Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
When we shake hands out on the sidewalk, prepared to go our separate ways, his grip is the same as before—firm, brief, professional.
“Good meeting you, Cole,” he says. “Any more questions, you’ve got my number.”
“Appreciate it,” I tell him. “Seriously.”
“Let’s grab another drink sometime,” he suggests.
“Sounds like a plan,” I reply, although I have no intention of taking him up on that.
Once I’m in my truck with the engine running, I call Malik.
He picks up on the first ring. “How’d it go?”
“It was a performance,” I say. “Start to finish.”
A beat of silence. “You sure?”
“He dropped Pelham’s name unprompted,” I say. “I gave him nothing—no names, no specifics, nothing that should have told him who we were talking about, but he knew before he walked in that door exactly why I was there.”
Another silence, heavier this time. “Which means they know Jameson is involved,” he muses.
“They know Jameson is protecting Tessa and that they won’t be able to get to her.”
“Which means it’s extra important you not let her out of your sight until this is over.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice, Boss. She’ll stay in lockdown.”
I hang up and merge into traffic, this new layered threat shapeshifting and settling onto my shoulders. Kowalski was good, but not good enough. The military bond was real—I’ll give him that. It just wasn’t enough to make me forget who signs his checks.
The apartment is quiet when I push open the door, the city lights throwing pale ribbons across the floor. I set my keys on the entry table, rolling my shoulders against the residual tension of the evening. Nothing about that meeting eased my mind.
The living area is empty, laptop closed on the coffee table, Tessa’s shoes near the couch, an empty glass in the sink.
I don’t bother with the guest bedroom because Tessa’s been in my bed every night since we “reconnected.” I open the door to find her propped up against pillows, wearing what looks like one of my old gray T-shirts, a paperback novel splayed open on her chest. She drifted off to sleep as she often did when reading in bed, her reading glasses—small, wire-rimmed, the ones she only wears around the comfort of home—still perched on her nose, slightly askew.
A feeling moves through my chest that I don’t have a rational word for. Memories of a hundred nights like this, coming home late to find her this way. I cross the room quietly and reach down, lifting the glasses free with two fingers. Her unfathomable blue eyes open at the whisper of contact, blinking up at me.
“Hey,” she says, voice soft with sleep.
“Hey,” I say, setting the glasses on the nightstand.
She pushes herself up onto her elbows, the book sliding from her chest to the mattress. She rubs her eyes and peers at the bedside clock. “Jesus… it’s not even nine p.m. and I fell asleep.”
“Turning into an old lady,” I reply with a chuckle.
She rolls her eyes and settles against the pillows. “How did it go? Was he cooperative? Did he say anything useful? Do we have anything we can actually use or was it a dead end?”
I reach up and start unbuttoning my shirt.
She blinks. “What are you doing?”
“Getting undressed,” I say. “It went fine.”
“Fine how?” she presses, tracking my hands for a moment before pulling her gaze back up to my face with visible effort. “Fine like it was useful, or fine like it was a complete waste of time?”
I shrug the shirt off and drape it over the chair by the dresser.
Tessa’s eyes drop to my chest, then almost reluctantly slide up to mine.
“He was cooperative on the surface,” I say, reaching down to pull off one boot. “Gave me the standard company line.”
“What’s the standard company line for a private military contractor?” she asks, and I can hear her trying to keep her reporter brain engaged. “Because I’d imagine it’s somewhat different from, say, a hedge fund.”
I set the boot down and pull off the other one. “He said they run clean operations. Talked about how they’d been vetted by the feds, fifteen-year track record.” I straighten and reach for my belt buckle. “The usual.”
Her eyes drop again and stay a half second longer this time.
“Right, but did he give you anything specific?” She shifts against the headboard, pulling her knees up, the picture of professional focus except for the way her teeth have found her lower lip. “Any names—”
The belt comes free and she loses the sentence completely.
I wait, staring at her expectantly.
She blinks and clears her throat. “Any indication of… of…”
“Operations?” I offer helpfully.
“Operations,” she confirms, nodding too quickly. “Right. That.”
I pop the button on my jeans, her eyes now pinned on my zipper.
“Cole.” Her voice has gone slightly unsteady.
“Tessa,” I reply.
Her attention comes back to my face. “I’m trying to have a professional conversation.”