Page 55 of Bulletproof

He moved fast around in front of me, barring my path. “Are you just going to leave and not say goodbye to my family and just⁠—”

“Tell them I had a family emergency, but, Hayes …” I sighed deeply. “It’s not fair for me to spend a second longer here. What’s the point of them liking me? We’re not gonna be friends. If I were single, we could date, but⁠—”

“You’re not single?”

I held up my left hand for him. “Do you see the ring? I’m married.”

“To who?” He was aghast.

“Sam Kage. He’s a homicide detective.”

“Where is he?”

“Working undercover.”

“I—”

“I’ll see you,” I said, turning to walk quickly down the driveway.

On the street, I realized I had no earthly idea where I was or how to get home. I walked down one street and then another and finally turned onto a street where there was some traffic and restaurants. Crossing it, I walked into the lobby of an inn and asked the concierge on duty where I could get a cab back to Chicago.

“You know that’s gonna cost you, like, a million dollars, right?” she pointed out.

But I deserved to learn a lesson for my stupidity. Dane was always telling me the things I couldn’t and shouldn’t do with Sam being gone, and I finally understood what he was saying. I was not a catch or a prize, but I had some good qualities, and maybe someone other than Sam Kage would want to keep me if I offered. The thing was, I wasn’t offering, so to make it seem as though I were was not fair.

“Yeah, I know.” I smiled at the nice lady. “That’s okay.”

She shrugged and called me a cab.

EIGHT

Dane had invited me to lunch, and after my two-hundred-dollar cab ride the night before, I needed to eat for free a little. Plus, being in his office and not working there was fun. They had taken over two more floors in the building they were in, so now floors fifty-seven through sixty were all Harcourt, Brown, and Cogan.

I had worked for Dane for five years in the office he shared with Miles Brown and Sherman Cogan, and so I knew the two other assistants, Celia and Jill. My friend Piper used to be the receptionist, but she had quit when she became pregnant.

So, now there was a new receptionist at the front desk, and Dane had another new assistant—he went through them sort of fast—a secretary who maintained his correspondence, and a field liaison. I used to be the only one he had working for him besides a typist since I could do, maybe, on a good day, thirty words a minute.

So, I came in, left my name with the receptionist as just Jory, and sat down to wait.

She had asked, “Jory what, with whom?”

But I’d said, “Just Jory,” and sat.

She did not approve of me, I could tell.

After about ten minutes, Dane’s assistant, Brooke Jessup, came out to see what I needed. She had worked for him for three months.

“Hi,” she said indulgently, forcing a smile. “May I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m here to have lunch with your boss.”

“Oh”—furrowed brows—“is he aware he’s⁠—”

“Yeah, he knows. He called me,” I informed her.

“I see. And you are?”

“Jory,” I replied with a grin, “Harcourt.”