One Wrong Move (The Connovan Chronicles Book 3), page 1
Copyright © 2024 Olivia Hayle
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be distributed or transmitted without the prior consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.
All characters and events depicted in this book are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and explicit scenes, and is intended for mature readers.
Edited by Andie Edwards of Beyond the Proof
Proofread by Shannon Shacka
Ebook cover art by Cormar Covers
Model Dane de Bruin shot by Wandar Aguiar
Paperback chapter art by Ginotage Sandaru
Discreet paperback cover by Books & Mood
www.oliviahayle.com
To everyone who wakes up one day and wonders when and where they lost themselves… and sets out to rediscover that person.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Other books by Olivia
About Olivia
Nate
I saw her first.
I’d just been given a not-so-subtle dressing down by my father. The head of the family and former CEO of Contron. Apparently, I’m not pulling my weight in the family company the way I should be.
Now, I’m sitting at the bar in the Village, drowning my sorrows in a gin and tonic. I haven’t been here before. It’s close to the university area, and the sound in the dimly lit locale is loud. Overflowing with laughter, drunken chatter, and music that has a pounding beat.
It makes me feel alive. Like I’m someone else for an hour or two—someone younger, someone idealistic and optimistic. Someone still in college.
I don’t often miss that time of my life. But right now I do. Sleeping in, slacking off, and studying. Sometimes.
I miss the cold air that shrouds Boston this time of year and the weighted blanket of low expectations that came with having the perfect older brother.
These days, life is all suits and boardrooms. I’m good with it, but it drains energy. Too often, I feel like I’m a battery that’s running on empty.
I take a sip of the drink and look around. Dean is still in the bathroom, having downed his third beer. It gives me plenty of time to people-watch.
A group of friends sit in a nearby booth, beer bottles on the tabletop in front of them. One of the guys is drinking what seems to be whiskey or scotch, and he scratches at the nonexistent beard on his chin.
My gaze slides over, along the tables at the back. Past the abandoned jukebox and the stage that must, on occasion, host live performers.
I see a girl sitting alone at a table.
There’s a halo of blonde curls around her face, falling just past her shoulders. A dark headband crowns the locks. She’s in an oversized cable-knit sweater with sleeves that are too long. One of them is pulled down over her hand, like she’s using it as a barrier to hold her cold beer. It looks untouched.
She glances around. Her eyes are alert and a bit pensive. A pointed chin, almost elfin, but there’s nothing doll-like about her face. Her skin is flushed, as if she just came in from the cold.
College student, I think. She has to be. Which makes her a decade younger than me, maybe more.
She glances up at the ceiling and cocks her head, just slightly, like she’s studying something intensely. I look up, but there’s nothing there. Just spotlights that have been dimmed to a low setting. Somewhere in the background, an old eighties rock song begins to play. The woman taps along with the tune, her free hand drumming against the worn wooden table.
I take a long sip of my gin and tonic. It feels pretentious, suddenly, to have a cocktail in a dingy college bar.
I wonder if she’s waiting for her date.
I wonder what her voice sounds like.
I wonder what her smile looks like.
And I wonder, looking at her across the crowded bar, if I’ll ever be able to forget the sight of her. The question seems outrageous at the moment. How could I?
I feel as if I’ve been struck.
Putting down the glass, I undo the button of my suit jacket. It feels all wrong now, too. Something that belongs to the man I am during the day, the man I’m expected to be, but not me. Not really.
I shrug out of it. Leaving it on the chair beside me, the chair Dean vacated, and move to rise out of my own. There’s no way I can leave here without at least saying hi to her. Without asking what she’s thinking about.
A hand lands on my upper back. “Don’t,” Dean says, “stop by the table with all the jocks on the way to the restroom. They’re so fucking riled up, I swear. They saw my suit and wanted to ask me about stocks. Couldn’t tell if they were joking or not, so I gave them terrible advice, just in case.”
I turn to him. “How noble.”
He grins and nudges my shoulder with his. “We have to teach the pups some manners.”
“And you’re the old dog in this scenario, are you? We’re not even thirty-five.”
“Oh, but we’ve been in the game a long time.” He leans against the bartop beside me. I’ve known him since college, a friend forged through too much alcohol, too little sleep, and endless anxiety about exams.
I glance over his shoulder at the girl.
She’s still sitting alone. Unlike most people, she hasn’t pulled out her phone to pass the time, to avoid even a second of boredom. She’s looking around like she’s analyzing the environment she’s in. An observer rather than a participant.
Dean follows my gaze. “What… oh,” he says. Then he smiles. “She’s cute, isn’t she?”
I pick my gin and tonic back up. “She’s a college student.”
“So? Even old dogs, and all that.” He bumps my shoulder with his again and then he walks off. Meandering through the crowd. My buddy, Dean, who can be blunt but also charming. Who is good-looking, sporting a short buzz cut, and who has a passion for sailing and real estate. Heading straight toward the table where she’s sitting—radiant and alone—gripping an untouched bottle of beer.
And she looks up at him… and smiles.
So, even though I saw her first, he was the one who spoke to her first.
And that made all the difference.
Harper, four years later
The gallery is large, white, and entirely impersonal, excluding the bright-colored art pieces lining the walls. Standing next to my new coworker, Aadhya, I feel incredibly out of place. Not only is she tall, she’s fabulous, too. And British, dressed in a sleek outfit that’s nothing like my own red maxi dress. She’s gorgeous and already knows the ropes around here. I find her incredibly intimidating.
She walks me through the client roster. The codes that open the different offices. The protocol for event organizing.
Her overview is at a breakneck pace, and I try my best to follow along.
“Now you try,” she says, stepping to the side and gesturing at the computer. Aadhya watches me for a few seconds as I try to replicate her steps. “So, you really just got here a week ago?”
“Yes,” I say.
“From New York?”
“Yeah. I love the City, but needed a change of pace,” I say. It’s an understatement. I needed an escape, and London and this gallery provided it. I applied to this paid junior traineeship a few months ago, without telling anyone. And when the acceptance letter arrived in my email inbox a few weeks ago…
I’d seen a way out. A chance at a new existence. I’d jumped at it and left everything behind.
“New York, though,” Aadhya says. Her tone is contemplative. “I can’t imagine ever leaving that city. I was born and raised in London, and this city is never getting rid of me.”
“This gallery was just calling my name,” I say. “So how does this system work? With the access codes?”
She comes to stand beside me and shows me what to do with brisk competence. For my first day, it’s thankfully pretty slow, with only a few clients scheduled for appointments to browse the art. I know my tasks. Shadow Aadhya all day and make sure the clients are happy, satisfied, and have a glass of champagne in hand if they want it.
Around us hangs art worth millions of pounds. Excitement is a steady beat inside of me, all day
A few men are standing on the other side of the gallery. I recognize one immediately. Eitan White. The owner and executive head of the Sterling Gallery. He’s a short man with thick, curly black hair, and the most intimidating gaze I’ve ever encountered.
His voice is warm as he speaks to a tall man in a suit.
I look back to Aadhya. “A potential customer? Already?” I whisper.
She nods and flips a page of the art collection catalog. She’s looking for one of the abstracts. “Yes, he was here bang on time as the gallery opened. He’s an existing client. Always gets the royal treatment and personal tours from Eitan.”
I glance over at the pair again. There’s something familiar… A deep, unsettling feeling washes over me when the man turns, and I catch sight of his profile.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
I had known he was in London. Of course I knew, but I didn’t think I would bump into him. Hadn’t really thought about it at all. Not since I packed a bag and booked a flight.
But it’s true that he’s always been interested in contemporary art. Had frequently asked me about existing and up-and-coming artists every time he’s gone to dinner with Dean and me. It had been one of the few things we had in common. I loved telling him about the artists I thought had a bright future, and he seemed like he enjoyed listening to me go on about it.
“Harper?” Aadhya asks. She’s chewing gum, and her long, black ponytail gleams under the soft glow of recessed lighting. She’s beautiful. Brown skin, expertly applied makeup, and a fantastic accent. “You are staring a bit, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s fit. I know that first hand.” She grins and inclines her head slightly in his direction. “One of the gallery’s best customers, too, so you know he’s got deep pockets.”
“Right, that makes sense. You kinda have to if you’re into art,” I say. My voice comes out high, laced with nervousness.
Aadhya taps her manicured nails against the closed cover of the Sterling Gallery’s collection catalog. “He makes Eitan very happy, at least, whenever he visits. I’ve tried to get him to ask me on a date for months.”
My eyebrows rise. “You have?”
“Of course,” she says with a smile. “Do you know how rare it is to have fit customers?”
I look back at Nate, where he’s chatting with our eccentric boss, a legend in the art industry and someone I remember hearing about in college.
The two of them start strolling through the gallery toward where Aadhya and I are lingering.
Shit.
My heart rate speeds up with every step they take. Dean and Nate have been friends for nearly twenty years. They went to college together, and Nate had been over at our place plenty of times for dinner.
He was also supposed to be Dean’s best man at our wedding.
The last time I saw him was at a dinner party, months ago. He’d been sitting across the table from me, surrounded by Dean’s family and friends and so much candlelight that it sucked all the air out of the room until I felt like I was about to suffocate. But everyone else near me laughed on, oblivious to the danger.
Dean must have sent him.
Sure, he’s interested in art, but what are the odds of Nate being here on my second day?
I grab one of the gallery’s oversized coffee table books, resting it upright on top of the sleek desk that holds our single computer, and drop onto the lone chair facing the screen. In a panic, I open up the hardcover and concentrate intently on the pages.
“We have more from Vesper in the room across here,” Eitan says. “If you’re interested in some of their more fluid expressions, there’s a piece in purple that I personally find very expressive.”
Nate gives a thoughtful hum.
“Good afternoon,” Aadhya says warmly. “As always, just let me know if you two want anything while you browse. A cup of coffee?”
“I’m good, thank you,” Nate says. His voice is so close. Right in front of me, above the edges of a glossy Monet I’m barely looking at. My breaths feel too fast, my heart beat too rapid.
Footsteps start up again, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Harper?” he asks. “Is that you?”
Shit.
I lower the enormous book to find three pairs of eyes staring at me. Eitan, with barely concealed surprise. Aadhya, with her mouth gaping wide. And Nate, standing on the other side of the desk, his dark eyes intent on me.
I give him a small smile. “Hi, Nate.”
“What a lovely surprise,” he says. His voice is deep and assured, and not the least bit surprised. He knew, I think. The suspicion grows thicker in my throat, and fear lodges deep.
He wouldn’t come here on Dean’s orders. Would he?
“You know our new colleague,” Eitan says. His voice is impossible to decipher, and I glance from my ex-fiancé’s best friend to my new boss.
“I do, indeed,” Nate says. “How have you been, Harper?”
“Great. Yeah, it’s been… fantastic. Settling in here, in London.”
He nods and gives the others a charming smile. The top button of his dress shirt is undone, and the cut of his suit looks tailored. Every inch, the man I’ve always known him to be. Indecently rich and unfairly handsome.
“Harper has regularly advised me about art back in New York. I have her to thank for some of my best purchases.”
What?
I blink up at him from behind the desk.
“Is that so?” Aadhya says in a warm purr.
Eitan lifts an eyebrow and looks at me like he’s reevaluating everything he thought about his gallery’s brand-new American employee. “Well, well,” he says. “What a lovely surprise, indeed.”
I put the coffee table book down with as much grace as I can, considering it weighs more than any book ever should.
“I didn’t know you were moving on to this gallery, or I would have reached out,” Nate says.
He’s laying it on thick. I don’t know why, either, but judging by the looks on my coworkers’ faces, it’s working. I clear my throat. “It was a rather quick career decision, that’s true.”
He nods, and there’s a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. Quick is an understatement for what I’d done. Pulled the rug out from under Dean, got on a flight, and left everything I’ve ever known behind.
Only weeks before the wedding.
“But a great one. I’ve bought a fair number of works from this gallery. Wouldn’t you say, Eitan?” Nate gives the Englishman a wide grin.
Eitan’s lips curve slightly. “Indeed you have, Mr. Connovan. A most fruitful association.”
“For us both,” he says. “Say, would you mind if Harper shows me around for a bit? I would love to hear her take on some pieces, and then I’ll meet back up with you to finalize a few things.”
Aadhya stares at Eitan. I stare at Eitan. It’s a blatant snub, even wrapped up in the determined charm Nate Connovan has always exuded.
“But of course,” Eitan says. “You two must have a lot of catching up to do. Aadhya will be here if you need anything, and, please, come see me on the third floor when you’re done.”
Mr. White handles it gracefully, I have to give him that.
Nate looks at me with a raised brow. “Let’s.”
Okay then.
Rising from my seat, I don’t dare look in Aadhya’s direction. I can already hear the hundred-and-one questions I’ll have to answer when I return. Likely from each of them.
I fall into step beside Nate. He’s tall, towering nearly a head over me. His long strides are measured next to mine. I try to focus on the art around us and not on his presence, but it’s nearly impossible.
Here it comes, I think. The admonition. The questions.
Telling me how upset Dean is.
What a giant mistake I’ve made.
“How have you been?” he asks.
I glance his way. “Good. It’s been a lot.”
“Yeah. I can imagine.”
I match his tone of voice, keeping mine low, too. Lord knows galleries are great for making sound carry. I steer us toward the adjacent room, bypassing all of the Vesper pieces Eitan had been determined to show Nate.
“Did you know… Did you know that I work here?”
Nate is quiet for a beat, and my stomach sinks. Shit.
“I did,” he says. “But I’m also a regular customer. We would’ve met eventually.”
