10. Tara #2
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll invite him. But only because I know you won’t let this go if I don’t.”
Chloe’s triumphant smile was insufferable. “Perfect! And wear that backless black dress…the one that makes your ass look spectacular.”
“I hate you,” I muttered.
She blew me a kiss. “Love you too, T. Now, about the fire dancers...”
Back at my apartment, I paced the living room, phone in hand, trying to compose a text to Xander that sounded casual, yet professional.
Me : McCrae, I’m attending an art opening tomorrow evening at Galleria Durand in Wynwood. The artist is a friend of mine. Some of the team sponsors will be there. Your presence would be appreciated by the board. 7 PM.
I read it over three times, making sure it struck the right tone—cool, detached, focused on the work-related connection rather than the personal one. Satisfied, I hit send before I could overthink it.
His response came almost immediately.
Xander : Sounds lovely, Dr. Swanson. Should I bring a plus one?
The question made my stomach clench with an emotion I refused to name. The thought of Xander bringing someone else—standing beside some beautiful woman, his hand on her lower back, whispering in her ear the way he’d whispered in mine—made me want to throw my phone across the room.
Me : Not necessary.
Xander : Then it’s a date. See you at 7.
I stared at the word “date,” my heart racing. This wasn’t a date. It was a professional obligation. A test of my composure. Nothing more.
I was typing a reply back—using several curse words—when my phone rang with an unknown number. Frowning, I answered.
“Dr. Swanson speaking.”
“Dr. Swanson.” The voice was male, vaguely familiar. “This is Leo Martin.”
I froze. Xander’s loyal assistant.
Shit.
“Mr. Martin,” I said, my voice impressively steady. “What can I do for you?”
There was a pause, as if he was choosing his words carefully. “I was hoping we could meet. To discuss... a matter of mutual concern.”
The vague phrasing set alarm bells ringing in my head. Was this about last night? Had Xander sent his assistant to warn me off? To threaten me with consequences if I didn’t keep my distance?
“I’m not sure what we would have to discuss,” I said coolly.
“It’s about Xander,” Leo said, his voice dropping. “I need to talk to you. About him. And about what happened twelve years ago.”
The reference sent ice through my veins. What did Leo know? How much had Xander told him?
“I’m quite busy today, Mr. Martin?—”
“Please,” he interrupted, with a note of genuine urgency in his voice. “It’s important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”
Something in his tone made me hesitate. This wasn’t just about last night. This was something more serious.
“Fine,” I conceded. “There’s a coffee shop called Cafecito on 8th Street. I can meet you there in an hour.”
“Thank you,” Leo said, relieved. “I appreciate it, Dr. Swanson.”
Cafecito wasn’t too busy. The Saturday afternoon lull was perfect for a conversation that required privacy. I spotted Leo at a corner table, hunched over a mug, his expression pensive.
He looked up as I approached, rising slightly in his seat. “Dr. Swanson. Thank you for coming.”
I slid into the chair across from him, setting my purse on the table like a barrier between us. “Mr. Martin.”
“Please call me Leo.”
I nodded but didn’t reciprocate the invitation to use my first name. Whatever this was about, I wanted to maintain as much professional distance as possible.
A barista appeared at my elbow, and I ordered a cortadito, needing the jolt of Cuban coffee to steady my nerves. Leo waited until the server had departed before speaking again.
“I’m not here to interfere,” he began, his voice low. “What happens between you and Xander is... well, it’s not my business.”
I raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Then why are we here?”
Leo sighed. Up close, I could see the strain around his eyes. He looked like a man carrying a heavy burden.
“I’ve been with Xander for a long time,” he said. “Since he came to Glasgow. I’ve seen him at his worst—drunk, self-destructive, drowning in guilt. I’ve picked up the pieces more times than I can count.”
I remained silent, unsure where this was going but unwilling to give anything away.
“He’s not who you think he is,” Leo continued. “He’s not the callous playboy the tabloids make him out to be. He’s... he’s haunted. By what happened to your brother. And what happened between the two of you.”
The mention of Jimmy sent a rush through my chest. “Mr. Martin…Leo…I appreciate your concern for Xander, but I don’t see how this?—”
“I don’t know what game you and your father are playing,” he interrupted, leaning forward so his forearms rested on his knees. “Revenge, closure, whatever it is. But I can’t let you hurt him. Not when he’s already spent twelve years punishing himself.”
A flare of pure fury went through me. “Punishing himself? For getting drunk and killing my brother? Or for disappearing without a word afterward?”
Leo’s expression hardened. “Is that what you really think happened? That he killed Jimmy?”
“It’s exactly what happened,” I snapped, my voice rising. “He was driving drunk, he crashed the car, and my brother died. The end.”
“He was drunk, yes,” Leo acknowledged, his voice low and serious.
“But I’ve held his hair while he puked his guts out from guilt.
I’ve heard the nightmares. I’ve seen a man torture himself for more than a decade.
” He leaned even closer, his eyes boring into mine.
“I don’t know everything that happened in that car, but I would bet my life on one thing… Xander wasn’t driving.”
The words slammed into me, knocking the air from my lungs. The entire foundation of my life—the grief, the rage, the vengeance—cracked beneath me.
“That’s not possible,” I whispered. “Jimmy didn’t have a license. And Xander confessed. He said it was his fault.”
“He blamed himself,” Leo corrected, his gaze unwavering. “That’s not the same thing. And just because Jimmy didn’t have a license doesn’t mean he couldn’t drive.”
The coffee cup trembled in my hand, hot liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. I set it down before I could spill it, my fingers suddenly numb.
“You’re lying,” I said, but there was no conviction in my voice. “Why would you…why would he?—”
Leo’s expression softened. “Trust me. I’ve known him for almost half my life. Whatever happened in that car, whatever role Xander played in your brother’s death, he wasn’t behind the wheel.”
My mind raced, trying to reconcile this new information with everything I’d believed. With the narrative that had shaped my life.
Xander and Jimmy were at the party. Xander had been drinking. He’d gotten into the car with Jimmy, and they crashed into a tree.
Those were the facts. The immutable truths around which I’d constructed my understanding of that night.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, my voice barely steady.
Leo met my gaze. “Because whatever is happening between you two, it needs to be based on truth. Not from an old misunderstanding that’s destroyed both your lives.”
I stared at him, momentarily speechless.
“You expect me to believe that Xander let everyone think he killed my brother when he didn’t?” I shook my head. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” Leo admitted. “He doesn’t talk about it. But I think... I think he believes he deserved the blame. That even if he wasn’t driving, he feels he was still responsible.”
“I need to go,” I said abruptly, gathering my purse. The coffee sat untouched, cooling in its cup.
Leo didn’t stop me. “Just think about what I’ve said,” he urged. “And maybe... maybe ask him yourself. About what really happened that night.”
I nodded stiffly, unable to form words around the lump in my throat. As I stood to leave, Leo’s voice stopped me one last time.
“He cares about you, you know. More than he should. More than is safe for him.”
I didn’t turn around, couldn’t bear to see the sincerity in his eyes. “Goodbye, Leo.”
My mind reeled as I exited the coffee shop, every moment replaying through a new, warped filter. If Xander hadn’t been driving... if Jimmy had... No. It couldn’t be possible, could it?