Fuck. This was Max, my book-loving friend. He had some demons buried that he hadn’t quite put to sleep yet. “Yeah, I know you can deal,” I said. “Just keep an eye out and be careful, okay? Things are going to get ugly.”
“You’re not gonna work for him? I’m glad, because I’m not taking any more of your money.” He gestured to the bookshelf. “I was busting your ass with the books, but I want you out of the life, Devon. I always have.”
“I’m out,” I said. “It won’t be easy, because these guys don’t take no for an answer, but I’m out. And money isn’t a problem anymore.”
My best friend’s eyes narrowed when I said that, his expression going hard in a way I didn’t like. “Dev. What the fuck did you do?”
I scrubbed a hand over my face. I wanted to be pissed off, that he assumed any money I had was the result of something illegal. But I had to admit that in his place, it would be the first thing I’d think of too. “It wasn’t a job,” I said. “I inherited.”
Max blinked at me. “What?”
“I inherited.”
“From who?”
“My grandfather.”
“You don’t have a grandfather.”
“That’s what I said, but I had one, and with my father dead—my father is dead, by the way—everything comes to me. And it’s a lot.”
“Holy shit.” He took this in. “That’s crazy. I’d say you were high, except I’ve never known you to get high in your life.”
“Jesus, man. I’m not high. It’s the truth, and it’s legit. I inherited a house and everything, if you want to come live there. It’s nice.”
Max snorted. “I’m not coming to live with you, dipshit. What is this, a sitcom? I like this apartment. If you don’t want it back, I’m staying.”
I gritted my teeth. I wasn’t going to push it. When Max dug his heels in, he was the most stubborn fucker I’d ever seen. He hated change, especially change that wasn’t his idea. He’d lived in his no-good father’s place until the old man died, unwilling to pack his stuff and leave. He’d been dealing with the old man’s illness and his own PTSD at the same time. All of that was too recent, and he was still feeling the effects. So I left it.
“The woman across the way,” I said to change the subject. “Have you seen her?”
Bad move. Max wasn’t my best friend for nothing—he picked up on the vibes right away. “She one of yours?” he asked. “You have a little thing going on with the neighbor when you were here?”
“Maybe. It, um… it wasn’t really a thing.”
“Uh huh.” Max pressed his hands together, steepling his fingers like the asshole he was, and regarded me. “Not really a thing, but you definitely fucked her. Interesting. That means she probably dumped you.”
I frowned. “Why does it mean that?”
“Because I’ve seen her. She’s good-looking, and she’s hot, but she has class. So if she fucked you, she probably dumped you.”
“She liked me,” I protested.
“Uh huh,” he said again. “And now that you’re an ex-con?”
Fuck. “I’m not talking about this anymore. Do you know where she is?”
“Probably at work. I’ve noticed she works late hours.”
“Does she still work at the ad agency?”
Max shook his head. “I have no idea, my friend. You know, here in the twenty-first century, when a person wants to know about someone they once fucked, they use Google.”
“That’s pathetic,” I said.
“Asking your one-legged friend about her is pathetic.”
I stood up. “My one-legged friend has perfectly good eyes. Which reminds me, don’t ever say that she’s hot again.”
“I can’t help it if I know a hot woman when I see one,” he said to my retreating back. And then he laughed.
Because I slammed the door. But I took the OJ book first.
Chapter 13
Olivia
By eight o’clock, my eyes were gritty and my stomach was rumbling. The granola bar in my desk had only gotten me so far, and my skirt and top felt like I’d been wearing them for days, but it didn’t matter. The mockups were printed and placed on the board for tomorrow’s meeting, the sushi had been picked up and delivered, and all the other things that had been thrown my way were done. I sat at my desk and wearily pulled my purse from the drawer, as I’d done an hour and a half earlier.
I looked up and saw Corey coming toward me across the half-darkened office. Again. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, then snapped my mouth shut before he could hear me. “What is it, Corey?” I asked when he got closer.
“There’s a… man here to see you,” he said, hesitating. He glanced behind his shoulder, as if he thought someone might be behind him. “He’s at reception.”
I stared groggily at him, a faint bell of alarm going off somewhere in my spine. “A man?”
Corey shrugged. “He says he knows you.” He didn’t sound like he believed it.
Oh, no. Oh, no. I jerked my chair back and stood up. I didn’t know any men. My father was dead, I had no brothers or male cousins. I had no boyfriend or ex-boyfriends in the city. There was only one man I could think of who could come to see me. One man who would make my boss look like he was about to call the cops.
I’ll find you.
He’d said that two years ago. And I already knew that Devon Wilder never said anything he didn’t mean.
“I’ll handle it,” I said to Corey, and I brushed past him, hoping he wouldn’t notice that my breath was short. Or that I was practically running toward reception.
The receptionist had gone home hours ago. The reception area was dark, just a desk and a couple of waiting chairs. Standing in the middle of the space, half hidden in shadow and half lit by the fluorescents from the hallway, was a familiar figure. Those legs, the line of his shoulders, the impatient way he rested his weight on one perfect hip. He looked as out of place in this office as if he’d come from another planet, another lifetime. Shit, oh shit. The one man with the power to make me stupid.
He watched me approach. “Olivia,” he said, and I saw his body tense. He wasn’t sure what I would do—he thought I might tell him to turn around and leave.
I should tell him that. What the hell was I supposed to do with Devon Wilder in the front hallway of Gratchen Advertising? My heart was pounding behind my ribs. I glanced behind me—Corey was out of sight. On impulse, I strode forward and grabbed Devon by the wrist. “Meeting room,” I hissed at him.
He let me lead him. His wrist was thick and warm in my hand. He was wearing a long-sleeved black Henley, jeans, and boots. Nothing over-the-top—no earrings or rings, no leather jacket. But Devon Wilder, in just jeans and a shirt, looked like he could kill someone—or like he already had.
I pulled him into the office meeting room and closed the door behind us. It was dark in here, with no windows, and I patted the wall for the light switch, bringing up the dimmer. I only lit the room halfway without thinking, as if I couldn’t quite stand to look at Devon in full light after two years.