Page 92 of The Fire We Crave

Bones trots behind us. I lead Smoke to the kitchen and show him the envelope.

Smoke looks at it like it’s poison.

Like, if he so much as touches it, it’s the end of the world.

So, instead of opening it, he walks straight towards the liquor on the small bar and pours himself a large glass of something whiskey looking.

Maybe bourbon.

Then, he places his palms onto the edge of the counter, glass still in one hand, and drops his head.

I walk over to him and place my hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing small circles. “You okay?”

He shakes his head. “Not sure I can bring myself to read it.”

I glance back at the envelope. “You want me to read it?”

He shakes his head again. “Just want to burn the whole thing. They’ve found me guilty, and if I hadn’t resigned four days ago, they would have fired me.”

“I wished you’d talked to me about resigning, but I understand why you maybe didn’t feel ready.” His knuckles are white where he’s clutching the counter, but I release his fingers and slip my own between them. “We’ll read it together.”

I pick up the envelope, and we walk to the dark green sofa, where Smoke sits and tugs me down onto his lap. The envelope is snatched from my hands, and then Smoke turns to me. He opens the top four buttons of my dress, separating the two sides so that he can slip his hand beneath my bra.

When his cold fingers brush my nipple, I shiver. A ripple of goose bumps forms across my skin. And as much as I want what he’s offering, I know exactly why he’s offering it.

“You’re stalling.”

Smoke looks at me with a soft smile. “Just need some Dutch courage and a grope of you.” He slides his hand around my neck and brings my lips to his.

Whiskey.

That’s what he drank earlier. Not bourbon. The peaty yet sweet taste lingers on his tongue.

And just when I think he’s going to throw the envelope to the wind, he releases me and reaches for it. With one arm over my shoulder and the other in front of me, he opens it so we can both see it.

28

SMOKE

Iswallow deeply as I take in the very first page.

No one to blame.

Cleared.

And a refusal to accept my resignation without contact.

That I need to call my boss.

That they’re worried about me.

A number for a therapist.

It feels like a forgiveness I’m not entirely certain I’m entitled to.

It doesn’t come with the whoosh of relief, because I don’t agree with their findings.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Quinn says, throwing her arms around my neck. She kisses my cheek soundly. “We should celebrate.”

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