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“But,” he continues “Your people. That I want,” he says it simply, like it isn’t a significant thing to say.
A wave of relief hits me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You talk about them like they’re sitcom-level funny while being your favorite humans on the planet. I want to understand that.”
I look at him for a moment longer than I mean to. “Becca is hosting a barbecue this weekend at her cabin. It’s low-key, just the girls and whoever they bring.”
“Tell me when and where,” he says without hesitation, soothing a sting in my heart I’ve had since we decided to keep us a secret.
“Saturday. 1:00 p.m.” I rattle off the address. “It’s casual, so don’t show up in your normal shoes.”
Jackson glances toward the door where his Italian leather shoes are, then back up at me. “These are my work-from-home shoes.”
“They are obnoxiously out of place for a barbecue and for working from home.”
He grins and doesn’t argue, which means I’m right. He leans in, pressing a slow kiss to my temple.
“Saturday,” he confirms quietly against my hair. “I’ll be there.”
I nod, already building the wall back up brick by brick. Having him meet my friends is a big step for me. Just like me meeting his family would be for him.
“How are your cases going? The big Kincaid divorce case clearing up?” Jackson abruptly changes topics.
My thoughts jumble after the day I had, and I can’t immediately recall the case he’s talking about. Besides, I don’t want to talk about work, not with him, not at home.
“Yeah, it’s going fine.” Is it? My brain feels foggy, so I’d better go and review the files tonight, make sure I’m not missing anything. “I have a lot to get through,” I say instead, sliding off the counter. “Billables don’t care about paint.”
“Alright,” he says after a second of watching me. “I’ll finish this section and get out of your way.”
I nod, already moving on to the next task I need to accomplish. He knows this rhythm by now—when my mind shifts into work mode, conversation becomes a casualty. I grab my highlighter from the counter and head toward my office without ceremony.
“I’ll let myself out,” he says behind me.
“Mm,” I respond, which we both know means thank you.
The sound of him tidying the supplies reaches me as I settle in my home office, pulling the case files onto my lap.
I startle when my phone vibrates, pulling my focus away from the contracts I’m reading. I glance out the window of my office, noticing how dark it is, before checking the caller ID.
“Lena, what’s going on?”
“I got a call from the bank earlier,” she says, words tumbling over each other. “They said there’s an account in my name, but I didn’t—Phoenix, I swear I didn’t open anything.”
My stomach tightens. “Okay, slow down,” I say, propping up my laptop, ready to take notes. “Start from the beginning.”
“They asked me about transfers.” Her voice is shaking, her breathing still too fast and panicked. “Like I should know what they were talking about. I don’t have any money to transfer, let alone access to an account that does.”
I pause my typing. “What do you mean your name is on it?”
“I don’t know. They just kept saying it’s tied to him, to his family. They said the name—Yarrow.”
My eyes flick toward the closed door. “You’re on the account?” I repeat, lower now, trying for calm and understanding. “Lena, what account could this be?”
“The Yarrow Holdings account,” she whispers.
Yarrow, Inc. A company tied to money and problems no one wants to trace, and it just happens to be her ex’s family business.
I inhale, sharper than I mean to. “We don’t know what that means yet.” I run a hand over my face, forcing a calm I don’t have. “Listen to me. This doesn’t change anything right now. We just need to understand how your name got there.”
