"Evans also left that. It has pears and a card that says 'Thank You for Your Service.' He asked if I was still planning to sue the hospital for the bus incident. I told him I’d settle for a new bumper and a lifetime supply of the good coffee."
He gestures to the espresso machine. It is set up on a small table between our desks. Neutral ground.
"You sold your litigious rights for caffeine?" I ask, brewing two cups.
"And for you," Jax says, his voice dropping that octave that still makes my breath hitch. "I figured keeping the Chief of Cardio as my personal barista was a decent settlement."
I hand him his mug—the chipped one. I keep my crystal glass.
I lean against the edge of his desk. I am now deep in the former "Exclusion Zone." It smells of spicy chips, the linger of Mama Ortiz’s sandwich, and cedar. I find I do not mind it.
"I am not a barista," I inform him. "I am a coffee artist."
"So," I say, shifting gears. "New Year. New protocol."
"What’s the protocol, Chief?"
"No more secrets," I say. "No more hiding in closets. No more listening to the Board."
Jax grins. He reaches out with his good hand and hooks a finger into my belt loop, pulling me closer until my thigh presses against his knee.
"I like that protocol," he says. "Does it include more nights at my place?"
"It includes nights at your place," I concede. "Provided you allow me to organize your kitchen. The spice arrangement is anarchic."
"Deal."
My phone buzzes on the desk.
I pick it up.
"Mother?" Jax asks, raising an eyebrow.
"No," I say, looking at the screen. "It’s Preston."
Happy New Year, traitors. Mother is currently drinking sherry and complaining that Maxwell has joined a cult after the Gala. It’s the best holiday break I’ve ever had!
I show the phone to Jax.
Jax laughs, a loud, genuine sound that fills the small room.
"Kid’s gonna be alright," Jax says. "We’ll corrupt him yet."
"I worry about the leather jacket he was wearing at the Gala," I muse. "He doesn't have the shoulders for it."
"He’ll grow into it. Just like you grew into this." Jax gestures to the office, to the mess, to us.
"I did not grow," I correct him. "I adapted. Evolution is a hallmark of a superior organism."
"Keep telling yourself that, Princess."
Jax
I’m happy.
It’s a weird feeling. Usually, when the adrenaline fades, the crash comes. The ghosts come back. The guilt creeps in.
But sitting here, watching Maxwell York meticulously wipe a drop of espresso off the counter, the ghosts are quiet.
