Page 96 of My Fallen Saint

“I’ve been working all morning. Decided to take a walk and grab a coffee.” He looks at me with a tilt of his head. “Can I buy you a latte at Brewski? It’s an open offer,” he adds to Brandy, who laughs.

“I would feel very much like a third wheel. And besides, it’s Jake’s nap time. But I’ll see you later.”

“I’m making dinner,” I tell her as they start to head off.

“God help us all,” she calls back over my shoulder.

I shoot Devlin a smirk. “She’s not wrong. I can’t cook for shit. I’m thinking I’ll make pizza. I hear the recipe only requires a phone and a credit card.”

We head to the walk-up counter for Brewski and he orders for both of us, then steps aside as we wait for our to-go cups. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Ordering pizza and working, unless you make me a better offer.”

“Hmm.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “And tomorrow? Do you have plans?”

I cross my arms as I look up at him. “I think I do now.”

“Good answer.”

“So what are we doing?”

He presses a fingertip to my lips. “It’s a surprise. Jeans. T-shirt. Sunglasses. A change of clothes. Order Brandy’s pizza in advance.”

“This is turning interesting, and I’m running through all the possibilities in my head. I’ve ruled out the South of France since I don’t need a passport.”

“Oh, sweetheart, ye of little faith. I have ways around passports.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I bet you do.”

“I’ll swing by and get you around two, okay?”

“Sure.” I reach for our drinks, then hand him his. “Does that mean you’re leaving me now?”

“I haven’t finished my walk,” he says, extending his arm for me to take. “Join me?”

“Sure.”

We walk all the way to where Pacific Avenue curves sharply before heading up into the canyon, talking about nothing really. Jake. Brandy. Christopher, who’s apparently taken up residence in the research room and told Tamra he’s going to end up replotting his book.

“You should write thrillers,” I tell Devlin. “Or I should. You tell me all the stories you know, and I’ll write them up.” It’s not that crazy an idea. If I do decide to commit Peter’s story to paper and publish it, there’s probably enough material for a book.

“I think I’d prefer to live in quiet anonymity.”

“Thus the dearth of you on social media.”

“I’m not a popular man with the people who used to be higher-ups in my father’s organization.”

“I guess not.” I recall how he told me about working to shut down the networks and the pipelines his father had used. “You took a huge risk.”

“I did,” he says, “but I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself otherwise. And I did get government help.” He pauses. “I told you I wasn’t in witness protection, and that’s true. But there are departments other than WITSEC, and I had help setting up a new identity. I paid the price with long hours of interrogation, but I walked away with a rock-solid identity.”

I shake my head as I continue walking. “I can’t imagine what you went through back then. I wish—”

I stop myself. Neither one of us needs to hear me say I wish I could have been there for him, even though both of us know it.

We’re heading back the way we came, only now on the opposite side of the street. “There’s Cask & Barrel,” I say. “That first night. You skipped out on me. Why?”

“I hadn’t decided yet,” he says.

“Whether to trust me.” I tug him to a stop. “And then you showed yourself at the tidal pools. What made you decide to?”

He runs his thumb and forefinger over his bearded chin. “I realized there’s no one I trust more than I trust myself.”

“Okaaay.” I draw out the word, not understanding what he’s talking about.

“You were the first woman I ever loved—hell, you were the only woman I ever loved. I trusted you with everything back then. If I didn’t trust you now, then how could I say that I ever trusted myself.”

“Oh.” His words squeeze my heart, filling me with warmth. “I might have changed, though.”

“Have you?”

I look up and meet his eyes. “We both have,” I say. “But you can still trust me.”