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“It’s not. We aren’t… This isn’t old times,is it?” He couldn’t help looking at her.Does she have to be sogoddamn pretty?Even here, with the jagged streetlights andhigh beams, he couldn’t miss her beauty. She belonged in the studioof some old master painter, draped in silks and reading handwrittenlove poems. She sure as shit didn’t belong here, with a comfortinghand on an enforcer.
“I … I think we’re friends.” Zara stared atthe console. “I mean, if Sawyer said any of this shit, I’d shoothim in the balls. But you’re different. Even now.”
He let his head fall back against the seatand covered her hand with his. Her skin was frighteningly soft. “Ican’t be different, Zara.” The light turned green, and he yankedhis hand away to deal with the wheel and the next section of roadconstruction.
“Should’ve thought of that before you gaveme chicken pox in kindergarten. Or let me have all your Laffy Taffyat Halloween. Should I go on?”
Remembering their childhood history didn’thelp. If anything, it made the ache sink deeper in his chest. “Istill hate your fuck-boy. Knowing you’re miserable with him isn’thelping.”
“I’m not miserable.”
“Liar.”
“I’m just bored. There’s a subtledifference.”
He snorted.“Could’ve fooledme.”
“Turn here.” She waited until he made theturn and began the slow process of navigating the parking garage.“I wish you’d take your own advice, by the way. I’ve seen the lastthree girls you dated. Talk about not being good enough.”
Jesus. I don’t even want to ask how sheknows my dating history.“That’s different.” He didn’t darelook her way. His last three relationships lasted two monthsapiece. Work always got in the way, and he never cared enough tomake up for it. Eventually, the women asked why they never met hisfamily or saw his apartment. He’d used a staged penthouse with oneof them, but she’d figured it out after the second or third nightwhen she swung by to “surprise” him, and the doorman let slip itwas a company property.
He realized with a jolt that his steadiestpartners were call girls. They didn’t give a shit if you werefucking them in a hotel or a boardroom, so long as the money wasright.The very same existence he’d credited to his dad.Fuck.
Zara seemed to be following his thoughtsbecause her skeptical, half-pitying expression spoke severalvolumes he didn’t want to read. “If you say so. I think we needthose elevators over there.” She didn’t say anything else as heparked the car. They silently walked through the parking garage andnavigated the bright-white hospital hallways with only directionspassing between them. Her hand slipped into his while the secondelevator rose. And somehow, he kept forgetting to let go.
The doctor found them in the waiting roomminutes later, and everything else fell through the void opening inDane’s chest. He knew Zara was talking to the doctor and to him. Hesaw her blue-and-brown eyes swimming in tears and ordered her tocall someone for a ride. He was sure he’d said that part out loud,but she didn’t answer or move.
She didn’t leave his side until thepaperwork was finished and her latest stepmother showed up,dragging them out of the hospital. Nobody—no matter howgrief-stricken or professional—argued with the reigning Mrs.Fitzgerald.
It felt like a second and an eternity whenthey arrived at the Fitzgerald Mansion. Dane stared at the frontdoor, the stairs leading up to it seeming higher than before. Heshuffled backward, and somewhere in his mind, he was convincedthere’d be no going back if he walked over the threshold. His dadwasn’t dead … not yet. Again, a small, guiding hand found his, andhe found Zara’s gaze locked on him—glassyand scared, but grounding. His brow furrowed, and a sharp painsettled at the base of his throat, but he followed. One foot infront of the other.
Somehow, he was sitting on the foyer’spolished marble floor, a frantic Zara crouching beside him. Tearsstreamed down her face as somebody—he didn’t see who, probably thehead of security—dragged Dane to lean against the wall. His eyesclenched shut as though blocking out everything around him meantnobody would see the tears. His dad’s voice echoed in his ears:“Never let them see your vulnerabilities. They’ll only use themagainst you.”
“Dane?” A new pair of hands found his arms.Larger than Zara’s. The grip harder than the guard would dare.Dane’s head shot up. Adam’s broad, stony face swam into focus. Danerealized he wasn’t the only one crying.
“You saw it?” The words came out thick,confused. Like his tongue forgot how to shape them.
Adam glanced toward his wife and daughter.“Come with me, son.”
Dane didn’t argue. Adam led him to theparlor, sat him in a red velvet chair, and closed the door. Hard.The sound shook Dane, and he pressed his fingers against his palm,where Zara’s had been moments before. “What happened?”
“We were ambushed.” Adam collapsed into thechair beside Dane’s. “He got in front of me.”
He was your shield. He always said so.
Dane cleared his throat. “Where? Who did it?How—”
“Listen to me.” Adam’s hand caught Dane’swrist. “The people who did this? They will be held to account. Andyou will help.”
“Then tell me—”
“We’ll know more in the morning.”
“Sir—”
“Adam. I’m not your boss tonight, son.” Hesat back, the chair groaning with the shifting weight. “Michael wasa brother to me. I hope you’ve always known that, but I realizesome shit we never make clear enough to our kids.”
Dane wiped his face with the back of hishand. “If it wasn’t for you, Mom’s cancer would’ve killed him, too.Nobody meant more to him than you did.”
