Me: Friday works. I’m in.
Axel: I’ll bring the crime scene tape. For ambiance.
22
FAITH
I’d replayed that kitchen moment approximately seven hundred times since last night.
“We seriously could’ve done this over coffee,” Ryker said, navigating another turn one-handed, his other forearm casually resting on his knee as his vehicle rounded the bend smoothly.
“We could have done this last night.”
He shot me a teasing look. “You fell asleep last night.”
“I woke up.”
“Only when I was carrying you to bed.”
The memory of his arms around me, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.Yeah, let’s not think about that right now.“My brother should have let you finish the trip.”
“Your brother knew I might not leave.”
I smiled, but the truth was harder to ignore in daylight. Something had shifted in that kitchen. Something that had been replaying on a loop every quiet moment since.
And here was the thing that really got me: Ryker could have insisted on working last night, my exhaustion be damned. Most lawyers might have. But he’d prioritized my sleep instead. Actually said, “You’ve had a long day, Warrior. Get some rest.”
Then he’d looked like he wanted to kiss me good night.Would have probably, if Blake hadn’t been glaring daggers from across the room.
So, they’d all left instead.
This morning, he’d shown up bright and early, two coffees in hand and that devastating smile that should be illegal.
“Hard work will be good for us,” I said, trying to sound more convinced than I felt. Trying to pretend I wasn’t a ball of nerves with the conversation looming ahead of us.
“This isn’t the group home,” I said when he parked.
“I know. I’ll be quick, and then we can be on our way.”
I followed Ryker into a commercial building that smelled faintly of carpet cleaner and ambition. The lobby was all polished floors and generic corporate art, the kind of space designed to look expensive without actually being memorable.
He held the door for me, then led me down a hallway lined with frosted glass offices. Each door had a nameplate. Each office looked identical through the glass. Efficient. Professional.
We stopped at a door markedKincaid & Associates.
He pushed it open, gesturing me inside.
The reception area was bustling. A woman at the front desk looked up with a polite smile. Phones rang in the background. People moved between offices and desks with files tucked under their arms, the hum of a working law firm in full swing.
Ryker nodded to a few people as he passed, but didn’t stop to chat. He led me down another hallway, past what looked like conference rooms and paralegal stations, until we reached a door at the end.
His door. His name on the placard.
He opened it and stepped aside.
“So, this is your office, huh?” I stepped inside and stopped cold. The space was … bare. Aggressively bare. Like someone had staged an office, using only the minimum required props: desk, chairs, bookshelf.
Check, check, check.
