Chapter 11
Nathan
S taring at my computer monitor, I scroll through the pictures again.
The PI never gets Claire’s face. All I can see is that she’s gotten so much taller, and her fire-engine-red hair is down to her stomach.
Picture after picture, all I can see is Peter taking Claire shopping.
Peter taking Claire to the aquarium. Peter taking Claire for coffee and getting her a frappuccino drenched in chocolate and caramel syrup.
Outside of the fact she shouldn’t be having that much caffeine at her age… Nothing’s wrong.
He ditched the beard. Post-prison, he’s sporting the clean-shaven look and smiling in every picture. But I can’t see Claire’s face. Is she smiling too?
Picking up my cell, I dial Dad’s PI on speaker.
“Hodge,” he answers.
“I just got your email. What the hell is all this?”
“What’s it look like, boss?”
“Do I sound like I’m in a playful mood? Or do I sound on edge like I’m willing to use every penny in my bank account to ruin a PI’s life if he doesn’t give me some legitimate answers?”
Hodge clears his throat. “Sorry, sir. These are the results of eight days of surveillance.”
“Better. Where’s Ruby?”
“The old lady?”
“Yes,” I bite out. I don’t have a long list of enemies.
A few terminated employees who’d probably like to take a few swings.
Business rivals, sure. But sweet old Ruby is the devil in disguise.
I know her true colors. Claire is a possession to her, and she’s in total denial that her son is a monster.
She saw Elise beaten within an inch of her life.
Ruby is the kind of vile bitch who’d ask what the woman did wrong to deserve it. She has no right to raise Claire.
“From what I can tell, these are daddy-daughter dates. It looks like he’s trying to make up for lost time. How long was he away?”
“Not long enough. And what does Peter do when he’s not with Claire?” Truth be told, Peter is even-keeled when he’s sober. It’s when he’s high or drunk that he turns into Mr. Hyde.
“He’s squeaky clean. AA meetings, daily check-ins with his parole officer. He’s even going to evening church services.”
He can repent all he wants. Corrupt cops and wife-beaters go into the ground and stay there.
There should be no salvation for evil men like him.
I grab my takeout coffee, unaware of the tension in my forearm.
Squeezing too hard, the coffee explodes, searing-hot cortado spilling all over my desk, shirt, and lap.
“Shit,” I hiss as I wait for the scalding burn to dissipate.
“You all right?”
“I’m fine.” I snatch my phone up, holding it vertically so the coffee drips down off the broken screen. “Keep an eye on Peter.”
“Sure thing, boss. How long?”
“Until I say.” While others might be easily convinced of Peter’s new sobriety, I’m not fooled. My command acknowledged, I hang up the call.
The whole office reeks of coffee now. I open a few windows to air out the space, then head to the hidden closet.
I push against the cabinet and the door pops open.
I keep a couple spare suits in here for shit like this.
Sliding off my belt, I let it drop to the floor, then unbutton and kick off my pants.
My shirt is probably fine, just a few wet spots, but I might as well change everything.
I grab two suits and their hangers from the rod. As I’m debating between black and dark gray, there’s a shriek from behind me.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
I turn in time to see Spencer whipping around, her long hair fanning out like silk around her shoulders.
She starts to flee my office, but in her disarray she forgets the door is a pull from this side, not a push.
There’s an awful thud as she collides face-first with the door.
She hits the glass so hard, she collapses backward.
I’m across the room in three long strides, my heart hammering hard, as I scoop her head up in the crook of my elbow. I normally try to keep distance between us. Holding her like this is too damn close to the line I so desperately don’t want to cross.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper upon the extent of the damage. Streaks of red are dripping from her nose.
“Am I bleeding?” Her voice is small, but clear, reverberating through my chest with each syllable.
“Yeah.” No point in lying.
“Is it broken?”
I brush the hair from her face, away from the blood, allowing my fingers to linger longer than necessary near her temple. Very carefully, I press against the bridge of her nose, hyperaware of how her ragged breath is warming my skin. “How’s that feel?”
“Not too bad.” Her eyes lock with mine for a moment. A pleading look that matches my own. Like we both want to be put out of our misery. Her discomfort is probably a mix of pain and unnecessary embarrassment. Mine? The agony of wanting her.
“Then I think you’re okay. C’mon. Up we go.”
With my hands cupped around her elbows, I guide her into a sitting position.
I’m going to completely ignore that her skirt has ridden up so high I can see her bare, upper thighs.
Diverting my gaze, I temper my curiosity that’s getting all kinds of stirred up.
I force my gaze away from her supple skin. She’s hurt. Now is not the time…
It’ll never be the time.
As I move my hands to her shoulders, steadying her, Spencer presses her palms against both of her temples. “I might have a concussion. Suddenly the smell of coffee is really strong.”
“No, that was me. I just spilled coffee all over myself. Hence why I was changing.”
“Please don’t give me a hard time about this.
I had no idea you were almost naked in here.
” Her eyes flicker downward for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
She thinks she’s subtle…she’s not. I’m painfully aware of my state of undress, and how little fabric separates us.
But the beast in my chest is purring with glee at the idea of Spencer checking me out.
Maybe she is feeling what I am. “You said come to your office as soon as I got to work. The door was unlocked.”
“I know, I know. Can you sit on your own?”
“Yes.” She puts one arm down, bracing herself with one hand planted on the rug.
I hop up and fetch a fistful of tissues from the box on my desk. Returning to Spencer, still on the floor, I wad them up in a ball and press them gently to her nostrils. “Let’s clean you up.”
“I can do it,” she insists, trying to take the tissues from me.
“Let me help,” I answer softly. “I know you can do it, but I’m trying to be nice.”
My words relaxing her, she sits as still as she can, letting me dab and wipe at her face, her eyes never leaving mine.
It looks like she’s still in disbelief and trying to savor the moment.
The silence between us crackles with something unspoken, but we both understand.
Yes, we want it. No, we can’t have it. It’s that simple.
When I’m satisfied with my handiwork, I meet her gaze.
“There. Back to pretty as usual.” I regret the words as soon as they slip out.
Partially because I just admitted out loud that the word I’d use to describe Spencer is pretty.
Also, because she doesn’t seem appreciative of the compliment.
Her eyes flicker with uncertainty as the corners of her lips turn down.
“You are so confusing,” she grumbles.
Yeah. I realize.
She clambers to her feet all on her own. Now she’s lightly pressing against her eyelids. I’m sure her whole face hurts from that blow. Poor thing. “I think we should get some ice.”
“I’ll do it. You should get dressed.” Her gaze roves down my chest, lingering just a moment too long before snapping back up.
“You have a meeting about the zoning permit in fifteen minutes.” It’s brief but unmistakable—the once-over she gives me, standing here in only my boxers.
Her lips part slightly before she adds, “Gray, by the way.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, my voice strained and distracted.
Spencer points to the suits I dropped in front of the closet when she collapsed. “Looked like you were trying to decide. Go gray. Just my opinion.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
She nods, looking miserable. I want to blow off this meeting and ensure she gets ice and some Motrin.
Actually, I want to give her the rest of the day off and take her home myself.
But I bite back my inclination. Spencer is beautiful, smart, and witty as all hell.
She’ll find someone great, but she’s not mine to save.
“Whatever you wanted to talk to me about, can it wait until this afternoon? I’d really like to leave with whatever dignity I have left and speak to you when my entire face isn’t throbbing.”
“That’s fine.” Now I’m in no hurry and really not looking forward to unleashing my clever plan to set Spencer up for failure. “Come back at two o’clock, after lunch?”
“Two o’clock,” she confirms. She wobbles on her first step, then takes a steady second step to exit my office.
“Hey, Spencer?” I call out when she’s nearly at the door.
“Hm?”
“Remember, pull, don’t push.” I let out a soft, pitying chuckle.
Her back is turned, but I bet she’s rolling her eyes.
I swear I hear her mutter “asshole” under her breath.