“So, he just gets away with it,” he huffs, dropping back into his seat.He groans into his hands.“These fucking assholes.Cut off one head …”
“Two more take its place.”
He pulls his glasses off and rubs his eyes.I stare at his long fingers and think absolutely nothing.
Nothing I’ll admit to anyway.
“What if Jackson has no idea?You’ll destroy his reputation.”
“And if he does know and willingly went along with it?”
I can’t believe that.
“Just because he’s saying what you want to hear doesn’t mean we shouldn’t look a little deeper.”
We.
My heart skitters around that single syllable for a few beats.
“I hate having to second-guess everyone,” I admit.
Good people face the kind of scrutiny no one looks flawless under while bad players get praised for doing what we expect of them.
“You’re right.You know what?Don’t listen to me.”
I look up, surprised.
“Hold on to that hope.It’s important.Incredible things are achieved through hope.”
“And a lot of bad people have been ripped from the shadows through cynicism.”
He laughs—a throaty, deep sound I want to press my cheek to, feel it work through his chest and into my bones.“Glad to know I’m still useful.”His eyes shine with contained joy, even as his smile becomes something smaller, deeper, settling over me like a conviction.“You’re good at this, Mia.Don’t forget that.”
Speechless, I hold the words close, tuck them inside the safest corner of my mind, where I keep precious memories.
“We’re going to get him,” I tell Sterling.“I’m sure of it.”
* * *
If I never see another box again, it’ll be too soon.
Dumping the two that I’m holding on to the floor, I fish out my keys and lean against my door.I’m so tired.
Going through the donations is taking up all of my spare time, and in order to get my own articles finished, I’m writing on my breaks, in line for coffee, on the toilet.
It’s so bad; I spent four hours at work before my alarm went off, and I realized I’d been dreaming the entire time.
I’m scared we won’t find what Sterling is after.
I don’t want to let him down.
“Hey, let me help you with those,” comes a lilting British accent, and as I push off the door and blink my eyes open, a gorgeous man with silky hair and a wide-collared jacket is passing me his coffee and picking up both boxes with ease.Lean muscle, warm eyes, tattoos.Like every singer I had posted on my walls at home.
He’s a walking dream.
“Oh, thank you.I’ve been moving all week, and I really wanted to get these last two boxes done tonight, but my arms are currently on strike.”
“Can’t have that,” he says, smiling down at me.I bet he could lift me as easy as those boxes.“They’re lovely.I hope this doesn’t mean I’m crossing the picket line.”
