16. Andrie
Andrie
The bastard knew exactly what he was doing, I had to give him that. I took a savage bite out of the incredibly tasty breakfast sandwich, grumbling to myself as I drove. Xander knew I’d been keeping my distance purposely, and had played me like a fiddle this morning to get what he wanted.
As much as I outwardly pitched a fit, a part of me, one I was trying to ignore, was …
relieved. I’d tried to do the right thing by staying away from him.
But even though I’d claimed he was only a distraction from my professional life, I knew better.
I missed him. Not because he was a fun distraction, but because I liked him.
I’d had fun with Xander and enjoyed all the time we’d spent together.
Hell, I’d been more myself with him than I’d been in years.
And damn Lessia for calling me out on what I was feeling, leaving me to overthink every aspect of my life for the last week.
I’d gotten so wrapped up in trying to analyze myself, I’d finally broken down and called Fink, who’d practically called me an idiot before talking things through with me long enough to calm me down.
Of course, he couldn’t be bothered to actually help me sort everything in my head out—he wasn’t about to miss his tee-time, never mind that he was retired and golfing every damn day—but he’d promised to call soon to check in.
Maybe another friend wouldn’t be such a bad thing, I mused, realizing full well I was rationalizing my desire to see him again but unable to call myself on it.
Sighing, I took a sip of my perfectly doctored coffee before freezing.
How did Xander know I liked brown sugar in my coffee?
It didn’t seem like something Vik would have mentioned, namely because I’d switched to the white artificial sweetener that was more readily available in coffee shops years ago.
Before I could dwell on the thought, my phone rang. “Doc Andrie?” The sound of what was supposed to be my first patient of the day streamed through my car’s speaker system.
“Hey, Eddie. We aren’t supposed to meet for another fifteen minutes. Did you need to cancel?” I asked, looking at my clock.
“Doc, are you all right?”
I blinked. “Yes, I’m just running a few minutes behind my normal schedule. But I’ll be at the office before your appointment, so—”
Eddie cut me off. “I arrived just now, and it looks like someone’s already been here. Doc, the door was unlocked, and your office is trashed.”
It took several hours, an entire day of rescheduled patients, three calls from Hardy, and an additional one from Gideon, before the police finally released the “crime scene,” otherwise known as my office.
The mess in my office had been compounded by fingerprint dust and officers rifling through what had already been thrown around or broken.
Whoever had broken into my office—and the locks on my desk—apparently were searching for something.
Likely patient records, though anyone thought they were kept in hard copy any longer was living in nineteen-ninety-nine.
Even my rare doodles or handwritten notes were scanned and digitalized, the paper copy shredded immediately after.
The intruder had managed to find my floor safe where I stored my laptop, but in their attempt to torch it open, they’d damaged the computer they’d been trying to steal.
Not that there was information stored on it anyway, but it appeared the damage had caused the thief to fly into a fit of rage, knocking off knickknacks and books from the shelves, making a gigantic mess.
They’d even torn through my two waiting areas, toppling over furniture and pulling off a painting from the wall.
What I couldn’t figure out was if someone had been after the files looking for information about my active military patients or my pro-bono ones, as Hardy called my human trafficking patients.
Of course, Hardy blamed me for the break in, threatening to pull my contract with the military due to security concerns.
When I countered back—much to his surprise—that if a civilian patient or someone looking for them could get past his “military approved” security, then how could I expect my contracted patients to be safe?
If my office was so easily broken into by a civilian, then how easily could it be accessed by someone looking for military files?
Hell, he’d been the one to direct me to use this very office—something else I reminded him of.
Plus, despite his initial pushback at me taking on an office at Accardi Tactical, it now seemed that he’d lost points there and would have to concede.
It wasn’t like anyone could say it wasn’t a much more secure building.
Of course, he’d blustered and fussed but eventually relented to my unyielding calm and logic.
What I couldn’t tell him—and something he should have realized on his own—was that there was no way anyone besides a professional could have accessed the building and my office.
The cameras for the entire building had been wiped, the twenty-four-hour security guards hadn’t seen anyone, and except for the inside of my office, there wasn’t a sign of anyone having been there.
Unable to reach out to Harrison or Matteo for fear whoever had broken in was also keeping me under surveillance, I’d had to rely on Gideon and Matteo’s network to ensure the news of the break-in got to the right people.
I was so preoccupied, I’d totally forgotten about Xander and his promise of dinner. That was, until I walked into a house filled with a smell I hadn’t encountered in too many years to count.
“You’re home,” Xander said, tossing me a smile over his shoulder from where he was stirring a pot at the stove.
“Is that Solyanka?“ I asked, kicking off my shoes, too tired for once to make sure they were placed neatly in the shoe holder I had at the door.
“Yes. I hope you like it. I found myself missing home. At least, certain parts of it.” That last part was softer, almost to himself. He sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t thought he’d miss any part of his homeland.
“I tried making it once, but I couldn’t get the balance right,” I said, unable to keep the sadness from my voice.
The sweet and salty soup was a staple in Russia and had been one of Demi’s favorites.
I’d tried to make it on his birthday—the first one Vik and I had missed after settling into our lives in Texas, but it wasn’t the same.
Whether it’d been due to the taste or the memories, neither of us had been able to finish our meal, and I’d thrown out the rest of it, including the pot.
“I’m afraid I had to promise Vik leftovers.” He was watching me carefully as if realizing he’d somehow stepped into unhappy territory. “He never could cook worth a damn.”
His attempt at lightening the mood worked, at least a little, and I felt my lips turn up in a wry smile. “He caught his kitchen on fire once. Forgot to turn off the stove after cooking some bacon for breakfast. Made the whole thing worse by throwing water on it.”
He winced. “Yeah, water and grease don’t really mix. I guess that explains why his kitchen is the only updated room in his house.”
“The guys teased him about it for months,” I recalled. “And that’s why he decided not to serve food at the bar.”
I let Xander take my hand, pulling me toward a dining room table I was positive I’d never actually eaten at before.
He’d set it in preparation for our meal, but thankfully, he’d left off flowers or candles.
Hunks of rustic sourdough bread were in a bowl in the middle of the table, a cloth napkin covering them to keep them warm, with a dish of butter.
Sour cream and a small plate of lemon completed the preparations.
He’d opened a bottle of red wine before I’d gotten home, and he poured us both a glass as I took my seat, bemused at his domesticity.
Looking at the man, you’d never guess he’d know how to do anything other than open a beer and cook a steak.
Not that I judged on appearances. But still, it was amusing to see this huge biker putter around my kitchen, a towel slung over his shoulder, as if he were born to be there.
Putting the entire pot on the thick kitchen towel, he served us both before sitting down, not across the table, but beside me. Part of me was charmed to have him close; the other felt a little smothered.
Off balance, I took a bite of the stew, unable to prevent my eyes from closing as the flavors from the rich beef, smoked sausage, mushrooms, Kalamata olives, potatoes, and carrots hit my taste buds.
“Good?” Xander asked, taking a bite from his own bowl.
It tasted just as I remembered. Demi had liked his on the thicker side as well, with extra sausage. I kept my eyes closed a little longer, trying to force back the sting in them. “Mmm.”
Keeping my focus on my bowl, I took another bite.
“Hey.” He put a hand over mine, pulling my attention up to him. Staring into his deep blue eyes, I tried—and failed—not to think about another set; one that was so pale, they almost appeared to be clear pools. “What’s wrong? You look …”
I forced a smile, but his expression told me he wanted the truth. So, I gave him what I could. “This was, well, it was a favorite meal for …” I trailed off, and his face cleared in understanding.
“Would you tell me about him?” he asked, causing my jaw to drop.
“You want me to talk to you about … him?” My mind whirled at the thought of talking about the man I'd loved—still loved, I corrected myself—with the man I’d slept with.
Shrugging off my confusion, he smiled. “I told you; I lost the girl I loved a long time ago. We share that, as much as I hate to say it. The fact that we lost those we truly loved. I’d like to think that you, of all people, would understand the need to keep them in our lives.
I don’t want you to hide his memory any more than I plan on hiding hers.
Caring for others doesn’t mean we have to diminish our love for them. ”