"I'm not overthinking," I say, crossing my arms over my chest to ward off the cold. "I'm just reading the news."
"The news is irrelevant." He walks toward me, his bare feet silent on the concrete. "The threat is neutralized. The rest is just paperwork."
He stops in front of me, reaching out to pull me into his chest. I uncross my arms, wrapping them around his waist, and rest my cheek against his bare shoulder. His skin is incredibly warm.
"Preston was denied bail," I murmur against his collarbone.
"I know." Malcolm rests his chin on the top of my head, his hands sliding slowly up and down my back. "The federal prosecutor is not going to risk letting him secure a private flight out of the country."
"And Simon is cooperating."
"Simon is a coward. He will tell the FBI everything they want to know, and he will still serve five to ten years in a minimum-security facility." Malcolm’s voice is completely flat, devoid of any sympathy or regret.
I pull back slightly, looking up at his face. "Are you okay with that?"
He looks down at me, his dark eyes steady. "I am okay with the fact that you are standing in this kitchen, and I do not have to look over my shoulder to see who is standing behind you."
He drops his hands from my back, turning toward the coffee maker. He starts the machine, the mechanical hum breaking the quiet of the loft.
"Vivian called me four times this morning," I say, picking my phone back up. "She probably wants to know if we are still alive."
"Call her back," Malcolm says, pulling two mugs from the cabinet. "Tell her we require her services at the penthouse at two o'clock this afternoon."
I frown. "The penthouse? Are we going back there?"
"The safe house is a tactical location, Audrey. It lacks adequate heating, the plumbing is temperamental, and the mattress is currently residing on the floor." He pours the coffee, sliding a mug across the counter toward me. "We are going home."
Home.
The word hits me right in the center of my chest.
"And why do we need Vivian?" I ask, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic.
"Because we have a contract to draft." Malcolm picks up his own mug, leaning against the counter. "I told you last night. You need a legal entity to begin taking on clients. Vivian will draft the incorporation documents for your new architecture firm."
I stare at him. The lingering anxiety from reading the news completely evaporates, replaced by a sharp, sudden spike of adrenaline.
"Malcolm, I don't even have a name for the firm yet. I don't have a business plan. I don't have a portfolio."
"You have a brain," he corrects smoothly. "You have the talent. The portfolio was stolen, not erased from your memory. You will build a new one."
"It takes months to incorporate a business. It takes capital."
"I have the capital." He takes a sip of his coffee. "And Vivian is highly motivated. If I offer to double her standard hourly rate, she will have the paperwork filed by the end of the business day."
I let out a short, breathless laugh. "You can't just throw money at the state of Illinois to make them process paperwork faster."
"I am fairly certain I can."
I shake my head, looking down at the dark liquid in my mug. The sheer, unrelenting force of his competence is terrifying, but it is also the most grounding thing I have ever experienced. He doesn't look at my ruined company and see a tragedy. He looks at it and sees a logistical problem waiting to be solved.
"Okay," I whisper, looking back up at him. "Okay. Two o'clock."
Malcolm’s expression softens. He reaches across the counter, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
"What are you going to call it?" he asks quietly.
I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking. I spent four years operating underJennings Design, trying to make my name sound established, trying to hide the fact that I was a girl from the suburbs with a mountain of inherited debt.
