Page 2 of The Truth of Loving You

“Shane,” Cole said my name, and his voice spiked a longing in me. He turned and lumbered down the hall with an unsteady gait.

I had an unexplained sense of loss as he walked away. I glanced around my office for some sort of explanation. When none appeared, I sank down into my chair, reaching for my anxiety meds. The hiatus from my brain ended, and my thoughts rushed back in as if a dam had broken. Thousands of questions flooded my brain, but one stood out—why had he come?

The torrent of questions left me wondering what the hell had happened. I’d almost let the man kiss me. At no time in my life had I ever been the slightest bit interested in a man. The stress from the first week of my new job, simultaneously trying to catch up to speed and fit in as the youngest member of the management team addled my brain.

I needed to refocus and finish my report for tomorrow morning’s meeting. I took solace in the fact that a repeat with Cole would not happen again. Cole would be a distant memory as soon as I lost myself in financial reports. Reconciling numbers was my ultimate therapy, where I solved every problem. Multiple therapists had informed me that work was my unhealthy obsession. But I’m living out my dream.

A phone rang at my feet. It absolutely was not my ringtone. I closed my eyes, repeating the mantra—it was not my problem. I sighed as the ringing stopped and pushed my chair back to retrieve it.

It started ringing again. I told myself not to try to catch Cole to give him the cell. Seeing Cole again would be a mistake.

By the time it started ringing again, I was running down the hall to the faster freight elevators, chasing a gorgeous man who calmed my brain—that insanity wasn’t lost on me.

Two minutes later, I flew around the corner and came to a screeching halt in the corridor leading to the lobby. My mentor, John, supported Cole with an arm around his waist as they stood in front of Paxton’s portrait.

There were plaques on the wall with all the chief executive officers, but Paxton’s memorial was the largest. He’d been everything I was not, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and charming smile. His portrait showcased his football player’s build. He’d been a people-person and the backbone of the New York office until his death. He and Cole must have made a stunning couple.

“I miss him.” Cole’s voice sounded guttural.

“Me too, kid. Me too.”

“Five years today,” Cole said, and his words hit me like a sledgehammer.

“I’m sorry.” John’s head dropped forward.

The phone in my hand broke the reverent silence of their moment.

I lurched forward, arm outstretched. “This was in my office.”

Cole glanced at the screen and pushed my arm away. “I’m not taking calls.” He said it as if I was his personal assistant, and I knew what to do with that statement.

I turned to John for help, but he said, “Shane, go home. You’ve barely left the office to sleep, and it’ll all be here tomorrow. You deserve a life outside of work, since your spreadsheets won’t ever love you back. That’s the best advice you’ll ever get from me.”

Any other day, I would have laughed at John’s advice and the insinuation that I should find love. I didn’t have time for love. And love was absolutely not something a person deserved.

Love meant heartbreak and disaster. Two things I wouldn’t allow into my life. But for some reason, his advice prickled my skin.

Maybe I’d follow John’s words of wisdom in a few years once I’d accomplished my goals.

Cole groaned when his phone rang in my hand again. “He won’t leave me alone.”

My gaze flicked to John, who went white with panic, and I followed his eyes outside to a black Lincoln rolling to a stop.

“Shit! Donald’s on his way in. I’ll distract him. Shane, you take Cole out the side entrance and put him in a cab. They should not be in the same room today.” John shoved Cole at me and pushed us around the corner, out of sight.

I was in no way prepared to bear the brunt of Cole’s weight. The man smelled infuriatingly good for a drunken mess. I had a fleeting thought that I might be the drunk one. I needed to get him in an Uber and forget this night ever happened. The anniversary of Paxton’s death had some weird mojo, and it was clearly affecting me.

We wove our way down the hall in silence and exited the skyscraper to stand on the sidewalk. I leaned him against the building to open up a rideshare app.

“Where do you live?”

“Where do you live, Pretty Boy?” he rumbled.

That absolutely did not send a shiver down my spine; it had to be a summer chill. “I’m not hitting on you. I’m trying to get you home.”

Then, I made the mistake of getting caught in his hypnotic gaze.

“I don’t want to go home,” he growled. “I’ll walk to a bar.”

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