“And Grant?” He turns at the door. “If I find even a hint of anything ugly on him, I’m dropping him flat on his face. I don’t care if he’s your best friend.”
He nods. “He’s a good man, Madi. Just a hothead.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.”
Outside, Hazel hands me a steaming cup of coffee. God, I love this woman.
“You’re booked solid,” she says. “Two corporate implosions. One nonprofit board crisis. And a tech CEO insisting that his assistant’s resignation is totally unrelated to the lawsuit.”
I grimace as I take a sip. “Add the CEO to the maybe pile. He sounds like a liar.”
She nods, then pauses to study my face. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
She raises an eyebrow, her gaze dropping to where I’m leaning heavily against the desk. “You were sitting through the entire presentation. You never sit.”
“It’s temporary. A yoga casualty.”
She lets it go, but the look she gives me says she knows I’m human, even if I’m pretending I’m made of marble. I glance around the office—the glass walls, the people moving with frantic purpose. Sometimes this job feels soulless, cleaning up after powerful men who should know better.
But sometimes, I stop a bad moment from becoming a permanent stain. Sometimes, I decide who gets a second chance.
Like a message from the universe, a sharp twinge in my lower back reminds me I’m not invincible. I glance down at my feet and at the shoes I changed into the moment I got out of my car.
I’m wearing flats. Black, sensible, soul-crushing flats.
Jesus Christ. I really am in a crisis.
Eleven
Beckett
“If you’re going to drink my beer, Vaughn, the least you can do is hold the bottom of the box so I don’t give myself a hernia.”
Hudson leans against my kitchen counter, looking relaxed for a man who just finished a twelve-hour shift on the psych ward. He cracks a cold beer and takes a slow sip. “I’m a psychiatrist. My hands are for delicate cognitive unraveling, not manual labor.”
I grunt and shove a stack of heavy surgical texts onto a bookshelf. “Get over here and be useful.”
He sighs, pushing off the counter to help me steadya stack of journals, but he’s too late.
“Move over, Doc. Let a professional handle the heavy lifting.” Tom steps into the fray, catching the corner of the box before it tips.
Tom has been a fixture in my life since before I could walk. He was my father’s oldest friend, and since the accident, he’s been the one filling the gaps.
“Thanks, Tom.” I wipe sweat from my forehead. “I didn’t expect you’d be coming by today.”
“Your mother mentioned you still hadn’t unpacked properly,” Tom says, his voice a gravelly rumble as he hefts a box. He looks younger lately, more energized.
We work in silence for a few minutes, punctuating the monotony with small talk.
“Did you see what this idiot did?” Hudson says, nodding toward the TV. I look up.
The news is running a loop of Senator Reece thrusting a middle finger directly into a camera lens, then into the face of a female reporter.
“The flip-off seen around the world.” Hudson chuckles, turning up the volume.
The senator stands at the podium.
