“We will cooperate fully with anybody that needs to talk to us.”

“I’d expect nothing less. I’ll be in touch.” He hangs up the phone, and I’m left listening to the monotonous dial tone as the shock starts to set in.

“Cal?” Grant says, but I hold my finger up, asking for a minute to compose myself. “Cal?”

“I need to call a car. I’ve got to get out of here,” I rasp out. I grab my briefcase off the floor and try to slow my breathing enough to earn a brief respite. A moment of clarity enables me to look Grant straight in the eye. “Can you get hold of Luce and get the car service to bring her to my house as soon as she can.”

His eyes are as panicked as I feel, darting between me and the television screen, which now shows a fire raging on-site and multiple fire units on the surrounding streets. “What did Richard say?”

“It’s what he didn’t say. There is more to this, and he either doesn’t realize it yet or he’s not telling us. Either way, there is no way there were any issues with the services, the foundations, the geotechnical information or the plans. The spotlight that was on us has just turned into a big fucking bullseye.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Graves asks. I’d forgotten he was still here.

“Mr. Graves, it’s business as usual for everyone. You’ll be contacted.”

“If I can help in any—”

“We’ll let you know,” Grant spits out impatiently. Graves looks between the both of us before nodding and leaving.

“Cal?” Grant says.

I stand up, my fingers tightening around the phone in my hand. My muscles are so taut and strained that it’s miraculous I can still move, the tension threatening to break me in half. Pacing to the window and back again, I run my spare hand through my hair, stopping to stare down toward the waterfront.

“Cal, what the fuck are we going to do?” Grant asks me, once Graves leaves.

I turn to face him, the words coming out of my mouth without thought. “That shit storm already swirling around us just hit an all-time low. Until we know what’s going on we’re going to send the staff home for today. Tell them we’ll send out a company memo when we know more.”

“In more ways than one,” he replies, worry etched across his face.

I nod to him and walk out, not talking to anybody as I stride through reception, into the elevator, down into the basement where I sit inside the car waiting for me in the parking garage.

Once we’re out on the street and heading toward home, I press speed dial and hold my phone up to my ear until the call is answered.

“Cal? I just heard.”

I hear her voice but for the first time since I’ve met her, the tension crippling me fails to fade away.

I need calm, release, something to break the quandary I now find myself in.

Anything to stop my carefully managed world from crashing down around me.

“Cal?” she calls from the entryway as she walks into the house.

“In here,” I reply with a tight voice, constricted with unspoken emotion. I’m such a mess I’m amazed that I was even able to get inside my house and not tear myself apart limb from limb.

My entire body is ablaze, every fiber of my being screaming for something—anything—to quell the unending noise that has been bearable before now.

“Grant explained what happened,” she says rushing over to where I stand by the balcony window. Her body hits my back just as her arms wrap around my chest. “Do they know what caused it?”

“I . . .” I shake my head, suddenly lost for words. A million thoughts race through my head, but I can’t seem to verbalize a single one.

“Cal?” She moves around until she’s in front of me. She reaches up and cups my jaw, tilting my face down toward hers. When I meet her gaze, all I see is concern and sadness.

We stand there, frozen in time. I let myself get lost in those soulful eyes of hers and her beautiful face that never fails to bring me back to serenity—except today.

Clearing my throat, I step back and watch her hands fall away, her expression changing to one of confusion. Downing the rest of the scotch in my glass, I move toward the half full decanter next to the couch and pour myself another. Getting intoxicated may not be the smartest move, but right now the idea of a second glass is more tempting than the alternative—that being the acknowledgement of the walls closing in on me.

Lucia’s soft hand engulfs mine as I go to fill the glass. “That’s not going to help, Cal. You need to talk. Tell me, what I can do?”

If only she knew the answer lying in wait on the tip of my tongue.

How I long to be able to take that final step I’ve resisted until now.

Without the glass in my hand, something to hold, something to ground me, I’m at a loss. Lucia anchors her body to mine once more, the two of us clinging to each other. I place my hands on her hips, resting them there because I don’t know what else to do.

For the first time in my thirty-four years, I am completely and irrevocably lost.

She opens her mouth to say something, but I find myself needing to speak first.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. It’s too much.”

“What’s too much?” Quiet, soft, compassionate Lucia. Her voice is filled with care and concern, encouraging the thoughts out of me.

“I’ve never felt as out of control . . .” Standing in my office and getting the call that could forever shape the landscape in which my career is featured in.

“Let me help you. Tell me what I can do to help. Is there someone I can call? Are there things I can—”

My body’s instincts kick in. It takes what it wants, what it needs first and foremost, without thought, as I jerk her body against mine and slam my lips down against hers. She gasps in shock and my tongue takes advantage, plunging inside her open mouth. Her body instantly melts when she realizes my intentions.

But the lust-filled haze fueled by my desperate need to stop thinking—to stop feeling—clears a few moments later, and I realize just how on edge I am.

“Luce, I . . .” I shake my head and step back, putting some much needed physical distance between us. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Her eyes widen. She’s quick to allay my fears. “No, Cal. You followed your body’s lead. I will never stop you from listening to your gut and rolling with it.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

“What can I do?” she asks, standing motionless as she watches me.

“I don’t know!” I shout. “What can any of us do?” I start pacing the room, my breaths coming hard and fast, my chest heaving as I violently spit out every word. “Two men died today—died—constructing a building that I designed. It could be anything, it could be everything, but the first person they’re going to look at will be me, Grant, the firm . . .” I snatch up the crystal tumbler and pitch it hard across the room, watching the shards of glass shatter into a million pieces against the stone feature wall.

I whirl around and stalk toward her. Such a display of anger should scare her; most other women would cower in the face of such emotion. But not my Lucia. She barely flinches before continuing.

“It’s not your fault, Cal. None of this is your fault. You need to calm down and start thinking about what you can do to help.”

I drop down into my leather recliner, putting my head in my hands, my elbows resting on my knees. “I’m the hot-shot hometown golden boy, and I’m the perfect scapegoat to throw under the bus.”

Lowering herself to her knees in front of me, she braces her hands on either side of my waist. She’s cocooning me, comforting me. “Cal, you can’t know that.”

My voice is low, quiet, defeated. “Everything has been leading up to this. It’s bullshit. I have no fucking idea what the hell I’m going to do.” I lift my head and look at her. “This isn’t me, Luce. This isn’t the Callum Alexander that everyone knows—”