“It was just for being you.” I melted into his side as his arm tightened. “For making me feel safe. All the time. And for knowing when I need to feel that safety.”
He leaned forward to kiss me on the forehead. “Does this have anything to do with that news you got today?”
So he did want to know how I was feeling about it. I took a deep breath and let it go. “I don’t need to know if you were involved with what happened. Don’t tell me, please.”
Another long silence where I tucked my head close to him and he didn’t reply, smoothing a hand over my back. Then…
“But…if you were involved…I’m good with that.”
We sat like that for long minutes, holding each other close. That was all I needed to say—nothing else mattered beyond that. And nothing more needed to be said.
Whether he’d had something to do with Zach going to jail, I didn’t care to know. And I’d consciously chosen not to find out.
We spent a pleasant hour watching the first half of Deadpool before I couldn’t stand it anymore. Just as Deadpool was trying to reconnect with his lost love, and failing, I pulled Adam’s clothes off and attacked him on the recliner. We never even shut off the movie. For the record, recliner sex is fun. Two thumbs up, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Chapter 3
Adam
Emilia dozed against my chest as the credits rolled, Deadpool lecturing viewers in his bathrobe, Ferris Bueller style. I kissed the top of her head, taking a long drag of the vanilla scent of her hair, my eyes closing at that familiar, visceral pull in my gut. I swallowed, hoping it was the wine and hot sex that had worn her out and not the stressful news of that bastard from her past.
So she suspected my involvement in that. And though I wouldn’t have hesitated to come clean to her, I was relieved that she didn’t require it. I’d known the risk when I made the decision to act. She might have become upset—even angry—over my interference, but it was too important that she feel safe.
I shifted her weight against me so I could get to my phone and check email, trying not to think about what would have happened if she’d reacted unfavorably.
How in the hell could I not interfere, though? I was with her in that grocery store. She’d bailed out so fast she’d been a blur—after having gone white as a sheet. That fear. It had killed me to see it paralyze her. And in that moment, I made a note to remember the last name of the woman she’d introduced me to in a stammering, shaky voice.
All of that was enough to get me suspicious. But that night…
That night I’d woken up to her sitting on the edge of the bed hyperventilating, claiming she’d had a nightmare. When I’d finally coaxed her down beside me, I held her shaking body tightly to mine. She slept with a death grip around me the entire night. I’d lain awake for hours, fearful that moving would disturb her. I’d listened helplessly to the occasional distressing whimpers she made in her sleep.
I’d burned with hatred for the bastard who’d done that to her, simply from that two-minute encounter. Witnessing the power of terror he held over her still was enough to put me on a vendetta mission.
It was my job to protect her. To keep her safe. And as long as this shit stain was free to approach her whenever he wanted, her perception of safety did not exist.
For a week after the fact, she’d fought insomnia, growing more and more exhausted. By the time we’d returned home, we’d needed a vacation to recover from that traumatic getaway.
I’d investigated. How could I not? I’d looked through her yearbook to avoid having to interrogate her mom. Once I had the guy’s name, I’d confirmed it with Heath. Then I’d contacted Jordan, who always had his shady network handy (that same shady network that’d gotten me into trouble with Emilia once before). Without asking for details, Jordan hooked me up with a PI.
Emilia sleepily shifted against me as she slowly blinked awake.
And I’d decided to act, even with the chance of her finding out and being upset. After witnessing what that chance encounter had done to her, I’d been ready to take the risk.
From the PI, I’d gotten all the details of this piece of shit’s life since college. An injury his sophomore year had shot his pro football hopes, and he’d lost his scholarship. He’d finished community college and worked as a real estate broker in LA. And he had a nasty drug habit to support.
Emilia smiled at me through sleepy eyes, quietly apologizing for nodding off. I kissed her hand. “Nothing to apologize for,” I replied.
It had been easy, really, to set the trap. Arrange for him to “win” a luxury week-long trip to Cancun, assume his natural habits would take over and he wouldn’t be as careful as he should be. Then have a helpful anonymous tipster alert the authorities to closely inspect him on his way back into the country.
Admittedly, that plan had left several things up to chance, and I recognized it, ready to come up with a plan B had it been necessary. But luckily, it hadn’t.
My arms tightened around her involuntarily. So the asshole had gotten away with raping a woman in high school—and though I’d never tell Emilia this, several complaints had been filed against him during college, too, eventually dropped. A serial victimizer who managed to get away with it. But sooner or later, I could hope that it all evened out. Karma and all that. With some help from the vengeful fiancé.
***
Monday was almost over, and it had not gone well.
I glanced at the dusky sky outside the window of my office, dropping into my leather desk chair. It groaned in protest. It was getting late. Too damn late. I’d already texted Emilia to tell her that I wouldn’t be home for dinner or even our semi-usual sunset walk. Her response had been affable but terse, minus her usual dose of snark. What she’d left unwritten spoke more loudly than what she had. I’d probably be in the dog house when I got home.
I traced a thumb over my lips, thinking. Her irritation was understandable. I’d been coming home later and later since Asia, and the balance that we’d been so good about establishing had been upset.
But right now, after the board meeting I’d sat through, I was in no mood to walk through the front door, trying to fake that nothing was bothering me. Were I back in my not-so-good ole single days, I would have calmed the rage by working out in our campus gym then showering in my private bathroom. Then I’d finish by staying in the office to work until dawn, exhausted, catching a quick nap on the pull down bed before starting the next day. But she wouldn’t stand for that. And, at this point in my life, I was glad of it.