Chapter Twenty-Eight ADAM
Chapter Twenty-Eight
ADAM
“We’ve missed you around here,” Gilda says, setting a neat stack of files on my desk.
The uncertainty that’s been gnawing at me since we returned last week from Venice instantly prickles my skin.
“I haven’t been neglecting our clients,” I say, a little too harshly.
“I know.” Gilda tugs at her jacket sleeve, her back straight. “People think that something’s wrong with you, though. Last spring, you looked a bit…off. Then you randomly drop in for meetings and disappear again.”
I arch a questioning brow. Her motherly streak might bleed through the professional armor on occasion, but I’m still her boss.
Her palms shoot up, placating. “We’re just worried.”
“Thank you, Gilda.” I clear my throat, grasping for the calm that’s been slipping through my fingers these days.
Another chance. For me and Jackie. Not just surrendering to the attraction, but an honest try at building something real.
I’m aware she needs more time than most people to untangle her emotions. I would’ve waited for her to talk about it. And if she’d asked for that chance all those years ago, I would’ve leaped at it. I’d have swallowed all my insecurities whole and given her everything she asked for.
Could we truly make a fresh start now? Or would her suspicions always run beneath us like an underground river, slowly wearing away at our foundation again?
“I don’t have an incurable disease. Only some personal issues I needed to deal with.”
Before she can probe further, I stop her. “My parents are OK. Nobody’s dying.”
She smiles and takes the empty coffee cups. “Don’t forget your eleven o’clock call with Phill.”
My phone vibrates on the desk.
CARTER: Come to the penthouse.
ADAM: ????
CARTER: Please.
I smirk. Eliza’s niceness is rubbing off on Carter. Sort of.
“I’ll take it in the car. Don’t think I’ll be back today.”
Gilda’s lips purse as she leaves. Something about her look makes me defensive. “It’s business.”
On the drive over, a million worst-case scenarios race through my head. Carter’s not the type to play hooky, so it can’t be anything good.
The answer is waiting in Carter’s living room, pacing, hands behind her back. Agent Ruiz moves like she’s measuring the length between the floor-to-ceiling windows, her steps sharp, the cadence rippling faintly in the large room.
“Am I in trouble?” I want to laugh it off, but something cold slides down my spine.
Carter gestures for me to have a seat as Agent Ruiz turns her attention to me, analytical and skeptical.
“I don’t know, Mr. Rawlings. A pretty face doesn’t always get the job done,” she finally says flatly, unbuttoning her navy blazer.
Half offended, half amused, I scoff, pointing at my head. “Trust me, it’s never failed me before.”
“You don’t even know what this is about,” Carter says.
The cushions dip under me with a muffled thump as I settle into the far end of the couch, a crooked smile already pulling at my lips.
“Guess I’m about to find out, right?” I lean into the cushions, arm draped along the top. “Since I was summoned so gracefully.”
Carter takes a deep breath through his nose, and I know I’m getting to him. “You’re already making me rethink this.”
“Is this about the men who chased Jackie?” I ask, serious now, impatience slipping through. “Did we get any new information?”
“They clammed up,” Ruiz says, her disappointment palpable. “Couldn’t get anything from them, but—”
“Because you didn’t let Sheriff Walker use his… methods,” Carter points out, which earns him a withering glare from Ruiz.
“We want to run a sting operation, and Mr. Rawlings here,” she says, gesturing to Carter, “offered you as bait.”
“Rude,” I chide, wiggling a finger at him. But all amusement peels away as I turn back to her. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
She reclines into the armchair, crossing her legs, cool and calm. “You might not like it.”
My pulse spikes, but I’d rather I go down if needed, instead of Jackie. “Don’t care. If it keeps her safe, I’ll do it. Whatever it is.”
Ruiz fixes me with a hard, considering stare for a beat.
“We’re tracking the group,” she continues, opening a sturdy file on the coffee table. “But we need to be sure we get every last one of them. That’s where you come in.”
“Do I need to go undercover? You’ll strip me and tape a recorder to my chest?”
Ruiz levels me with another withering glare. “This isn’t an 80s mob movie.”
Right.
The agent taps her finger on a stack of files spread out on the coffee table. “We’re tracking every movement and call. Don’t do anything stupid while we gather the final intel necessary.”
That’s a tall order. “So what’s my role, then?”
Ruiz steeples her fingers over her knees, giving me a rare smile. It’s supposed to be encouraging, but it only makes me more suspicious.
“If everything else falls into place, we’ll need you in about two weeks.”
“I’ll be ready.”
After the elevator doors ping shut behind Ruiz, the apartment feels oddly quiet. I’m left staring into space, my brain spinning with the weight of what I’ve just agreed to.
A steaming cup of tea floats into my line of vision.
“Eliza taught me how to brew it,” Carter says.
Only a year ago, we’d have had the hard conversations over a glass of his finest whiskey. Look at us now.
He drops onto the couch beside me, elbows braced on his knees, clutching his mug. “You know you don’t actually have to do it.”
I trace the slow swirl left by the spoon, watching the steam curl upward, still digesting everything Ruiz said. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re always the one fixing things.” Carter taps his finger against the ceramic surface. “But this is a big ask. Even for your first and biggest client.”
I don’t need to look at him to know he’s smirking.
“You know I’d do it anyway,” I say, finally turning to him. “Even if you were just my annoying friend. No fat payroll to back you up.”
Carter nods, then clears his throat. “I don’t want you saying yes just because you feel like you owe Jackie or me something. Or to prove a point.”
He’s alluding to the very beginning. My mind rolls back to Jackie, perched on the counter of my tiny kitchen, legs swinging, telling me I should apply for the internship at Congressman Turner’s office.
Later, when I decided to open my public affairs consultancy firm, Carter pushed me through every door he could open for me. He helped me sketch out the plan on a bar napkin, and signed on as my first client. That vote of confidence brought in other clients.
Everything I am now circles back to these two people.
Gratitude has always lived along a sharp edge of shame. I made damn sure there was never a reason for either of them to regret taking a chance on me.
My gaze drifts past Carter, out the window to the city skyline. I do want to prove something. That nobody threatens Jackie and walks away. That every last one of them will end up behind bars. And I want Jackie to be safe to return to her life. Maybe I’ll even be part of it.
I don’t say any of that.
“It’s not the case,” I tell him instead, offering a half-smile. “Besides, I thrive on this spy shit.”
He lets out a short laugh that relaxes his posture. “I didn’t want to ask while Ruiz was here,” Carter starts, grimacing. “I bet she’d disapprove. But should we tell Jackie?” he asks.
That’s a recipe for disaster. “Absolutely not. She’ll go nuclear.”
“She’s not one to stand on the sidelines,” Carter counters. “Lately, we’ve been having some heated arguments about this. She’ll notice.”
“I’ll be discreet,” I say firmly. “It’s safer for everybody.”
The words hang heavy between us.
Carter sips his tea, clearly unconvinced. “It’s your funeral.”
This looked centered the last time I checked. I tilt my head, reconsidering the setup again. For good measure, I twist the vase full of my mother’s favorite flowers a few inches to the left. Just in case.
The sound of a drum set drifts in through the open window.
My neighbor’s Juilliard-hopeful kid is already on his fifth instrument in as many years.
It annoyed me at first, but now I leave the windows open when he practices.
Those relentless, repetitive bars are proof he’s trying to become someone he knows or hopes he’s capable of being. A kindred spirit.
This is insane. I need to chill. Jackie never once said a word about the dingy walk-up I barely managed to rent when I first moved here. The one with a literal hole in the bedroom floor.
This place? A brownstone on the Upper West Side with a view of the park? It’s worlds apart.
My parents haven’t visited since I moved in last year. Their stubbornness is only slightly more aggravating than their excuses about “not wanting to intrude.”
This year, I got smart and convinced them to come for my birthday. Bought them plane tickets and told them they’re not refundable. Not that I cared, but it’s a sure way to get them here.
They’re worried about me. The way I live my life, what I prioritize. It’s obvious in the roundabout way they ask about my weekend plans, what I had for dinner, and the carefully disguised invitations for two during the holidays.
I wanted to show them I’m more than just fine.
That’s where Jackie comes in.
That stupid joke she made still stings. I know she was teasing, but with all our history and whatever it is that’s going on between us now…I needed space. A few days to get my head straight before I could speak to her again.
But that’s the thing about Jackie. I told her about the dinner, and she immediately offered to cook. “Please don’t poison your parents on their first trip to New York in five years.”
Unfortunately, she had a point. I can’t cook for shit.
She was the one to point out that Mom would skin me alive if I catered the meal. And they’re not the types to enjoy an over-the-top dinner at one of the restaurants I usually take my clients to.
So, here I am, pacing the rooms like an idiot. Moving furniture around, making sure everything is perfect when—
Buzz. Buzz.
God help me, she’s here.