The Dirty Series 2(74)

“Are you coming?”

I swallow hard. “I don’t—are you sure you want me to be—?”

“Yes,” Jett says impatiently, waving me out of the car. “Come on. This will only take a few minutes, and then we can go back to the penthouse.”

It takes me a moment to unfreeze my limbs, to force my legs to work. Damn it. There’s a tiny part of me that feels light, free, unencumbered now that I’m about to be discovered and I can put the lies and the tricks behind me once and for all.

But the rest of me feels heavy, dragged down toward the center of the earth by the fact that I’m about to lose the man I love, and it’s all my fault.

Adam might have gotten me into this, but I had opportunities to get out long before now and I didn’t, and now I’m going to pay the price. The ultimate price.

It’s just that my body resists. Jett has to reach down and help me stand up. He doesn’t seem to notice the trembling in my legs.

I take in a deep breath of the warm air and steel myself. Then I force my feet to move after Jett, one after the other, toward the inevitable fallout.





Chapter Thirty-Four





Jett



My skin feels like a conduit for electricity as I stride up the stairs to Cook’s second floor office. It’s a pre-war building with a retrofitted elevator, which is unofficially reserved for those who truly can’t navigate the stairs.

I’m so close to having all this nonsense squared away that I can taste it. This business with my accounts just seems like the last bit of bullshit in a line of events that started with meeting Emerald.

Once I find out what Cook has to say, I’ll be able to move ahead.

The failed acquisition will be in the past. The account trouble will be in the past. And I’ll be free to focus on building my business and being near Angelica as much as possible.

My heart thuds in a quick rhythm while I climb, Angelica’s heels tapping against the wooden stairs behind me. We’re going out to celebrate after this. Anyplace she wants. It’s going to feel so damn good to have my life squared away again.

Whatever’s going on with her brother, we’ll be able to sort it out together.

I stop on the first landing, and Angelica stops just short of running into me. Her cheeks are pink from the trek up the stairs.

I love you.

I want to say the words out loud, but now’s not the time.

Tonight at dinner. That’s when I’ll tell her.

Angelica looks to the side, then back at me. “Are you—okay?”

I kiss her on the cheek. “I will be very shortly.”

We go straight in to Cook’s office. His secretary has been expecting us, and she comes in behind us with two glasses of sparkling water on a tray. The size of the building is misleading—Cook’s firm is one of the most sought-after in the city, but most of their staff works in a different building. It gives clients like myself an extra layer of privacy. There are some people working on the lower level who are never allowed to attach names to the accounts they work on.

“Mr. Brandon,” Cook says, standing up from behind his desk and extending his hand. He’s a silver fox—probably the original silver fox. Every time I see him, I think they should put his picture on the Wikipedia article for accountants.

“What do you have for me, Cook?”

“Ah,” he says, looking mildly uncomfortable.

The secretary sets the small tray with the glasses on the surface of Cook’s desk. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Brandon?”

“No, thank you.” She’s gone in a flash, closing the door discreetly behind her.

Cook remains standing, then offers his hand to Angelica. “Jackson Cook,” he says as they shake.

“Angelica Chandler.”

“Lovely name.” He gives her a genuine smile as he says it, but when he turns to me his expression is serious. “Jett, I hate to put you in an uncomfortable situation, but....”

I know what he’s asking. “She can stay. It’s all right.”

Cook nods, then takes his seat. Angelica takes the chair on the left—ornate, with leather padding—and I take my usual seat on the right. She doesn’t reach for my hand, but tucks both of hers onto her lap.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Cook says. “I’m waiting on one final piece of information. I wanted to get in contact with you as soon as possible in case you were a distance across town or wanted to arrange another time to meet—.”

Just then, the handset on his desk rings, loud and shrill. “One moment,” Cook says, excusing himself to take the call. “Cook.” He pulls a legal pad from the center of his desk toward him and picks up a thick ballpoint pen from a groove at the edge. “Yes.” He writes some figure on the pad. “Correct.” Another scribble. “Yes, it’s relevant.” Another piece of writing.