Page 97 of Long Shot

“Is New York better than Los Angeles for your career?”

“Um. No. Not necessarily.”

He nods. “Did he offer you decent money?”

“More than decent.”

His eyes flicker. “More than you make here.”

I close my eyes. “Money’s not everything.”

He hitches one shoulder. “If you say so.” He pauses. “Are you afraid?”

I blink. “Fucking terrified.”

His face softens. “Don’t make decisions based on fear. Right? Make decisions based on hope. Possibility.”

His words play over in my head.

“You should do it,” he finally says in a low, firm tone. “It’s a fantastic opportunity for you. Unless you still want to go back to New York. But an actual job offer is probably better than going back and looking for a job. Right?” He only pauses for a fast breath. “The way you describe this new restaurant, working for someone famous like that . . . sounds like it would be a huge boost for your career.”

“I-I think it would.” My heart is slowly, painfully, cracking. My belly is so rigid it hurts, my throat tight.

His lips lift into a near smile. “You got what you needed here, Reese. You’re doing better emotionally. You’ve only had one little panic attack since that Dumpster incident.”

Yes, I had another panic attack, for no apparent reason other than Jack escaped out of the yard and I was stressed trying to find him for about five minutes. But it wasn’t a bad attack.

“And you don’t have nightmares anymore. You’re back in the kitchen, cooking, which is what you needed. You’re ready to move on.”

My throat thickens even more as I regard him.I don’t want to move on. I want to stay here. I want to stay here with you. My sinuses burn and pressure builds behind my cheekbones.

“And so am I,” he says lightly. He pats my knee. “So thanks.”

What the hell does that mean? Was he only using me, like all those other women . . . using me for sex because he thought he was less of a man after his bike accident?

My head spins and my hands start to shake. I clasp them together so tightly it hurts.

I swallow painfully, nodding even though I don’t know why I’m nodding. I have to say something, but I can’t get words out, and if I do I’m going to sob. I don’t want him to see me cry. I never cry.

I stand and cross over to my tiny kitchen where I grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I crack it open and drink some, the cold soothing my aching throat. Now I can speak. “Want one?” I hold up the bottle.

“No, thanks.” He stands, too, shoving his hands into his back pockets. His shoulders hunch up. “I should go. I guess.”

I gulp more cold water. “Okay.”

“When do you have to give him a decision?”

“By Friday.”

He makes a rough noise, then shakes his head. “You don’t have to give us two weeks’ notice, if you want to leave right away.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

“Okay. Night, Reese.”

He leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. I move toward it to lock it, then lean there, my head pressed against the door. Tears slide from my eyes. For a moment I let the sobs come, quietly, my face contorting. Then I suck in a long, shaky breath and lift my head.

I can’t cry. I’m stronger than that. I cried way too much after the shooting and I’m not going back to that depressing black place again. I’ll be fine.

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