Chapter 17 #2
“—because,” he cut in smoothly, “there’s a difference between speculation and preparation.”
I almost snorted. That was splitting hairs. No way he didn’t know that. But, since he was on my side, I let him get away with it. “And you want us to begin preparing now.”
“For you to push,” he said. “Yes.”
The word hung there, sharp-edged. I felt it hit somewhere low and inconvenient.
“You’re assuming a lot,” I said, not that I wasn’t confident.
But a dialogue didn’t always go where you wanted it to go.
You could lead a horse to water and all of that, but sometimes they were mean and they could kick like a mule.
Or at least the one at my summer camp had.
It left a horseshoe shaped bruise on my ass for over a month.
“I’m observing patterns,” he replied. “You don’t sit still when momentum stalls. You don’t wait politely for permission. You pressure the system until it gives you something to work with.”
“That sounds suspiciously like admiration,” I said, lightly. Too lightly.
“Don’t let it go to your head, because it’s not,” he said. Then, after a beat, “But it is respect.”
That shut me up.
He shifted his weight then—just enough movement to reset the space between us. Not closer. Not farther. Intentional.
“You need to decide something,” Brewster went on. “If they greenlight this—and I think they will—you don’t get to improvise. You don’t get to go on instinct alone. You’ll have to be deliberate.”
“I’m always deliberate,” I shot back.
A single eyebrow lifted. “Mallory. You’re precise. Not always deliberate. There’s a difference. Deliberation will follow a set script, keeping the target in mind without improvisation or light bulb moments.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then stopped. Annoyingly, he wasn’t wrong.
“And,” he added, “if they don’t greenlight it, you still need a plan. Because sitting here isn’t getting us any closer.”
I felt that one like a hand to the sternum.
“So,” I said slowly, “this is the part where you tell me what to do?”
“No,” he replied. Immediate. Firm. “This is the part where I ask what you want to do—and then I tell you what the risks are. We discuss the pros and cons, then we workshop the plan until we both get what we want.”
The air shifted again. Subtle. Electric.
“And if I decide I want to push anyway?” I asked.
“Then I’ll tell you exactly how far you can go before it stops being leverage and starts being self-sabotage.”
My pulse spiked. “You sound very confident.”
“I am,” he said. Then, almost casually, “If you’re going to challenge me, I’d prefer you do it with your eyes open, because mine will be Mallory. They will be open and on you.”
Meaning upon double meaning layered in those words.
The way his pupils dilated and his nostrils flared suggested he was nowhere near as unaffected as he sounded.
The hammer of my pulse thundered in my ears again.
The provocative language and challenge, even his calm, controlled, and absolute manner beckoned to me.
What would it take to make this man let go?
Before I could respond, he glanced past me, toward the hall. “You’ve eaten?”
I blinked. “That’s your pivot?”
“Yes.”
“You’re serious.”
“You think better when you’re fed,” he said. “Right now, you’re running on caffeine, adrenaline, and spite. That’s not sustainable.”
I huffed a laugh. “You forgot stubbornness.”
“That’s the constant,” he agreed and winked.
He stepped back, giving me space to move—or not. “Kitchen,” he said. “There’s food. And we should talk before the phone rings again.”
“And if I say no?”
His eyes flicked back to mine. Something unreadable passed through them—interest, maybe. Or approval.
“Then I’ll assume you’re not ready to hear what I think,” he said evenly. “But I don’t believe that’s true.”
I hated how much that worked.
I grabbed my phone off the dresser. “You’re buying,” I said. “Metaphorically.”
“Fair,” Brewster said. “But you’re bringing the agenda.”
I stepped forward to pass him.
He didn’t move.
It happened so fast I couldn’t have said who adjusted first—only that suddenly there was no room left. My shoulder brushed the doorframe. His hand came up, not touching me, but braced against the wood beside my head. A barrier. A pause.
My breath caught.
Chest to chest, close enough that I could feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of my sweatshirt. Close enough that my body registered him before my mind caught up. His gaze dipped, just once—down, then back up—measuring distance, choice, consequence.
“Be very careful how you decide to play this, Mallory,” he said softly. Not a command. Not a threat. A calibration. “You want to keep me as your ally.”
The words slid under my skin.
I swallowed. “Is that a warning?”
For half a second, the world narrowed to the space between us. His eyes dropped again—this time to my mouth. Just long enough for the awareness to spark. Then he looked back at me, a bare hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.
“Yes,” he said.
Then he stepped away.
Just like that, the doorway cleared. The pressure vanished. The house rushed back in around us—air, space, sound—but something fundamental had shifted. My pulse was still racing when he turned and headed down the hall, already composed, already in control.
I followed a beat later, shaken in a way that had nothing to do with fear. The power of it. The precision. How little he’d needed to say. The fact that he’d said ally—and made it sound like a privilege.
Brewster wasn’t just offering to watch my back—he was daring me to keep up.
Lethal.