“Long enough.” I move to the kitchen, fill my glass from the filtered carafe in the fridge. My hands are remarkably steady. “But not long enough to understand what you’re talking about.”
When I turn back, they’re both watching me from the sofa with identical expressions of guilt and concern.
“Go back to bed.” Chris’s voice is controlled. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“Will we?” I meet his eyes. “Or will you leave the room again the next time I ask questions?”
He flinches like I’ve hit him.
“That’s not fair,” Wyatt starts.
“Isn’t it?” I look between them. “You two are having conversations about my cases. About my clients. Making decisions about what I should and shouldn’t know?—”
“To protect you,” Chris interrupts.
“I don’t need protection. I need honesty.”
“You need to be able to do your job without complications.”
“My job is already complicated. Having my boyfriend’s past with my client hidden from me doesn’t make it simpler. It makes it dangerous.” I pause, frustration building. “And it’s an ethics nightmare I didn’t sign up for. If I’d known about your history with Vicente, I never would have taken this job. But we’re past that point now, and operating blind doesn’t help anyone.”
Chris exhales hard. His jaw works. For a moment I think he’s going to shut down again, but he doesn’t. He stands and closes the distance between us, pausing at the edge of the kitchen counter.
“I’m trying to protect you,” he says. “From me. From what knowing the full truth about what I was with him would do to how you see both of us.”
The admission hangs in the air, raw and painful.
Wyatt moves closer, standing but not approaching either of us. His gaze lands on Chris for a beat before he turns to me. “Maybe we should all get some sleep. Talk about this when Nina’s not barely twelve hours post-op and we’re not all running on fumes.”
“Good idea,” I say, though I’m not tired anymore. Adrenaline has burned through the lingering anesthesia fog.
Chris nods stiffly. “Yeah. Sleep.”
But none of us move.
Nikita appears, winding through my legs with a questioning trill. I pick her up, carefully, hoping she’s under the ten-pound lifting limit, but grateful for something to hold.
“I’m sorry,” Chris says finally. “For leaving. For shutting down. For all of it.”
“I know.”
“I just—” He looks at Wyatt, then back to me. “I need to figure out how to talk about this without destroying everything.”
“You won’t destroy anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” I move closer, Nikita purring in my arms. “Because whatever happened, whatever you think I can’t handle, I can. We all can.”
He wants to believe me. I can see it in his eyes, the desperate hope warring with deep-seated fear.
“Tomorrow,” Wyatt suggests. “Let’s try again tomorrow. When we’ve all slept.”
“Okay,” I agree.
Chris doesn’t argue.
“Come on,” Wyatt says finally. “Back to bed. All of us.”
