-whore here probably thrived on being infamous. "My reputation precedes me."

Of course it did—hell, a photo of him at some red carpet gala with a Brazilian model had graced the lifestyle-and-entertainment section of a local paper just last weekend—but I wasn’t about to jerk off his ego by telling him that. "Not really." I absently trailed my fingers over the wrist his fingers had been wrapped around. My heart rate sped up and tingles rushed across my skin at the memory.

"Honestly, it was impossible to ignore your name when it was attached to 'get the fuck out of my office',” I told him.

“Dora likes to exaggerate.” His mouth twisted in annoyance, dragging my attention back to his lips. Damn, those lips. He backed up to his Viper. “There really wasn’t a need for theatrics.” He slid behind the wheel of his sporty car. If I expected him to simply drive off and forget I was standing there, I was sadly mistaken. The passenger window slid down, and his gaze trailed slowly down my body. I couldn’t remember the last time I let a man’s stare get beneath my skin, but Oliver’s did.

That fact alone made my jaw tighten.

“Believe it or not,” I said, tilting my head to the side, “Dora didn’t even mention you.”

The corner of his lip tugged up. "I'll have your replacement phone on your desk by tomorrow morning."

"That's really not necessary," I argued, but he lifted his shoulders. The pretentious asshole had just brushed me off. For a second, as I stared into his penetrating blue eyes, I wondered if he was the man who’d called me four months ago. But then I let the thought drift away as quickly as it came. Calling me like that wouldn’t have benefited him, and besides, the voice didn’t fit. Neither did the secrecy. Oliver Manning would have announced himself at the very beginning of that call if it had been him.

“I’m serious, Oliver,” I said through gritted teeth. Besides, I wouldn’t even be at the office until Thursday—not that he needed to know that.

"I fix what I break."

I stiffened, remembering his words from fourteen years ago. I’d give anything to fix this for you. Drawing in a few quick breaths, I pinched my mouth. “It’s a phone, Mr. Manning; I promise it’s not the end of the world.”

He started to pull off, but then he slammed on his brakes. I narrowed my eyes, but before I could ask him if he actually planned on leaving sometime today, he said, "I'm not sleeping with Dora."

“What?” I blurted.

“I’m. Not. Fucking. Dora. We’ve never had that kind of interest in each other.”

Wow ... really? I looked down at a crack in the garage floor. "It's none of my business, and I really, really don’t want to know. You don't have to explain anything to me.”

"No, I don't. I just didn’t want you getting the wrong idea about me." His vivid blue eyes examined me one final time, and then he put his car in gear. "Soon, Lizzie.”

*

Once I was sure he was gone, I rushed to my Mini Cooper. With my phone broken, I was even more anxious to get home. I ignored the speed limit, shunning the radio in favor of silence. By the time I closed my apartment door behind me, my body trembled.

Exhaling deeply, I dropped my purse by my feet and closed my eyes. I opened them just in time to see Pen coming out of the kitchen, holding a plate with a bagel slathered in strawberry cream cheese. She paused the moment her slate blue eyes landed on me.

"Oh shit." Her dark brows drew together in concern. "You didn't freak out and tell them everything, did you?"

I shook my head. “I don’t go back until Thursday. Margaret’s out of town, and she wants to be there when I start.” Pen let out a sigh of relief that echoed through her body. Dropping her plate a few inches from the red floral centerpiece on the dining room table, she sat down and motioned for me to take the spot right across from her. As I joined her, she studied me carefully.

"Alright, why are you shaking?" she demanded. “Being in that building didn’t get to you, did it?”

“I can handle the building,” I promised. “I’m shaking because of Oliver Manning.”

She repeated his name and then fanned herself, laughing at the dark look I shot at her. “That man gives me the shivers. Is he gorgeous in person? Or is he one of those guys who just photographs well?” Observing my silence, she leaned forward and whispered, “His mom was married to your dad for all of two years. It’s not wrong to—”

“He’s arrogant.” I left it at that because I absolutely could not look at her and tell her he wasn’t attractive. Everything about Oliver—from his voice to his touch to his knee-weakening looks—was overpowering and stunning. I recounted most of what had happened this morning, from meeting Stella to bits-and-pieces of the parking garage encounter, plunking my destroyed phone on the table between us when I was finished. “He’s bow-down-to-me, fall-into-my-Egyptian-cotton-sheets-right-effing-now arrogant.”

“He’s rich,” Pen pointed out. “You should be used to his type.”

In the last three years, I’d met my fair share of men with money, men who had gladly tossed out a few thousand a night to have me on their arm with absolutely no promise of anything more. But as I sat there trying to compare Oliver to them, I quickly found that my brain refused to make the connection.

He was in a class of his own, and I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

“Hmm ... I’m used to them. Doesn’t make it any better.” Thinking about the way his hands had felt flared over my skin doused me with a bucket full of emotions, and I shoved away from the table. “When are you leaving for Vegas?” I called out, walking into the narrow kitchen. As bad as it sounded, I was determined to get Oliver the hell out of my head, even if that meant powering through my fully stocked fridge.

“About that,” Pen said. I heard her make a noise that I associated with indecision. I knew what was coming even before I returned to the adjoining dining room with blueberry yogurt and a can of Diet Dr. Pepper. The thought made me ridiculously giddy inside. When I slid into my seat and tucked my foot beneath my butt, she folded her hands together and gave me one of those looks that made me feel like we were negotiating a business deal.

She should have known by now that none of this was necessary.

“So I called my boss, who was totally cool with me doing some work remotely, and I was thinking...” she said with a timid look that was so unlike her I bit my lip to suppress my own smile. For the last couple years, she’d been with the same software company, working in what she called a “white hat” position where she tested cracks in the software. She was such an asset to the company that her boss had reached the point where he let her do her own thing. “Well, hell, I was thinking—”

“Of course you can stay with me.” I pulled the foil off my yogurt and licked it clean. “I’d honestly love for you to be here.” Something about having Pen—my best friend and the mastermind who helped launch this complex plan—nearby took pounds of pressure off my chest.

Looking surprised at how easily I agreed, she twisted her head to the side, causing her mane of brown hair to cascade over one shoulder. “Really?”

“Really.” I shoveled another bite of yogurt in my mouth, already feeling thoughts of Oliver evaporate from my brain. “When are you going to go get your stuff?”

Pen’s eyes crinkled when she grinned, and once again, I knew what she was going to say next. She was impossibly easy to read, which I loved about her. The only thing I’d ever regretted about our relationship was that it had taken so long for her to come into my life.

“I’ve got a couple bags already in my trunk,” she announced, with a sheepish shrug. “Surprise, Gemma, I’m all yours until you see this through and get your answers.”