But instead of screaming and running for my life toward the unnaturally dark stairwell—isn’t that how it goes in the movies?—I head to Leila’s office. It’s up a winding staircase to a floor above the bullpen.
She’s inside talking on the phone with her feet on the desk and a cup of coffee in her hand. She waves me in, probably thinking I’m going to engage her in another conversation about her clothes or the new wall art hanging behind her desk.
“Hey, I gotta get back to you.” She hangs up without waiting for a response. As I take the seat in front of her desk, she smiles. “So how you doing?” Her voice is too slow, too soft for it to be appropriate for a business setting.
So I pump up the enthusiasm. “I’m doing great. Really glad to be back at work.”
“Good. Good.” She nods but narrows her eyes. “So, what can I do for you?”
“Well, I noticed everyone is missing from the bullpen and the offices. I just wondered if there’s something I should be in on.”
She chuckles. “Peyton put a group in the quiet room to work on a project.” The quiet room is where we spend time plotting and putting together client programs that require nondisclosure agreements.
My mouth drops open. “Why am I not on that?” Not only am I usually on every big project in the company, sometimes to the point it could overwhelm me if I let it, I just landed Sentinel a huge contract. Why am I being left out in the cold?
“You need to ease back in. Take it slow.”
Friend or not—and most days I’d say friend—I want to punch her. I’m the best of the best at this company—not bragging, just saying—and Peyton and Leila have never given me a project I couldn’t deliver on.
I take a wild guess. “Is this the Flash Bomb thing?”
Her perfectly arched eyebrows disappear into her hairline, and her lips purse as she clicks her tongue. “I don’t know anything about … What’s Flash Bomb?”
She’s so full of shit. Worst liar ever. Because now she’s sitting up straight, her thumbs tapping out the rhythm of “We Will Rock You” at warp speed with her thumbs on her desk.
“I saw the file on Peyton’s desk last week.”
Green folder. White label. All caps. I know what I saw. I have no idea what it was, but by the way she’s hemming and hawing, it’s something big. Something I should be working on before anybody else in this company.
Her face is red. She won’t look at me. She’s probably the worst liar I’ve ever met. Gold medalist at the Liar Olympics. Because there’s no way she doesn’t know about whatever is going on.
It makes me wonder—paranoia striking again—why I’m on the outside when I was about to get promoted to one of the offices on this floor before my wedding.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “You must’ve read it wrong.”
I chuckle but it comes out as more of a scoff. I can’t believe she’s lying to my face and making it seem as if I might need my eyes checked or am delusional. More than annoyed at that, I’m also frustrated because I know my worth in this company, and she damn sure knows it, too. I don’t understand why I wouldn’t be on the top-secret project or why it has to be so top secret from me that she’s pretending it basically doesn’t even exist.
I shake my head and walk out of her office. I’m about to go find Peyton when I stop short at my desk.
Tomas is sitting in my chair, reading the fourteen Post-its I keep attached to my planner with to-do notes.
What the hell is he doing here?
I try to ignore the fact that my heart is doing a happy little jig.
12
Tomas
Corrine doesn’t look thrilled to see me. I get it—I’m invading her space, the one safe sanctuary she thought she had left after a week straight out of hell.
But I need her help. That’s all this is. I’m not on some domineering power trip.
I’m looking to hire.
“What are you doing here?” she hisses. She’s smiling at me as if I’ve given her a present, but her entire body is vibrating.
My gut aches. Looking at her stirs things in me. I don’t need to be stirred. I need to know what the fuck is going on with the Bratva’s business. That’s why I’m here. Not to be in her way or reminding her of everything that’s happened.
Now that I’m here, though, I regret agreeing to this little compromise. She should be locked up in a fucking vault, as far as I’m concerned. Everything about this place screams vulnerable. The elevator in this place opens to an area crowded with desks—the one I’m seated at, by far the neatest in the room, belongs to Corinne. It’s too close to the elevator. Too out in the open.
This whole place is a safety issue. As I open my mouth to tell her, she wraps her fingers around my arm and tugs.
“Not here.” The line between ‘fuck off’ and ‘not here’ feels very thin indeed when she says it like that. I’m not sure which side of that line she intends to land on. “Come on.” She jerks me back to the elevator, drops her hand, and taps her foot while we wait.
Since we’re practically alone—I’ve only seen one other person since I arrived and she was scurrying to get inside a door before it closed—there’s no harm in talking here.
“Corrie—”
“No.” Slight headshake. Terse tone. “This is the last normal thing I have left in my life. Don’t ruin it for me.” Her voice wavers but she’s glaring.
Anyone walking past wouldn’t recognize her anger. She’s not at all stiff in the way she’s standing or carrying herself, but I know. Not only do we have history, but being apart for years hasn’t affected my ability to read her—the tic in her jaw, the fire blazing behind her eyes, the tight line she’s pulled her lips into that may look like a smile but is anything but.
The metal doors whoosh open, and I motion her inside ahead of me, thinking we’ll be able to talk or touch, but the car is full when we crowd in. Plus, she’s still not looking at me, and I’m on alert since I already know this building is almost as unsafe as having her stand outside in the wide open with a sign that says, “Dear Italians, please kidnap me.”
A woman with a pink purse and long blonde hair, built like a stick, scoots closer to me. “Hi. I’m Kameron.” It comes with a shoulder shimmy and the corner of her lip pulled between her teeth.
Corrie glances at me—glares, actually—and I clear my throat. She’s jealous.
Instead of gloating, I drop a hand on her shoulder and wink. She doesn’t jerk away, and Kameron slides back to the spot she started in.
“Staking your claim?” I lean down to whisper so only Corrie hears me. Instead of smiling up at me or giving me a flirty little nod, she clears her throat and shifts away.
I chuckle. She’s trying so hard not to let me in. But we both know I’ve discovered her weakness. I know how to make her ache for me. I know everything I need to know to make her want me. It usually starts with a whisper and builds until she’s screaming my name and bucking like a bronco as I kiss between her thighs.