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Then she approached leaving a glass of scotch, a cup of coffee, and my defenses shattered all in one fell swoop.

I told myself I was being professional. That I didn’t mix work and… whatever the hell this is. I’d already caught myself coming too close to asking her to help me. I’d considered framing it like efficiency. As if her working with me would be a way to relegate the tasks I didn’t have the time or energy for. Like I just wanted someone else to take the phone forensics off my hands.

Another lie. What I really wanted was an excuse to keep her close.

So I stayed away. Buried myself in work. Took on cases I didn’t need, favors I’d normally decline, anything to keep my mind busy and my body out of this building.

One of them was a pro bono referral I could really sink my teeth into. A daughter worried about elder abuse. That surely would keep my mind occupied on something less risky.

Her sister had hired a man to help her aging mother with yard work and home maintenance. It escalated into rides to doctor’s appointments, errands, and hair salon visits the children were unable to attend. The kind of slow creep that looks like kindness.

Until it doesn’t.

The mother was in her late seventies. The man was in his thirties. And lately, she’d stopped calling him by his name. Once or twice, she’d called him her boyfriend.

The daughter rationalized her mother had some memory issues. There were subtle behavioral shifts she’d noted from time to time that caused her to fear dementia had set in. Was this confusion on her mother’s part, or was this man taking advantage of her?

This situation was exactly the kind of mess I could get lost in. Sure, I hoped it would play out that she simply had advanced dementia. No one wants to imagine some dickwad taking advantage of a sweet old widow. Regardless, it was exactly the kind of problem that should’ve held my attention.

It didn’t.

No matter how many files I opened, how many systems I mapped, nor how deep I went into other people’s lives, she kept intruding.

Cassidy.

In my shower. In my dreams. Looking into metadata wondering if she’d find this type of case intriguing. Basically, in places she had no business being. Every time I stepped away from my laptop, she reappeared. Like a mirage I couldn’t blink away. An unrealistic, forbidden temptation.

Until I couldn’t fight it any longer and arrived here. Only for this situation to blow up in my face.

A sudden, visceral urge to pull her aside assaults me. To find a quiet corner and ask her what she knows, how much she understands about what she saw on my laptop. Whether she’d really work with me. Not as a girl impressed by money or power. But someone who actually gets it. The endless, tedious phone records. The metadata rabbit holes. The mind-numbing pattern recognition that makes most people’s brains short-circuit. The parts of my world no one ever wants to touch. Even me.

And underneath that irrational desire to work with her is something far more dangerous. A reality I can’t ignore. I like having her near me.

This isn’t like the others. It’s not for one night of carnal release. Not for a tawdry distraction from my current reality. It’s a desire to be near me in the way I’ve never let anyone be. And that unfortunate realization makes my pulse spike.

I don’t let people into my work. Not other than a superficial business liaison. Despite her trying, I’ve even managed to keep Loretta from “mother hening” her way into my personal life. I don’t let people into my world. Unless I can control it. I’m closest to my brotherhood of billionaires here at this club than anyone else. And even they don’t know about my past, all of the nightmares that continue to work overtime. Unless a pink-haired cutie is giving them a day off.

It isn’t a conscious choice anymore. It’s just the way my mind reacts. Like a built-in firewall. Even my own family barely gets past it these days. Distance is safer. So why does this woman feel like she’s already inside the perimeter? Why does her standing three feet away feel more destabilizing than any threat I’ve tracked on the dark web?

The agitation hits next. The uncomfortable awareness akin to bugs crawling beneath my skin that comes when I feel exposed. When I feel something slipping.

Out of control.

I hate that feeling more than anything. It’s a constant reminder I can’t fix everything. I have to live with what’s happened with no recourse in sight. Yet instead of handling this like an adult, I do what I always do. I weaponize it. Lashing out, if only to quiet my own demons.

“I run a billion-dollar business built on security, young lady,” I sneer, the words coming out much colder than I intend. “This isn’t some hobby.”

The hurt in her eyes is immediate. As is the resulting quake behind my sternum. I’m nearly certain this woman wouldn’t do anything to harm anyone. But I lashed out at this timid little mouse like a python after his next meal. The irony in my declaration should make me wince after causing her distress.

Because it’s a lie.

What I was working on here wasn’t on any company roadmap. It’s my own illegal pastime. Those cases, my own personal obsession, and the work I do for Gianni, has nothing to do with my business. My private compulsion to hack into places I don’t belong. Accounts I have no clearance to be a part of. But I have to be careful who I let in. Because the risks I take won’t only involve me if that happens.

But she doesn’t need to know that. What’s more, she can’t know that.

“This isn’t a game,” I add, sharper now. I need to tone this down. Particularly after witnessing the hurt in her eyes. But I’m defensive, like I’m scolding myself more than her. This is what happens when the chains tethered to my self control become obliterated.

Her shoulders draw in slightly. A reflex I’ve become accustomed. One she probably doesn’t even realize she has. That same guarded posture I’ve noticed before. The one that says she’s learned how to disappear when necessary. She takes a step back.