Page 70 of Long Shot

Marco narrows his eyes on me. “And you know this how?”

15

CADE

I suck in a breath and lift my chin. “I stayed with her last night.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mmm.”

They both make noncommittal noises and regard me warily.

“I know, I know.” I hold up my hands. “You kept telling me to stay away from her. I tried. Last night . . . well, I can’t explain it. But let me just say this . . . she’s not just another piece of ass to make me feel better about myself.”

“And the bike ride today?” Beck hoists one eyebrow and takes a bite of his bagel.

I shake my head and look away. “I’m an idiot. She’s brave enough to go into a kitchen and start over, after what happened. After watching her coworkers die. Blaming herself for it. Having flashbacks and panic attacks. I’ve been there, too.” I rub the back of my neck. “But my issue is nothing. The truth is . . . I’ve been more stupid and stubborn, than traumatized.”

“You? Stubborn?” Marco snorts.

I shrug. “I know I can be. At least I realize it. And last night, hearing what she’s been through, and how strong she was, I . . . had to do this.”

“Asshole.”

I take a bite of my bacon and egg bagel sandwich. “Yeah.”

Beck shakes his head. “Well, glad that’s dealt with.” He eyes me. “Uh . . . obviously, you haven’t had any problems . . . in the sack.”

I chew my bagel, shaking my head. “Nope. Well. Nope.”

They both look at me expectantly. Fuck, I don’t want to talk about this. “Let’s just say any, uh, insecurities I may have had also fell by the wayside last night.”

“I don’t know what that means, but pretty sure I don’t really want to know.” Marco reaches out to slap my shoulder. “Glad to hear it, though.”

“No, no. Hold the fuck up here.” Beck glares. “You slept with our chef. Someone who works for us. This is not a good thing.”

I grimace. “I know. And I told you guys I wouldn’t touch her and yet . . . I did. We talked about it, though. It won’t change anything at Conquistadors.”

“And if it does?” They both give me long, cool stares.

“I won’t let it. I promise. She doesn’t know how long she’s going to stay here. Her life is in New York.” I hate the way my gut tightens when I say that. “Seems like she’s a pretty ambitious, talented chef. Her future is not cooking bar food in a little tequila bar. But for now . . . she’s helping us. And in a different way, we’re helping her. And she and I know exactly what’s going on.”

Beck’s jaw is tight as he nods.

Marco purses his lips. “Not gonna lie. I’m uneasy about this. Don’t get me wrong. I like Reese. We lucked out hiring her. I don’t want to fuck that up.”

“Neither do I.” I tilt my head. “Like I said, she’s not going to stick around here forever, anyway. So it’s not that big a deal. Okay?”

Slowly, they both nod, but I read the doubt on their faces.

Later, after our bike ride when I’m in my office, I sit back in my chair.

I don’t blame Marco and Beck for being doubtful about what’s happening. I’m doubtful myself. Have I been trying to convince them it’s all going to be fine . . . or myself?

Last night with Reese was . . . fuck, I don’t even know what. Disturbing. Hearing about her experience, seeing how deeply it affected her . . . I’ve never been the most sympathetic guy, or at least that’s how I want to be. I had to shut down emotions as a teenager, watching my mother walk out the door without us, watching my father self-destruct, then watching my brother . . . I close my eyes as pain shafts through me.

I had to shut things down to save myself, because what sixteen-year-old kid could watch all that and not fall apart himself, for Chrissake? If I let myself feel fear, I’d collapse. If I let myself feel hope, I’d be crushed. If I let myself care, I’d be broken.

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