CHAPTER EIGHT
LIAM
In order to block out the cyclone of convoluted reflection that walloped me yesterday, I’ve poured myself into work this morning. It’s safe to say Celeste is far more dangerous than I ever gave her credit for. She’s calculated and unpredictable. Always planning her next move and never losing her head even if she’s in the throes of passion. From what I can tell, that’s how she tackles every situation.
Because even when I’m besting her, she’s got that no-big-deal, well-played poker face.
Game on, Ace.
Interpreting data, analyzing behavior, and unveiling answers—it’s like my form of crack. It always leads to crucial revelations. So, now that I’m cognizant of her core-level approach to life, I have a greater understanding.
And a sound action plan.
She needs to be fucked—good and hard—obvious from her uninhibited climbing of me yesterday. And I’m the man for the job.
I shudder to imagine the douchebags she’s been in bed with. She lit up like a firecracker, and I’d barely touched her. The poor girl has probably never had a proper orgasm. And I want nothing more than to spread her open, sink my cock so deep inside her that she feels it in her throat, and watch her quake into oblivion beneath me. To take her to a place where no coherent thoughts remain. Where she can’t remember her own goddamn name. Where her only utterance is moaning mine.
But at the moment, I just struck a juicy tidbit in the plight to unmask Oliver Jensen for Ivy. It may also relate to the shit with Pruitt Lancaster since it was a family-tree discovery. I’m not sure how any of it intersects, but I’m confident I’m clicking in another piece of the puzzle with each of these findings.
Ivy is going to flip over this little detail, but she’s otherwise occupied for the next half hour, so I’m off to fuel myself with coffee and carbs. Lack of sleep and Wells’s need to take his about-to-become-a-father stress out on us in our morning routine is kicking my ass.
As I round the corner, I hear Celeste and Gage chatting. My chest tightens when she comes into full view.
Fuck, she’s pretty.
She’s sitting at the breakfast bar, occupying two stools—her sexy legs perched on one, socks bunched above her ankles, calves flexed to show a beautiful cut, shorts riding high on her toned thighs. Gage leans on the other side of the island with a bowl of cereal. Both are eating casually and sound as though they’ve been comfortably chatting for a while.
I slink silently over to the percolating coffeepot to refresh my cup while they carry on.
“Sorry I had to reschedule our workout for later,” Gage says.
“No worries.” Celeste’s satiny voice encircles me with flashing visions of our hot-and-heavy barnyard soiree. “I have a ton of images to edit from yesterday, so I’ll get started on those.”
That’s the baffling aspect of our time that I was burying. The pictures. The outreach.
At first, I’d assumed that whole arrangement was some kind of ploy to gain favor with her political suitors. Maybe it is. That conclusion is certainly befitting of the Carver princess I’d pegged her to be. But even if that’s the case, she was magical out there. Her with those kids—the way she paid attention, helped them engage, lit up around them—was awe-inspiring.
Almost too much.
Grabbing a blueberry muffin, a cherry-cheese Danish, and my black coffee, I turn to make my way to the table when Celeste’s big brown eyes land on me—they’ve got swirls of caramel in them today. Never quite the same. Fitting.
“Are you feeling better?” Her gaze blatantly drops to my cock with that question.
Getting right to it, Carver?
I waggle my eyebrows, making it clear I caught her focal point, and continue my trek to the table, settling into a chair and kicking my feet out. “Feeling better?”
She twists to improve her view of me. “Yeah. I mean, I know your ego”—she cups her mouth like she’s sharing a secret, even though her volume never lowers—“among other things, was … deflated last night.”
Gage drops his spoon and breaks into maniacal laughter, so I lob my muffin at him. I knew she was pissed. She’s probably been stewing about it all night—cold showers and her vibrator unable to relieve the itch. Her attempt at appearing cool and unaffected was a valiant effort. She laughed and smiled brighter than the sun all through dinner. I vacillated between admiration and indignation. She’s gorgeous when she’s riled up. My sacrificial blue balls deserved at least a smidgen of a tantrum.
I lean back, considering, hands clasped with my index fingers steepled against my lips, and release a heavy sigh. Ready and willing to deliver the hard truth. My arms swing out in emphasis of the evidence I’m prepared to cite.
“Listen up, Ace. Don’t be a spoilsport. It was for your own safety. You were all wobbly and weak-kneed. If I had given you what you were digging for, it would’ve been hazardous. You weren’t ready.” I plop a piece of the Danish in my mouth, my gaze never parting from hers.
Her jaw locks—vibrates actually. Eyes shooting daggers. A goddamn vision. Fuck, it’s fun to get under her skin. That carefully curated mask cracks so I can glimpse the version of Celeste very few are privy to.
Give me all your secrets, Ace.
Things tightly held are generally those with the greatest value. A principle most easily represented in gold and riches. Antiques. The mint-condition baseball card. The restored classic convertible. A low-mintage coin.
None of which would be carelessly flaunted out in the open. No. Those are fortunes kept under lock and key, reserved for only an elite few.
Based on how Celeste clutches the deepest parts of herself, I’m fairly certain there’s a treasure trove inside her. And I’m determined to be the fortune hunter who unearths it.
Her calm-and-collected veneer returns, and she hums. A sweet little warble. Up to something. She scoots the stool back, stands, and saunters over to the garbage can, discarding her trash. “Interesting. Is that how you deal with it?”
I can’t help but smile. She’s baiting me, but, Jesus, caught on Carver’s hook could be one hell of a destination. “Deal with what?”
She shrugs, her luscious lips scrunched, face schooled in a sheepish facade. “I guess I don’t know exactly. Your inability to stay hard, inferiority complex, poor performance. Whatever.” She crosses her hands in the air, shooing this bullshit away. “It’s none of my business. The earning your cock bit is a good cover. Most girls probably buy it as some dominance play. Smart. That’s not surprising though. You are a genius, which is good. I’m sure that helps conceal your other shortcomings.”
She waltzes toward the stairs with that last sentence, her shiny espresso hair swishing to and fro as she disappears into the second level, as though we’re actually finished.
I probably should’ve retorted, but I’m kind of hung up on the fact that she called me a genius, like a kid who finally garners parental approval for swinging high enough.
What the hell is wrong with me? In over my fucking head.
Gage glances at me with a smile that’s nearly cracking his face open. “Is that how all your communications go with her, man?”
“No. It’s a ping-pong match. And she called me a genius,” I argue. Like a dumbass.
He spits a cackle, sips his coffee, and shakes his head. “Sounds like you adhered to the no-fucking rule.”
Now that I think about it, that little jab in front of Gage is brutal. Ruthless girl.
Waving him off, I spare him a few details to fill in the misconstrued picture he’s envisioning. “We kissed. She got feisty. I put a stop to it.”
“Did I hear something about earning your cock?” He can’t even keep his motherfucking mouth straight.
Knowing what’s coming, I drink my coffee and say nothing.
He bends in half—doubled over—howling into his hands. “Fucking Christ, brother.”
Ignoring him, I finish off the final bites of my Danish and smack him with the most imperative takeaway. “You saw nothing, heard nothing, know nothing. The last thing I need is Wells or Ivy reading more into this than there is.”
“Which is?” he asks, wiping tears from his eyes.
Why don’t I have a clear answer for that?
I shrug, as though that clarity is of no consequence.“She messed with me, so I messed with her. Putting her in her place, I guess.”
We’re way past that, but hell if I know where that is.
“Yeah.” He bobs his head, still fighting his amusement at my expense. “You suck at that. She ran you over with a smile, and all you gleaned from it was that she called you a genius.”
My mouth creeps up to a smirk. “It was something.”
She’s as fucked up as I am. Even her insults have commendations laced through them.
Gage wrinkles a dubious brow. “It was generous since you’re the moron who got her all hot and bothered before her date with another man.”
That’s a mic-drop sentence. Or a record scratch.
My ears are ringing. Room spinning.
“Shit,” I hiss. “Dustin Barclay. That’s tonight?”
“Yep. I’m accompanying Rex and his crew for security.” He pauses, peeling off the top of the muffin I lobbed at him. “He mentioned that you were kinda high strung yesterday.”
“Yeah. Fucking Ty.” I gather my coffee cup, pitch my trash, and formulate my thoughts on the way to the sink to rinse my cup. “I’m going with Rex tonight.”
“No way, man. That sounds like a colossally bad idea. He said you had her pinned against a barn.”
“What the hell?” I bark, shutting the water off. “You got a morning gossip group with the ladies guarding Carver? Christ.”
“When you act like a short-fused asshole, word spreads,” he says, and I can hear the damn humor in his tone.
“I’m. Going,” I insist, leaving no room to brook another objection.
“Fine.” He crosses his beefy arms over his chest. Intimidation pose. Doesn’t work on me. I’ve got three inches and a hoard of his darkest secrets. “Stay calm and keep it in your pants.”
“Got it, Dad.”
He relaxes his stance to pick at the muffin again. “What did Ty do?”
I arch both eyebrows, allowing my outraged grievance to etch into my features. “It was a foster care outreach program she was photographing.”
His eyes bulge. He’s clearly commiserating with my disbelief since my past is no secret. “Shit, bro.” He huffs a breath. “That’s fucked up. You tear him a new one yet?”
“Next on my list,” I admit. “He kept himself near Natasha, Celeste, or Ivy all last night. Pussy.”
“Fucking pussy,” Gage agrees. “Tytan.”
As I dry my cup with a dish towel, I casually steer us in another direction. “On a different note, you’re working out again with Celeste?”
He nods. “She’s fun. Tough.” High praise from Gage regarding a female other than Ivy.
Considering this morning’s group text, I add, “Rescheduled for later because—”
“Yeah,” he cuts me off. “Can you believe they’re still going at it? And what the hell are they doing in the gym?”
“I don’t want to fucking know.” I stroke my forehead, impressed and confounded by Ivy and Wells and their freaky sex-ventures. “She’s only got two weeks until she’s squeezing that baby out.”
“Jesus, think they’ll lose steam after the little one’s here?” Gage’s whole face beams with that inquiry. He’s over the moon about this baby.
“Doubt it,” I say. “That’s a prime benefit of a houseful of uncles, right?”
He pats my back on his way to the stairs, still gleaming with the glow of his soon-to-be role. “Absolutely.”
I can’t wait for him to find out it’s a girl.
With that content thought in mind, I head for Ty. Maybe it will keep me from killing him. I rap on his door in an upbeat drumming.
He responds with an equally optimistic greeting. “C’mon in.”
Strutting inside, I slam the door behind me, saying nothing until his guilty eyes find mine. “A fucking foster care program, Ty? What the hell is your problem?”
He sinks into his chair and swivels with his chin held high. “No problem. It seemed like a fitting way to reveal who she really is.”
My clenched fist flies up to my mouth, and I puff into it, willing myself not to lose my shit right now. “By what? Forcing me to relive my twisted childhood? How dare you decide if, when, or how I ever think about those days. You throw that at me with no warning, with Celeste of all fucking people!”
As if I didn’t feel inferior to her uppity standards already. I spin in a half circle, unable to even look at him. All the emotion I’ve been holding in since she found me smoking behind the barn floods over me. And she didn’t even know.
“I flipped the hell out on her, thinking the two of you were in on it together. Fucking with me or something.”
I was handling it okay—until I wasn’t. One minute, I was enchanted by how she was lighting up that whole damn arena, making each kid feel like they were the only one she saw. The next, I was chatting with a boy who’d clearly had his hope snuffed out years ago. And I was the foster kid again. Never enough, cast aside, beaten, and embarrassed.
“That wasn’t my intention,” Ty says. And I love him enough to know he means that. He had some misguided notion of helping me. But I’m so unbelievably pissed.
“Jesus, fuck.” I drop onto his couch, dragging a hand down my face. “That might be how you convince yourself you’re healed and evolved—forcing yourself to witness abused woman after abused woman, reliving your worst nightmare as though that’s the answer. But you’re no better off than I am, Ty.”
That gets a rise out of him. “Don’t come at me with that shit. You think I don’t know I’m fucked up?” He juts out his chin, flapping his hand between us. “That’s where you and I are different, Liam. I won’t pretend I’m not damaged. Aside from how unfavorable this life is to meeting a special someone, that’s the reason I won’t even try. I have one selfish goal with those abuse cases. I’m hoping, someday, I can look myself in the goddamn mirror.”
I punch the couch. “Christ, I fucking hate you.”
“That’s a refreshing response to vulnerability,” he deadpans. “You should volunteer for a help hotline.”
“You’re impossible to be mad at, Ty. You’re too good.”
It’s evident he sees his mom and sisters—the ones he couldn’t save—in every woman who comes to us. And he does it all with a smile on his face.
I suck as a human being in comparison, which is why I add, “Your self-assessment pisses me off. But if that’s what you think—that you can’t look yourself in the mirror, that you wouldn’t even try to be with someone—then why shove this shit with Celeste down my throat?”
He taps a nervous finger on his mahogany desk. “Because I thought I saw a spark between you two—on both sides. And if there’s even the slimmest chance that she could make you half as happy as Ivy makes Wells, then I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t do everything in my power to make sure you got out of your own damn way.”
I bend forward, resting my elbows on my knees, head in my hands. “She’s got me so fucked up. It’s been a lot thrown at me really fast.”
“Maybe,” he muses. “But you were irritating the hell out of each other when she was here in July—in a way that made zero sense outside of sexual tension. And you’ve always thought Celeste was gorgeous, way back when she was just the sidekick to the High Society redhead we were surveilling.”
“Yeah.” I did always notice her, but who wouldn’t? I also knew I wasn’t the kind of guy a girl like Celeste went for—which is the kind of bullshit I am too old to put up with—so it was never more than a passing gawk.
He chews the inside of his cheek—a terrible habit he resorts to when fretting, like he’s chomping away his demons. “I’m not pressuring, man, but time isn’t on your side. She’s being shoved in another direction. You either change her route soon or you let her go.”
I’m not sure it’s that dire, but she does have a date tonight, so he has a point. My hands cramp at the thought. Fortunately, my building anxiety is interrupted.
A few soft taps on the door alert us that Ivy is here. She has a lighter touch than the rest of us.
“C’mon in, High Society.”
She swings it open with a megawatt grin. “Yay. You’re both here,” she says, waddling over and cautiously lowering herself onto the couch beside me. When she catches me biting back a laugh, she jabs her finger into my bicep. “Don’t say a damn word.”
I hold up surrendering hands. “About what?”
She falls into me and wraps her arms around my waist. “Better.”
“I told you I’d handle things today, Freckles,” Ty scolds.
“You say that every day, and as I keep reminding you and Wells, there is no reason to cover me. I’m pregnant, not incapacitated,” she counters, but she isn’t moving from her cozy slump in my arms.
Keeping my amusement in check, I squeeze her against me. “I have a gift for you.”
Her chin snaps up, dancing blue eyes. “Is it good?”
“Aren’t all presents good? It’s the thought that counts, right?” I quip.
“Liam.” Her eyes flutter in exasperation. “I’m in no condition to deal with your beating around the bush. Give it to me.”
“Must be nice. Getting mad at us for taking care of you one minute and then using this pregnancy as an excuse when it’s convenient,” I tease and pull my head back because it looks like she might strike me.
Ty laughs.
She makes a weak attempt at jostling my leg but gives up quickly. “Knitting a human permits hypocrisy. My patience is thinning.”
“Fine. While it isn’t a direct relation, it seems Oliver Jensen is connected to Johnny Balzano.”
She springs up straight, hand under her belly. “Shut the front door!”
“Shut the front door?” I question, chuckling.
“Language, blockhead.” She winks, glowing. “Tell me more.”
“Johnny Balzano has a stepsister, Glenda, who is married to Sean Welch. Sean’s sister is Maeve Welch—married name Jensen—Oliver’s mommy,” I explain, leaving out that Pruitt Lancaster is Sean Welch’s grandson. No need for that yet. “They aren’t actually related, but it’s odd that Balzano never mentioned the association when you discussed the candidates with the chairs.”
There are five seats on KORT, representing different families, secret societies, organizations. Ivy and Wells each hold one and get along fine with two of the other seat holders. But Johnny Balzano is the one chair that Ivy doesn’t jive with. He fights her on everything. And he’s as slimy as they come, so she’s not a fan of his either.
“What are you thinking?” she asks, her brain clearly already noodling what this could mean.
“No idea yet,” I tell her honestly. “It may be nothing, but I have a hunch it’s something big. First thing I’d do is get O’Reilly to show you any files he has on Jensen from his early days. I know you’ve questioned him before, but not in light of this information. Maybe there’s something there. A link to Balzano. A shady donation. I’d keep dear old Johnny in the dark about our discovery until we know more.”
She bites her lip, nodding along. “Daniel’s coming over with the kids tonight. I’ll call him to bring the files.”
Daniel O’Reilly is Ivy’s biological father, whom she met for the first time a little over a year ago. He’s raising his niece and two nephews.
“Natasha’s good with that?” I ask.
There’s been some adjustment with Natasha welcoming Daniel into Ivy’s life. I think it’s especially hard with Tom gone.
“Seems to be,” Ivy responds on autopilot, thoughts already wandering.
Ty clears his throat. “I’ve got her. We’ll dig into this and keep you posted. You untangle your own shit.”
No idea what that looks like, but I need to figure it out, I guess.
“Thanks.” I kick up my chin to him in reassurance that our little spat is over. “We’re good.”
When Celeste floats down the stairs, she seems nervous to meet my eyes. No idea why.
She’s fucking breathtaking.
Elegant as always in a champagne-colored satin cocktail dress. A sash at the waist, accentuating her hourglass figure. Cuffed sleeves falling to her elbows and a V between her perky breasts. She’s the vision of grace and refinement. Her hair is swept up into a twist with some wisps framing her face. While I usually love it down, it highlights the alluring slope of her slender neck.
And my skin itches. She’s breathtaking for another man.
I yank at my collar, suffocating in my suit already. This should go fucking smooth. I’m not sure what my endgame is for tonight. Torturing myself? Preventing the possibility of it going too far? Losing my damn mind and doing something asinine? Murdering Dustin Barclay?
It’s anyone’s guess.
What if this is as dire as Ty made it out to be? Did she tell him that?
“Ready?” she asks, her big brown eyes searching mine.
“Yeah.” I scratch the stubble on my cheek, take a deep breath, and grab her hand. “This is the only thing I’ll say tonight that isn’t in the role of bodyguard. Well, I can’t guarantee that, but that’s the goal.”
She laughs, musical and feathery. “You’re rambling, Graves.”
“I am,” I admit, dusting my thumb over her soft skin and tethering her in place with my gaze. “In case your date is too much of an ass to say it, you’re the most beautiful woman in the room tonight.”
She tilts her head with a lopsided smile, the wisps of her hair grazing her collarbone. “That’s presumptuous. We’re not even there yet.”
Leaning in close so my lips brush her ear, I slide my free hand across her lower back and tug her closer to me. “Not presumptuous, Ace. You’re easily the most stunning woman in any room.”
In a rare moment of her losing her composure, her breath catches. She rolls her lips in and glances away. Closing her eyes on a swallow that her throat works overtime to perform, she freezes there until finally whispering, “Thank you, Liam. We’d better go.”
The whole encounter has me sick to my stomach, but I opt to keep my mouth shut and be the guard, like I agreed to do. Celeste’s BMW XM only seats five, which would work fine if we left her driver, Arnold, behind. But I offered up the G-Wagon, so Arnold and Dante will be following in that while Rex, Keith, and I escort Miss Carver.
On the way, Rex gives me the rundown on all the exits of the building, the location of the table reserved, and that it’s attached to a hotel. I’m not thrilled about that detail because there are far too many unknowns concerning guests and personnel on the hotel side, but he’s cleared it with management to close that entrance for the evening since it’s midweek and slow. So, I suppose that will do. Money can convince a business to do just about anything.
While we’re reviewing our stations, Celeste’s phone rings. She’s in the back seat with Keith, directly behind Rex, so I have an unobstructed view. I glance back as she swipes the screen, straightens her shoulders, and answers the call.
“Hi, Mom.” She pauses, but there’s a stiff poise seizing her whole demeanor. She’s instantly a heightened version of the cultivated girl I’ve seen in the past. “Yes. Thank you. I’m on my way now.” She glances down at her dress, skimming her fingers over the material. “The champagne one I texted to you the other day. Yes. It fits perfectly.”
It sure the hell does. Too perfect.
Her eyes latch on to mine. There’s a hollowness to them, like the night at La Lune Noire when everyone reminisced about Ivy’s wedding. Despondent and resigned. I want to tell her I see her. Whatever is swimming in those coffee-colored pools, I’m here for it. I want in.
“He seems very nice,” she says in her proper tone. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll give him a chance. That’s what I’m doing.” There is an edge to that response and her lips purse. “I apologize. He does. The Barclays are a wonderful family. I know.”
Her gaze swings back to me, and it takes everything in me not to knock that damn phone out of her hand and ask what she’s thinking. Why is she upset?
Tell me what you want, Ace.
“I did connect better with Scott Filmore, but it’s only been phone calls. I’m sure tonight will be lovely.” She hums. “No. Scott’s not firm on the date he’s returning.”
That entire admission has my teeth grinding, fists clenching. I glance out the window for a beat to steady myself until I’m confident my face is impassive.
She heaves a silent breath, her posture ramrod straight. “I think we’re nearly there. Are you and Dad having a nice trip?” She listens for a couple of minutes, murmuring acknowledgments until finally extending a suggestion. “Perhaps next year, I can join you for a week.”
Rex veers into the hotel parking lot, signaling to Celeste to wrap it up.
“I need to go, Mom. I’ll call tomorrow for Ben’s birthday. I love you.” She pauses once more. “I will. Promise. Give Dad a hug for me. Good night.”
She tucks her phone inside her clutch and closes her eyes on a cleansing inhale as we glide up to the entrance. But as I help her out of the car, her carefully curated mask is reinstated. The epitome of equanimity.
Guiding her inside, I resist the urge to rest my hand on the small of her back. That may be how we guard Ivy, but it won’t fly for Celeste’s detail. Coming here was asinine. I’m not nearly as collected or unflappable as her. But wise or not, I have a feeling I’m never letting Celeste out of my sight again.
No idea what that means. I’m not really a commitment guy. Although as Wells has told us time and again, casual hookups are fine, but casual relationships are a no-go. It puts everyone at risk, so it’s forbidden. KORT vets anyone who could be exposed to the inner workings of their business, and once that happens, they don’t leave. Not unless they’re traveling six feet under.
Fidelity is demanded. It’s a code. They don’t even tolerate cheating on the male’s part—an odd rule in an organization like this. But since they’re based on Knights of the Round Table, they attempt to adopt some moral codes of conduct. Although, like King Arthur’s kingdom, that’s fallible and flimsy. But the point is, it’s there. And the instant a romantic partnership blooms, a lifetime of loyalty to one another and the organization is expected—not something to mess around with. It straps an anvil to any potential relationship.
Celeste falls a bit outside those parameters though. She’s already mixed up in this life because of her father, so they’ve essentially vetted her as an individual even if it isn’t on the same level of scrutiny our team is required to have. That would probably afford the two of us more time to figure this out if it wasn’t for her family’s political aspirations.
I insisted on the position of watching Celeste from a shadowed corner while her security guys man the doors. Upon arrival, I slipped a hundred-dollar bill into a waiter’s hand to switch out the centerpiece on Celeste’s table with an arrangement I snagged from another. Mine had a bug planted in it so I can listen in. That wasn’t included in Rex’s safeguards, but I do things my own way.
Dustin is a bit of a dud. Focused. Self-important. As boring as watching paint dry. And condescending as fuck. It pisses me off on Celeste’s behalf, but there’s no way this guy is competition.
When dessert is delivered, Dustin plunges their conversation into the deep end. “Let’s be straight. We both know what this is. In two short years, I’ll be running for Congress. And my district in Arizona holds a large Latino population. Even with my family legacy, I need some help in that area.”
“Okay,” Celeste says, voice wary. “How so?”
He points to her. “That’s where you come in.”
She scoffs, albeit in the politest way possible. “I am proud of my heritage, Dustin. My bloodline is derived from various parts of the globe. My paternal grandfather, whom you know, Nathaniel Carver, is as white as they come. And his wife, my grandmother, is Greek. My maternal grandfather was Italian, and my maternal grandmother was Venezuelan, which of course, extends to me. But not in the way of securing your minority vote. My mother wasn’t even raised in the culture and—”
“No one needs to know the percentage. You look the part,” he argues.
Motherfucker.
She blows out a slow breath, rage bubbling beneath that gorgeous composure. “That would be a vast misrepresentation of who I am for many reasons. Firstly, I have not experienced the particular issues of that population. Far from it.”
He groans. “Look, Celeste. You aren’t the only candidate for this position. We both know how these marriages work. It’s a merger of qualifications. In terms of education, your credentials are sorely lacking compared to others. No law degree or even aspiration for graduate school. And while you are certainly the prettiest, it was the minority angle that set you ahead.”
I’m about thirty seconds from ending this asshole.
“I might not hold those higher degrees, but I do have passion for and understanding of serious issues that affect your constituents. Better access to treatment for lower-income drug addicts. Providing shoes for impoverished kids, as that is often the basic need sacrificed first, which can lead to far greater health issues. More thorough screening of foster parents. Removing barriers in the health-care system, like the exorbitant cost of medication. To name a few.”
Fuck me. This girl gets better every day.
“Noble, but my team has been clear that diversity is our priority,” he asserts.
She flashes a sardonic grin. “Choosing a Carver would be settling then, Mr. Barclay. Surely, you can find a wifely candidate who carries a more ethnic name.”
He sighs, lips twisted in thought. “That’s a valid point. Maybe one with a better education too.”
And I’m moving in. Reminding myself this is a public restaurant because there’s only one thought in my head. No one will ever fuck with her again and breathe another breath.
Celeste Carver is mine.