He returns it—almost imperceptibly—a silent promise, and heads upstairs.
I’m left alone with Dominic in the living room.
He stares at the space where the others disappeared, then pours himself a bourbon. He pours a second and hands it to me without asking.
“You knew,” I say, my voice coming out rough.
Dominic takes a sip. The amber liquid is gone in one swallow.
He turns to me. His gray eyes are impossible to read, but they’re not hostile.
Of course he knew.
The silence is his answer.
I nod, fingers tightening around the cool glass in my hands.
47
Text Messages, Stupid Grins & Inherited Fears
Cohen
It’s been three days.
Seventy-two hours of so-called calm—if by “calm” you mean being holed up in Dominic Voss’s house while my sister recovers from a monumental emotional (and physical) hangover, and Nate does laps between here and the office bringing donuts and legal documents.
Three days without seeing her.
Sloane.
I haven’t seen her since the night at The Velvet Room. Since she left me here on the stairs, heart pounding out of my chest, fully aware that without her I’d have gone under.
What I have had, instead, is the most active phone of my entire life.
And not because of my manager. Or the press. Or the team group chat.
I look down at my screen.
Angel:Don’t forget we have the press conference briefing tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. Be on time. And wear a decent shirt.
Me:Do you miss my pecs so much you need to see them through cotton?
Angel:Becker.
Me:Tell the truth, Angel. You miss me.
Angel:I miss my sanity. And you’re the opposite of that.
Me:And yet, you’re texting me.
Angel:It’s work.
Me:Sure it is.
I hit send and keep staring at the screen like an idiot, waiting for those three little dots to pop up and tell me she’s typing.
I don’t even realize I’m smiling.
