Page 19 of Making It Burn
“Yeah,” he breathed.“We did.”
I left before either of us could ruin the moment.
Back in my office, I closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a long breath.
Working with Mason was supposed to be a disaster.So why did it feel like the most natural thing in the world?
ChapterFour
Mason
Ipulled into the HRB parking deck at seven-fifteen Friday evening, later than I’d intended but earlier than most people who’d spent their evening at Safe Harbor Legal Clinic.The clinic operated out of a converted church basement in Church Hill, serving people who couldn’t afford attorneys and didn’t qualify for public defenders—immigrants navigating visa issues, tenants facing eviction, workers dealing with wage theft.These cases didn’t make you rich or famous but made you feel like maybe the law could actually help people instead of just protecting corporate interests.
Tonight had been intake night, which meant sitting across from a steady stream of people whose problems were simultaneously devastating and solvable.A single mother facing eviction because her landlord wanted to convert the building into luxury condos.An older man whose employer hadn’t paid him in six weeks.A woman trying to get a restraining order against her ex-husband.
I’d taken three new cases and stayed an extra hour to help one of the clinic’s other volunteers draft a motion.
Now I was back at the office because I had briefs to review and a merger strategy to finalize, and apparently I’d decided sleeping was optional.
The nineteenth floor was mostly dark.I headed toward my office, already mentally cataloging everything I needed to accomplish before I could justify going home, when I noticed the light under Beau’s door.
I stopped, briefcase in hand, staring at that strip of light like it was a warning sign.
He’s still here.
Of course he was.Because the universe had decided that avoiding Beau Thatcher wasn’t an option anymore, no matter how much I might want it to be.
I should’ve kept walking.Gone to my office, closed the door, buried myself in work until the memory of this afternoon’s hearing—and the way my concentration had wavered every time I’d thought about Beau—faded into background noise.
Instead, I knocked on his door.
“Come in,” Beau called.
I pushed the door open and found him at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, surrounded by what looked like every document related to the PharmaTech merger.He’d changed into a sweater and a pair of jeans, and his dark hair was slightly mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it.
He looked up, and something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or something else I didn’t want to analyze.
“It’s Friday night,” he said.“I thought you’d gone home.”
“I had an appointment.Just got back.”I stayed in the doorway, one hand on the frame.“You’re here late.”
“So are you.”
“I asked first.”
“Is that how this works?”But he was smiling, just slightly.“I’m reviewing the due diligence reports.Figured I’d get through them while the office was quiet.”He gestured to the papers spread across his desk.“I found a couple of things you might want to look at.”
Despite my better judgment, I stepped into his office.“Like what?”
“See for yourself.”He pushed a document toward me, and I rounded his desk to look at it, leaning over his shoulder.Immediately, I caught the scent of his cologne—something expensive and woodsy that had been distracting me all day—and had to force myself to focus on the page in front of me.
He’d highlighted a section of PharmaTech’s quarterly financials, specifically a discrepancy in their reporting of clinical trial costs.It was subtle—something most people would miss—but it was there.
“This could be a problem,” I said.
“That’s what I thought.If they’re misreporting trial costs, it raises questions about their entire R&D budget.Which means—”
“Which means MediCorp’s board might want to renegotiate the valuation.”I straightened, putting some distance between us.“Good catch.”
