Chapter 13
CASSIDY
Every morning this week, I’ve woken up before my alarm.
Not in the usual panicked, heart-racing way I used to.
More like I’ve been wound too tight with anticipation, spring-loaded and ready to launch out of bed.
I’ve actually shrugged off some of my morning rituals.
I never anticipated this would happen so soon.
Only hoped little by little I’d relax enough to discover I’d stopped needing them one day.
My cheeks ache at the stretch of my smile as I drop a pod into my coffee machine. Holt’s right. I’m getting more resilient. The realization that my life still has so much more to offer is gradually overtaking my fear.
It’s ridiculous. I don’t even know what I’m excited for. Well. That’s a lie. I know exactly what I’m excited for. It’s the part where reality has left the building I’m conveniently ignoring.
Like replaying when a man who looks like he stepped out of a GQ magazine Most Eligible Bachelor spread asked me to sit with him and talk about my classes. That has nothing to do with it. Rolling my eyes at myself, I let out a giggle.
Or is it the far more alarming fantasy that’s taken root in my brain? That maybe, somehow, I could end up working for someone like Max?
Okay, it’s probably both.
Pouring cream into my coffee, my mind trails off to that unexpected encounter. Max wasn’t at all what I expected. A man that powerful and successful should’ve been cold, dismissive of some random cocktail waitress in a club. Instead, he was… well, normal. Almost disarmingly so.
He’s intuitive as hell, obviously. And there’s no disputing he’s wicked smart.
Look at the company he’s built. Okay, yes, I looked online.
But only at his business. No social media or entertainment news searches about his love life.
I mean, that would be delusional. Dreaming about a guy is one thing, internet stalking takes it to a whole other level.
This guy could have any woman he wanted.
And the last thing I need is to risk fulfilling some girlish fantasy only to lose my job, and my current home, with a guy who was described as a doesn’t date the same girl twice kind of man.
Yet what I’d assumed was a cheesy pickup line with the whole, Tell me about your classes, routine was anything but. It turned into a real conversation. He took the time to ask me questions. And really listened. Not only that, it felt genuine.
The funniest part? I’d expected Max to trip over his words when confronted about calling the girls superficial, but he’d nailed their descriptions. The fact that he’d clocked them so easily still makes me giggle.
I wonder what he thinks about me?
There were moments when it felt as if there was a tangible charge floating between us.
It caused my skin to tingle and my body to awaken in places that have been dormant for years.
Yet as he continued talking, I rationalized the electricity was more likely his shock that someone with pink hair and shiny ankle boots was able to identify code so quickly.
I’m sure it caught him off-guard. I mean, I’m well aware of my appearance.
I look as if I should be livestreaming makeup tutorials, not studying phone forensics.
I take a tentative sip of my steaming cup of coffee before curling into the small armchair in the living area.
My gaze bounces about the space. This studio apartment is bigger than anything I’ve ever lived in.
It’s not sprawling by any means, but the open layout makes it appear much larger than it is.
One wide, continuous space that somehow feels like three.
A sleek galley kitchen runs down the center, dividing the living area from the sleeping quarters. With polished counters and stainless steel appliances, it’s not flashy, but undeniably expensive. There’s even room for a small table and two chairs tucked against the wall.
On the other side, the living area holds a soft loveseat and a single armchair, angled toward low bookshelves that came already filled. Beautiful foiled hardcovers pop against the minimalist décor, and well-chosen artwork makes the home feel warmer than a generic hotel suite might.
Beyond the kitchen, the bedroom sits partially open, just separated enough to feel private.
An armoire stands against the wall for my clothes, a simple nightstand beside the bed.
No clutter, no excess. Just the perfect amount of space.
And knowing it’s located within the walls of this heavily secure fortress provides the calm I need to relax enough to sleep.
At least until the nightmares return. Yet even these have improved.
There are no flashing scenes of horrific attacks to remind me of where I’ve been.
I guess that’s one good thing about a severe head injury.
I have no recollection of what happened.
Only minor snippets that don’t add up to anything really.
My nightmares are limited to the worry about what hides in the shadows after threats emerged that they’d finish what they started.
Standing, I move over to the gorgeous drapes that cover the living room window and pull back the edge.
My fingertips dance along the heavy embossed fabric.
It’s a luxurious floral brocade I could never afford on my own.
Each section of the living quarters has its own window, both fitted with blinds and these blackout curtains that block out the light entirely if I want them to.
Guess it’s essential in a place that thrives after dark.
But is it the light I’ve been blocking out, or the world itself?
I keep the living room window closed, as it has more access from the street below.
Yet the bedroom window is obstructed by a large oak.
So I leave the curtains open a tad to allow the morning light to peer through the blinds each day.
Otherwise, I might never get out of bed.
The décor is all soft neutrals. A mixture of warm grays, creams, and pale wood tones.
It’s clearly higher-end than anything I’d ever afford on my own.
Especially not on a police officer’s salary.
This is the kind of place that looks effortless because someone else paid a lot of money to make it that way.
Gianni left no detail out of this club, I think, shaking my head. Even the guest apartments feel like luxury. If this is a basic staff or guest apartment, I can’t help wondering what the decadent rooms on the third and fourth floors must look like.
My mind again wanders to Max. Whether he’s ever been up there. Did he watch or participate? Or is he, like Lala said, more of the type who keeps his affairs private, going to The Rox?
Regardless, his interest in speaking with me was most likely sheer curiosity.
The novelty of finding out I’m into cybertechnology had to be what sparked the conversation.
That’s the rational answer. Because allowing myself to consider anything else, like the electricity that lights up my flesh when I replay the way he looked at me…
Well, that is just dangerous.
“Okay, but listen,” Lala says, gracefully lowering herself down on the couch with her tablet, “if we’re doing a seventies theme, we have to commit. Fondue and other fun appetizers, shag rugs in the VIP sections, and disco balls. Real ones.”
“I’m almost afraid to think about what you’re going to have us wear,” Brier moans.
Candice spins in a slow circle, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses shaped like hearts. “I’m thinking a gold jumpsuit with a deep V-neck.” She grabs each of her oversized breasts and squeezes to emphasize her statement. “I want to look like I escaped from an ABBA fever dream.”
Fern snorts. “You already do.” Her phone buzzes on the table. She glances at it and winces. “It’s my little brother,” Fern says, answering quickly. Her voice shifts instantly, soft and worried. “Hey, buddy… what? Louisa’s sick? Hospital sick?”
My stomach falls at her obvious concern.
She listens, pacing now. “Okay. Okay. Don’t panic.
Stay put. Lock the door. I’ll figure something out.
” When she hangs up, she looks torn in half.
“I don’t know what to do. He’s only eight.
It’s so hard to find sitters. So in between, Louisa next door has been watching him.
But he said she looked really bad and called 911. ”
Lala doesn’t hesitate. “Go. We’ll cover you.”
“I can take it,” I say, the words coming out before I’ve fully processed them. “I don’t have anything planned tonight.” My homework’s done. I was just going to do some extra assignments for fun anyway.
Fern exhales, visibly relieved. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. And I mean it. Well, that and an extra chance to see if Max arrives at the club tonight.
Lately, I’ve been tearing through my coursework like someone lit a fire under me. It’s one thing to analyze fictional data for class. It’s another thing altogether to think about real investigations.
Meeting Max has breathed new life into my digital forensics assignments.
It was already more riveting than I anticipated.
But the more I do it, the more it doesn’t feel like studying.
It’s like solving puzzles in a video game.
Like something in my brain clicks into place, allowing those patterns to glow.
I used to think I’d want to continue to work for the police. Still do, honestly. Crimes against people. Working hard for victims. Searching for justice that actually matters. Is that what his company does?