Page 33 of The Dark Before Light

The drawled admonishment startles a laugh out of me. “I guess I am. Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Anytime. Walk straight through—can’t miss the pool. I’m going to turn on the boundary security system now. It’s motion activated, so shoot me a text when you’re ready to leave or you’ll wake up the West Coast.”

“Great,” I mutter, stepping into the house.

The door closes behind me. I drop my keys and phone onto the entryway table, then take in the expansive floor plan. The open kitchen, living, and dining area are done in soothing, cool-toned neutrals. A wood-beamed ceiling soars overhead, and airy hallways branch to either side of the great room. Opposite me is a series of dramatic, floor-to-ceiling glass panels, the middle a sliding door. I’m sure the view is spectacular during daylight; right now, all I can see is a shadowy outdoor entertainment area backlit by a blue glow from a pool beyond.

The air reeks of alcohol, food, and weed. Off to my right is a chef’s kitchen, the enormous island cluttered with dozens of bottles and cans, half-full glasses, and takeout containers. The rest of the space—a central, U-shaped collection of long couches and an enormous dining table to the left—are likewise trashed.

I step around a bikini top and sopping wet swim trunks. Skirting the couches, I approach the sliding panel. It’s open a crack. I listen but don’t hear any splashing.

Breathe. Hold. Exhale.

This isn’t the first house call I’ve been on for a client. It’s rare, but it happens. The process of healing isn’t gentle. There are always ups and downs, sometimes even U-turns and backflips. But in every way that counts, I know this is different. I’m not objective. I feel responsible. Guilty. Because this is him.

My soft-soled flats are silent as I slip outside and cross the deck, then walk down a set of steps to the pool. Cold, damp air sneaks under my blazer and makes my skin pebble.

A quick scan of the empty turquoise pool leads my gaze to the attached jacuzzi and the man sitting in it. His arms are spread over the cement behind him, his face shadowed. I can sense rather than see the force of his stare.

Pulling air into my tight lungs, I walk toward him. My heart drums in my ears, my breaths shallow and too fast. The closer I get, the less I know what to say. Not helping is the visual overload of him half-naked and wet, steam rising around him. He’s all muscle but not bulky, every inch of him beneath and above the clear water lean and defined.

A bead of red flares at his mouth. Smoke trails from his nostrils, curling upward and dispersing, and a breeze brings me a distinctive, pungent aroma wrapped in chlorine and brine from the Pacific.

I halt a few feet from the jacuzzi. Kieran pulls the joint from his mouth and taps ash onto cement behind him.

“If you call me Mr. Hayes, I’ll throw you in the pool.” His flinty expression and the flat, uncompromising tone tell me he’s not joking.

A few seconds pass before I find my voice.

“Noted.”

A tingle of awareness along my right side snaps my gaze toward a dark figure as it rises from a deck chair. I startle and for the second time tonight, my heart almost explodes.

“Jesus Christ,” I snap. “Make some noise, Gabe.”

Kieran chuckles softly.

“Sorry,” Gabe says, his dimpled smile belying the words. He glances at the jacuzzi. “Be nice, boss.”

Kieran grunts. Gabe gives me a parting nod and strides past me, disappearing up the stairs toward the house. I fantasize about following.

A heavy sigh brings my attention back to Kieran’s hooded eyes. “Either get in the jacuzzi or sit down. You’re putting a crick in my neck.”

I’m not sure which of us is more surprised when I toe off my shoes and roll my four-hundred-dollar trousers over my knees. I sit on the smooth lip of the jacuzzi—a safe distance from him—and drop my legs into the water. My eyes flutter shut on a sigh of somatic pleasure.

“Imagine what it feels like when more than your feet are in it,” he says dryly.

For a moment, I picture it. A different me in a different life, one wherein I wouldn’t hesitate to strip down and join this man in the water. In this alternate reality, I’d be softer, sweeter, my mind smooth curves instead of sharp angles. I’d ease his pain with my body. Quite possibly with my heart.

“Why’d you come, Stirling?”

Clearing my throat, I open my eyes. He takes another long drag of the joint, inspects it briefly, then flicks the nub at the row of deck chairs.

“Sven asked me to.”

He shakes his head. “He didn’t. He knows I’d fire him.”

“Would you?” I ask curiously.

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