The information passed along from our employee at Titan Capital is another layer, another piece of the puzzle.
“With any luck,” Agent Phillips says after asking me to look into a couple of other contracts that connect with our biomedical partners, “we’ll be wrapping this up in the next month or so and you can get back to controlling everything behind the scenes at Titan Capital.”
“Not the wine,” I quip, making a few notes in my laptop before saving and locking the screen. “I just drink it and leave the rest of the process to the powers that be.”
“I knew I liked your style.” She pushes up out of the chair, but when I expect her to head for the door, she just leans back against the dresser. “How long are you stuck here?”
“We’re friendly enough to chat now?”
“Come now”—a wink—“you know we’ve been chatting from day one.”
“Because you’re pushy.”
Another wink. “Because I know how to get the information I need.”
“You know my condo flooded.”
Because I was dragged out to dinner with Chrissy, Rory, and their hockey players, and Attie was dragged alongside me.
“I know, but I also heard you turning down offers to stay with the others left and right, and that”—she taps her temple—“piqued my spidey senses. There’s more to the situation than a flood, and I think that it has something to do with that sweatshirt you’re fondling.”
I freeze, realize that I’ve been gently running my fingers over the hem of the sweatshirt, back and forth, back and forth.
Fuck.
Iamfondling it.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my pants—lest I go back to fondling—and start for the door. “Goodnight, Attie,” I say, mostly because I know calling her that instead of her preferred nickname of Ats drives her crazy.
“It’s Ats,” she corrects, right on cue, eyes narrowing slightly.
Victory is mine.
Ha!
Of course, it would be short-lived if she decided to do some scary ass karate shit to me as punishment for my teasing.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she trails me toward the door—albeit with a scowl.
FBI agents are scary.
“Ats,” I find myself correcting, if only to make that scary look disappear, and reach for the handle. “I’ll work on those files, get them over to you as soon as possible. And,” I add lightly as I pull the door open, “I’ll count down the days for Angela to receive her comeuppance.”
A genuine smile, without—thankfully—a hint of murder. “Damn right you will.” She pats my shoulder, but just before she steps through the door, she leans in and sniffs. “FYI, your sweatshirt smells like him.”
I open my mouth to retort—something,anything.
But she’s already gone.
Eighteen
Jace
The knockon my door comes at literally the worst time ever.
The fucking FBI just left.
