Chapter 18
Eighteen
Jace
The knock on my door comes at literally the worst time ever.
The fucking FBI just left.
Outside my office is empty.
I’ve got an entirely new list of tasks I need to run by the legal department, files to pull, people to vet so I know who to trust.
I don’t want to think that Jo or Tom or the others could be sabotaging my business…
But stranger things could happen— have happened.
So right now, I need to proceed with caution.
Proceed alone.
I glare at the door, shove my papers into my bag, at the same time calling out, “Come in.”
I’m expecting it to be Tom or Jo circling back, here to get my ass home—hence me grabbing my bag and tossing it over my shoulder as the door cracks open. Save myself the argument about my work-life balance and all that. So, I’m not expecting to see?—
“Brooks?” I ask on a frown.
“I see that you’re thrilled to see me,” he drawls, stepping inside and dropping a duffle bag by the door.
“What the fuck, man?” I round my desk, move over to him.
We hug, slapping each other’s backs.
“Last I heard, you were living in France.”
“Eh.” He shrugs. “Got tired of feeling like a dumb American, so I decided that I needed to come stateside for a while.”
I chuckle. “How long’s that going to last this time?”
Another shrug. “Could be a week. Could be six months.”
“Could be tomorrow,” I quip.
He grins. “True. But I had my housekeeper stock my fridge, so I’m going to at least eat my way through Dolores’s delicious food before I abandon the U.S. again.”
“Oh good,” I say dryly. “I can relax.”
“Rude.” He shakes his head, starts to turn for his bag. “I guess I’m not sharing her tiramisu with you.”
I freeze. “She made tiramisu?”
“Not that it matters to you,” he says, snagging the handles of his bag and hefting it up. “Since you’re not going to eat any of it.”
“I—”
He pulls open the door, steps out into the hall.
I grab my phone and wallet, my laptop and keys, and follow him.
Because if Dolores made tiramisu then she also made homemade pasta.
And I’m not fucking missing her homemade pasta.
Even if I have to break into his apartment.
He’s waiting by the elevators, smirking at me.
“You’re an asshole,” I mutter, jabbing at the button he hasn’t hit yet…because he knew I’d be right here.
Yes, I can be bribed through my stomach.
No, it’s not that deep.
Plus, there’s nothing more I’m going to accomplish here tonight. Even if part of me wants to tear through my laptop, file by file, until I discover once and for all if one of my employees is fucking over my business.
That’s not only inefficient, I likely don’t have the skills.
My background is in research, but of the medical nature. I’m more comfortable with microscopes than hard drives.
So, I need to consult legal. I need to give what they clear over to the FBI and let them conduct their forensic research, and I need to keep my eyes and ears open so that I can be helpful instead of a useless lump standing on the sidelines.
“Board problems?”
I blink, pulling myself out of my head, seeing that I followed him onto the elevator and we’re heading down without me even realizing it. “No,” I mutter.
“Production?”
I glance over at him. “What’s with all the questions?”
“You’re a million miles away and have a roadmap of scowl lines etched into your face”—he lifts and drops a shoulder—“it’s either work that’s giving you trouble, or…” His features sharpen, eyes locking onto mine. “Or it’s a woman.”
I jerk.
Then silently curse.
Because I’ve given away too much.
“Or it’s both,” he murmurs sneakily.
I jerk again.
Then sigh, knowing it’s no use. Brooks has been my best friend since college. We waded through the shit for years before our companies took off, and he was there when my mom’s health finally gave out and I lost her, inch by inch. And he didn’t turn away from me when I couldn’t handle it, spun out for probably far too long. Instead, he stuck by me, helped redirect my rage, and provided the initial capital to get Genen-core off the ground.
And I was there when his wedding imploded and he was forced to walk away from the woman he loved.
In a few words, we’ve seen each other through the fucked-up realities of life.
And we’ve made it through to the other side while still remaining friends.
“Yeah,” he says dryly. “It’s both.”
“Just leave it alone, yeah?”
He studies me for a few heartbeats then inclines his head. “I’ll get it out of you after a couple of beers anyway.”
He’s not wrong, but I don’t comment as the elevator doors slide open with a ding and we walk off, him trailing me toward my car. “I’m driving,” I mutter.
Brooks just grins and says, “I call shotgun.” He yanks at the passenger door handle and starts to climb in as he explains, “Had my Lyft drop me here and used my code to come up because I figured I’d have to tear you out of your office, you chronic over-worker.”
Just the word Lyft has me pausing, thinking about a feisty brunette who’s doing her level best to keep me at a distance.
Apparently for long enough that Brooks says,
“ Definitely a woman.”
I jump. Then scowl at my friend before tossing my bag into the back seat, where he’s done the same with his duffle.
“And also probably work,” he says. “Because it’s always work.”
My scowl deepens, and I flip him off as I drop into my own seat.
But I don’t reply because he’s also not wrong about that shit either.
Instead, I just start up the car and drive toward his building.
Tiramisu.
I need to focus on tiramisu.