by Krista Holt
“You were never good with boundaries.”
“What can I say,” he smirks, “you have that effect on me.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m still angry,” I finally admit. “And I have more questions.”
“What do you want to know?”
Everything. But getting information from him is a lesson in patience, collecting the truth here and there from the crumbs he lets drop when he’s not paying attention, and I catch him off guard.
“How’s your dad now?”
His face shows surprise for all of a second, and then it’s gone. “He’s fine.”
I expect him to elaborate. He doesn’t, and the avoidance grates on me. Knowing he’s still hiding something stirs old doubts.
“So, he had a heart attack, you left, and then you forgot about me. Am I missing anything?”
His jaw clenches. “Reagan.”
Heat tinges my cheeks, and it’s not from the wine. “Did you even care about me at all?”
“Of course I did! Are you really questioning everything?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” One apology doesn’t wash away what he did. It doesn’t suddenly fix everything. It doesn’t repair the damage.
“One screw up on my part shouldn’t cancel out everything we had,” he stresses his words, leaning toward me.
“That’s how it works, Nic. If everything was built on a lie.”
He groans, and steps back, gripping the back of his neck in frustration. “Nothing was built on a lie. It was built on everything it should have been. You and me, and no one else. I know I hurt you, and I am sorry. Believe me, I hate myself for what I put you through.”
I try to ignore the way my heart responds to the emotion in his voice. If I let myself embrace it, my resolve will crumble. And that can’t happen.
“None of this makes sense,” I whisper.
“When has anything about us ever made sense?”
The passion mixing in his words confuses me. “What does that mean?”
“We should have never met. Paths like ours don’t cross. Lives as different as ours never intersect, but in our case they did, and I never, not for a single day, forget that. Never accuse me of forgetting you, that’s like accusing me of forgetting to breath. It’s impossible.” He stops, pinning me with a heavy stare. “You are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.”
“Stopping speaking in vague platitudes,” I groan. “Tell me what that means!”
“It means, I love you. I want you back. That’s it. End of story.” He unbuttons his jacket and plants his hands on his trim hips. “So what now? Do you have anything else you want to yell at me about?”
I glare at him. “Don’t you dare act like I’m crucifying you. I’m not.”
“No, but I’ve told you all I can. So you have to decide, are you in or you out? Do you want me?”
“That’s so unfair. You aren’t giving me any time to think about this.”
“This isn’t something you figure out with your head. It’s your heart. Do you want me?”
Of course I do, and even worse, I think he knows that already. I reach for the wine, but he’s faster. Moving beside me, he pulls it out of my reach.
“Tell me what you want, Reagan.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not keeping my distance while you decide.”
“I need time,” I argue.
“And you have it, but don’t expect me to step back while you work it out.”
My brow furrows. Condescending—His phone rings, breaking my concentration.
He glances at it before silencing it. “I should go. It’s getting late. What time do you leave for work in the morning?”
“Why?”
“I’ll give you a ride to work.”
“You should really ask people if they want your help.”
He smirks, not saying anything. It’s infuriating. Because I know he’s just going to show up anyway. It’s what he does. He gets his way.
Still, I try to put him off. “Becca and I normally head into the city together. On the metro. I don’t need a ride.”
“I know.”
My head comes up, meeting his gaze. “How can you possibly know that?”
“People are creatures of habit. You and Becca used to go everywhere together, it stands to argue your habits wouldn’t change.”
I frown. It seems like more than that.
“I’ll be here at eight a.m.,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “Let Becca know I can drop her off as well.” He pushes away from the counter. “Walk me out.”
“I don’t need a ride.”
He doesn’t reply as he walks toward the entry.
“I don’t.”
“I heard you,” he replies, opening the door.
“Is there some reason you’re unable to accept what I tell you? Is the cognitive reasoning part of your brain damaged?”
“No, but I know what you mean by what you don’t say. And you haven’t said no, which means you want me to show up. You want to know if I’ll keep my word. So, I’ll be here in the morning.”
That’s crazy. I wish I had the ability to verbalize that, but I don’t. His words render me speechless. I hate that. Almost as much as I hate that he’s saying all the right things, that he’s not letting me shut him out. It makes it worse. It makes what I’ve done so much worse.
“You’ll forgive me,” his hand tilts my chin up, “not because you want to, but because you have to . . . you have to. Just like I have to be around you, how I have to know you’re safe. You have to be with me. I know it.” He presses a gentle kiss to my lips and then moves out the door. “You’ll come around, sweetheart.”
My fingers hesitantly touch the tender skin where he left his mark, my brain a jumble of emotions. What am I going to do now?
CHAPTER 16
Nic
There she is.
I open the door to the Mercedes and get out, waiting for her to notice me.
I’ve been here since six, afraid she’d try to give me the slip. It’s early for me to be out and about, but I didn’t get much sleep last night. Her words kept beating in my head. Did you even care about me at all?
I can’t believe she thinks everything between us wasn’t real. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
She crosses the street in her heels. The heavy black overcoat she wears is open at the front, black pants that stop at her ankles and an off-white sweater play peekaboo from beneath it as she strides toward me. My hand runs over my jawline, hopefully keeping my mouth closed.
She slows as she nears me, indecision written all over her face. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” My mouth turns up at the corners. She’s adorable when she’s trying to stay mad at me. “You need coffee?”
“No. I had some already.”
“Where’s Becca?”
“She’s sick.”
“Really?”
“Why would I lie about that?” She frowns. “Of course she’s sick. She went with her boyfriend last night to eat Ethiopian food, and somehow she got food poisoning.”
“Huh.” Something about her words pains me. I can’t even really put my finger on it. Maybe it’s the domestic picture she paints. It’s completely normal, simple. Something I don’t have.
I force the uncomfortable thought aside. “Let’s get you to work.”
She hesitates as I open the door. “This is just a ride, nothing else.”
“Sure, sweetheart.”
She glares at me but climbs inside. I start the car, noticing the shiver she tries to hide. It’s cold in here, but then, it’s been a couple of hours since I’ve had the engine running. I turn up the heat, pointing the vents in her direction.
“Thanks,” she says softly.
“Yeah.” I pull away from the curb, driving toward the heart of D.C., along with the hundreds of other schmucks making the traffic crawl along. “You sure you don’t need coffee?”
“I’m sure.”
“Have you thought about—”
“No,” she cuts me off.
I turn toward the window, hiding a grin. “Okay.”
We move along as traffic stops then starts, the only sound between us is the heater.
“That’s it?” she finally asks.
My chest heaves with a single chuckle. “What?”
“That’s all you’re going to say? You practically invaded my apartment last night, and now you’re fine with me telling you no?”
“Did you say no?” I look over at her. “To everything?”
Her forehead wrinkles before she turns away, staring out her window.
“Do you like your job?”
“That’s just sad.” She shifts a little in her seat. “You can turn the heat off now. I think I’m sweating a little.”
Me too. I tap the temperature down. “What’s sad?”
“My job? That’s all you can come up with?”
I sigh, keeping my mouth closed as I exhale. “Reagan, I’m trying here.”
“I know. And I like my job.”
“Good. I know you wanted this for a while.”
“Yeah, I wanted a lot of things.”
Nice dig, sweetheart. “I get it, you’re still mad.”
“What are you doing with yourself?” She turns toward me, and even though the heat is down, my temperature spikes.
I glance at her. “I’m working for the family business.”
“Imports?”
“Among other things.”
“Why are you in D.C.? I thought the business was in New York.”
“It is,” I check the mirrors before changing lanes, pulling onto Independence Avenue, the street in between the Capitol and where she works, Rayburn, “but he needs me here to grease some wheels, so I’m here for the time being.”
“Like a lobbyist?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
Her frown is back. “Where do you live?”
“Georgetown. I’ve got an apartment there.”
This seems more like an interrogation than a conversation, and I try not to take it personally. Her trust in me is probably nonexistent. I get it. Really, I do.
“Anything else?” I ask her.
She shakes her head as the dome of the Capitol grows in size through the windshield, signaling my time with her is ending.
“Can I take you to dinner tonight?”
“No. I’ll need to check on Becca.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have made it a question. “Another time then. I’ll be here to pick you up.”
“That’s not necessary. I can get home by myself.”
“It is to me.” I pull up in front of Rayburn. “Is your number still the same?”
“Yes, it is. And I don’t need a ride.”
“What time do you get off?”
“Whenever I’m done for the day.”
I hide a smirk with my hand. My tolerance for intentional vagueness is low, but this woman has always been my exception. And right now, all I want is to kiss her senseless. It might earn me another slap, but it’d be worth it.
“Let me do this for you,” I insist.
Before she can reply, my phone rings over the speakers, killing any trace of humor. An automated voice recites a string of random numbers. Her head turns to the building’s entrance and then back to me. The clock tells me she’s cutting it close.
“I have to go.” She steps out of the car, bending back inside to grab her purse.
“Reagan?”
She stops. Her hand rests on the door, ready to slam it closed when the damn phone rings again. Irritation washes over her face. I can’t catch a break.
I hit the ignore button, and look at her. “Don’t give up on me yet.”
She tilts her head to the side, shifting her dark brown hair around her shoulders. “You can call me later. I’ll decide then.”
I nod. If that’s a concession, I’ll take it. “Have a good day.”
“You too.” She gently shuts the door.
She climbs the steps, searching her purse for something. Sitting back, I wait for her to disappear inside.
The random numbers may not have meant anything to her. They do to me. It’s my father. I pull away from the curb before calling him back.
“Took you long enough,” he barks.
“Yeah, I was in the middle of something.”
He grumbles something under his breath that I can’t understand. “I need you back in the city.”
“That might be hard to do for a few days.”
“Why exactly?”
“I’m tracking down a lead.”
“Good. Anything to share?”
“Not yet. It’s still in progress.”
“Are you sure you don’t need Enzo’s help?”
“I’m sure.” I don’t need yet another person who reports to my father breathing down my neck, following my movements, and noticing who I’m spending time with. “This is something that requires a little finesse. Something Enzo does not possess. I know he’s helpful to you, but he’s all brawn and very little brain. The situation doesn’t call for that. Yet.”
My father laughs. “I’ll give you that. The kid isn’t the brightest, but he’s a good enforcer.”
“And when I need muscle, I’ll call.”
“Fine, fine. Are you still leaning on Arnoldo?”
“Yes.” I don’t bother to explain beyond that.
“Good. Call me when you know more.”
“I will.” I end the call, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel.
He’s getting restless, and with him, restlessness leads to bad things. I need to turn something up and soon.
* * *
I take a sip of the coffee I picked up earlier and check my watch. It’s almost eleven. Time to go.
I exit the a corner café I’ve been in for the last hour and head north for a couple of blocks, checking over my shoulder a few times to make sure I’m not being followed. Cabs and black, tinted SUVs fill the congested street. Someone blares their horn as a cheap compact runs a red light.
Checking my watch again, I see the hand hit the hour mark. I drop my coffee into a nearby trashcan and cross the street, walking toward the massive entrance of the Bynatium Hotel.
The doorman greets me while pulling the heavy glass door open, revealing a black marble lobby that gleams in the late morning light and a modern art chandelier that hangs from the ceiling. Smooth jazz plays in the background as I approach the girl at the front desk.
“Good Morning, sir,” she greets me. “How can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m staying at the hotel, and I lost my key.”
“Certainly. What room number?”
“1126.”
She types something into the computer. “Mr. Smith?”
“Yes.”
“I do believe the other members of your party have already arrived. I sent them up a few minutes ago.” She codes another key card and slides it over the counter with a red fingernail. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you.”
I head toward the elevators and find one waiting. The highly polished brass doors close, revealing my reflection, and my eyes drop the floor.
With a buzz the doors open and I turn down the narrow hallway, walking past several doors before I find room 1126. With one last look over my shoulder, I slide the card into the lock and push the door open.
Inside, a man with red hair glances up from an old laptop computer. He’s tall with wide shoulders and Irish white skin, complete with heavy freckles.
He tilts the chair he’s sitting in back on two legs, shoving his shirtsleeves past his elbows. “Finally, you’re here.”
“Garrett,” I reply, checking the room for unexpected guests. But as usual, we’re alone. “Am I late?”
“No, Nic, right on time, but I need you to help me figure this out. Things have gone from bad to worse.”
“Tell me what the problem is,” I reply. “I’ll fix it.”
CHA
PTER 17
Reagan
“I’ve got good news,” Scott says grumpily, walking by my desk. “The FBI spent the weekend complying with our subpoena.”
“Why don’t you sound happier about that?”
“Because the bad news is, they sent everything.”
I frown. “I’m not following.”
“Everything. They sent everything. Every timesheet, every scrap of paper, every doodle on coffee-stained legal pages. I swear, I even saw a Post-it note with a game of hangman on it in those boxes. And everything is on paper, none of it is digital.”
“They want to drown us in paperwork?”
“Exactly.” He disappears for a second to grab something from his desk before coming back to mine. “The committee staff is up to its eyeballs in boxes. I brought a few over here to sort through; they’re locked in Cameron’s office. What do you have going on today?”
“Doing some background on a couple bills introduced yesterday. Not much. You want me to work on that instead?”
“Yeah, if you can. I’ve got two other hearings today, but I’ll be back to help when I can. If you can sort the crap from the gold, it’ll help.” He digs around in his pocket, producing a key. “You have access to Cameron’s schedule, right?”
“Yes.” The congressman’s scheduler sent me an email last week, explaining how to access his digital calendar.
“Check it, he should be out of the office today. So working in there shouldn’t be a problem. Here’s the key, keep it locked if you have to leave, all right?”
“Sure.”
His desk phone rings at the same time my cell buzzes with an incoming text.
“I’ve got to grab that,” he says. “But as soon as my stuff wraps up, I’ll be back to help you. If you have questions about whether something is useful or not, just set it aside, and I’ll take a look when I get back.”
“Got it.”
He steps away, and I unlock my phone as a text from Simmons pops up.
Coffee in 15 mins? Sbux down the street.
“Scott. I’m going to run to Starbucks, then I’ll be back.”
“Yeah, sure.” He waves me out the door, already mid-conversation with someone on the phone.
I grab my things and leave the office, taking the elevator down to the basement. The doors open to the underground concrete tunnel that connects all the House and Senate buildings to the Capitol. I follow the signs all the way to the Library of Congress annex up the street, trying to stay out of the chilling temps for as long as possible.