Chapter Seventeen
Ryan looked up from his computer, stretched his shoulders back.
“Did you find the property codes and regulations from nineteen eighty?” he asked the room at large.
“Donaldson did,” Brie answered.
A scowl tugged on Ryan’s forehead, his distaste for the schmoozer associate attorney coating his throat.
“They’re printed in that stack over there,” Brie went on, pointing to a pile of papers beneath a file labeled in black marker as City Regulations. “The information is summarized in file CR one nine eight zero A,” she went on before he could ask. “The findings support the plaintiff, so I placed it in your To Read folder.”
He clicked on the electronic folder. Brie had set up the file structure for the case with a precise logic that was organized and easy to follow. The office had some basic standards, but Brie had taken it a step further, making the critical info easier for him to find.
His back ached from the hours spent hunched over his computer doing research and assembling briefings and filings. Thankfully, Brie had started most of them or pulled in the ones they needed.
The Palmaro case had become as much hers as his, and that hadn’t happened since he’d taken his first case years ago.
He slid his glasses off, rubbed the grit from them before sitting back. Only then did he realize they were alone in the room. His gaze landed on her like it had so often over the last two weeks. She’d been sitting in that very spot when he’d arrived the day after he’d blown every boundary he placed on both himself and his work.
She’d come back.
He’d stalled in the doorway for a fraction of a second before taking his seat and getting to work. Their relationship had proceeded in the professional manner he extended to everyone he worked with, which he was grateful for.
He refused to acknowledge the swipe of regret that tried to take hold. This was the best possible outcome of a situation that could’ve been disastrous for him.
“I had Carla move your ten o’clock meeting tomorrow back to two,” she told him, glancing up. “We should have the supporting evidence in place for the collusion theory by then, so you can better present it to our clients.”
“Thank you.” The platitude came out automatically when he would’ve bristled at the overstep under any other circumstances. But this was Brie.
She’d swooped into his awareness on a gasped breath and whispered “please” only to sneak into his life on a wave of efficiency, brains and decorum. The very things he longed to wipe away with one long thrust into her clenching heat.
The memory of her cries and moans wove their way behind the walls he rebuilt daily to withstand her nonexistent assault. Not literally anyway. It was his own damn head that continued to create havoc where none should be.
She brushed her hair back, a smile gracing her face before she looked to her computer. Her profile displayed the straight line of her nose that drew his eyes to her lips. Her mouth flexed with each thought that entered her head while she worked. Frustration was a slight pinch. Annoyance a compressed line. Excitement a slight uptick at the corner.
The light poured in from the window behind her to highlight the varying shades of brown, red and blond in her hair. She rarely wore it up even though it spread over her shoulders and down her back in a wave that’d been declared unprofessional by some outdated standard. She defied that and so many other rules defined by those who wanted to stake out their superiority.
Whoever raised her had done right on that aspect, or had she grown into that strength on her own?
“Where are you from?” he asked before his brain engaged to halt the intrusive question.
She squinted at him, confusion drawing her brows together. “What?”
Did he retreat or proceed? Desire to know conflicted with the more clearly established desire to not care. He reached for his coffee cup, caught in an awkward position of his own making. Yet another thing he wasn’t used to.
He glanced at his empty mug, annoyance increasing.
“I was born and raised in Walnut Creek.” Her frown deepened. “Why?”
He wasn’t surprised. The affluent commuter-burb west of the city offered an illusion of superiority, of distance from the peninsula. But the peninsula, crammed with people as it was, held a quiet power Walnut Creek would never penetrate.
“Just curious.” He set his cup back down. “Is your family still there?” He dug in when he could’ve dismissed the subject.
She sat back in her chair, a half-smile forming. “Yes. My dad works in the city.”
“And your mom?”
Amusement flashed before her smile fell, the light dimming from her features. “She does charity work.”
Ah. The secret code words for the country club elite who were privileged enough to spend their time raising funds for all the poor suckers who need two incomes just to get by—and then only barely.
And his resentment was showing.
“What about you?” she asked.
He kicked himself for opening the topic in the first place. “In Oakland.” He left it purposely vague. The city was large, with plenty of both good and not-so-good areas. He sat forward. “I haven’t spoken to my parents since high school.”
His stomach clenched, heart contracting in a hard wince of what the fuck? He kept all of that from showing, though. The fact was nothing more than that, despite how little he shared it.
Her brows lifted higher, and he prepared to dismiss her condolences or apology or whatever other platitude people felt compelled to offer. Another reason why he didn’t divulge the information.
She didn’t move or lower her gaze at all. Her study of him dragged on until it crawled over his nape and dug into the very part of him he refused to let others see.
“You’ve done well without them.” Her voice had lowered to those whispered notes of intimacy he habitually avoided. “Did you have other family to support you?”
He shook his head when everything urged him to shut this discussion down. The more she knew, the more power she had. “No.” He answered anyway.
“That must’ve been hard. Doing all of this on your own.” Empathy flowed from her voice, but absent was the pity he’d heard from his college counselors, who were the last people he’d allowed to dissect his upbringing.
He shrugged, neither confirming nor denying her claim. “It just was.” And every painful step had brought him to where he was now. “You can’t change the past.”
“No,” she agreed. “But it follows you nonetheless.”
His bark of laughter burst free to shock them both. He shook his head, the sound dying to a low hitch as her surprise shifted to a soft laugh of her own.
“You speak the truth,” he finally said. That empty space in his chest filled with a tad bit of warmth.
“I know from experience.” She lifted her shoulder in dismissal. “Everyone has something that dogs them.”
“And those somethings all vary.” He rested his elbows on the table, enjoying the morphing conversation. “Some are far darker and more gut-wrenching than others.”
“By whose standard?” She sat back, arms crossing as she dug into the discussion.
“Maslow’s hierarchy, to begin with.”
“Needs do not equate to individual experiences and impact.”
“No,” he agreed, a smile tugging on his lips. “But the hierarchy sets the foundation for assuming impact.”
She frowned. “Explain.”
He leaned back, his debate forming as he went. “If a person has no food and no home but is given both, the subsequent loss of one or both would be disappointing but not catastrophic. However, for someone who’s always lived in a grand house with more food than they can eat, losing both would be devastating.”
“The same could be said for love and social standing, if you apply it like that.”
“Exactly.”
“So that’s probable impact,” she said, nodding. “How do you assess actual?”
“How would you?” he challenged right back.
Her eyes narrowed, a smile edging her lips at his turnaround. “You first have to understand their background and their current situation. Much like your example, only deeper. Such as, if in example A, the loss of food and shelter was due to the death of a loved one, then that could be catastrophic, especially if the child has no one else to care for them.” Her triumphant smile begged him to counter.
How could he resist? “And what if that child is finally able to escape the one person who was supposed to love them, but only showed them contempt and abuse?” He raised a brow as her smile fell. “Then the same event could invoke relief and be seen as an opportunity.”
“And the woman who gets hospitalized after being abused by her husband?” she asked, her frown back in place.
“That would depend on how she responds. Does she report it? Go back to her abuser? Seek shelter?” Was Brie speaking from personal experience or knowledge? Was that the cause of the scowl that formed when she answered some of her texts? The thought of any man abusing her sent a rage boiling through him. He cleared his throat, reined his thoughts back in. “No matter how crushing an event may be, the actual depth of the pain is often dependent on how that individual responds.”
“I disagree.” Her head was shaking before he’d finished. “Pain can be camouflaged. People can move forward, make decisions and go on with their life while the pain is ripping them apart inside. Everyone doesn’t show pain in the same way.”
He only had to look at his own experience to see the validity in her statement. No one ever knew how hard his parents had struck him, both verbally and physically. Showing his pain had only gotten him more.
“And what about the longevity?” he tossed out, if only to stop his memory trail. “Can actions or steps shorten the length of the pain?”
She propped her chin on her thumb, a finger curling over her lips as she contemplated his question. “Yes and no.” She sat back. “And again, that depends on the person. A funeral service can help put closure in place for one person, but it’s an expected motion for another. Just like buying lumber to rebuild a destroyed home or applying for a job to restart a career brought down by a random mistake. Those steps can be seen as moving forward, while the individual is still mourning what they’ve lost.”
“So it’s about the state of mind and the individual point of view?”
“Of course.”
“Then the conclusion based on that theory is that actual impact can only be determined by the individual.” He paused before circling back to the original statement. “Which means the standards applied to exactly how much, and to what extent, our pasts impact our current lives—no matter how gut-wrenching or dark they may be—is completely dependent on each individual.”
She studied him, another of those cryptic smiles creeping over her lips. No, there was amusement in this one, along with something he construed as respect. “That’s pretty deep, Burns.”
He shrugged that off. “It’s all part of the job, Wakeford.” They’d shifted to the use of last names without fanfare. He liked it though, when he normally didn’t care for the implied camaraderie. But it’d already been there with her, even without the shift in names.
“Not necessarily,” she countered, her smile softening. “But it’s nice to see that you believe it is.”
His scowl yanked at the offended hurt he often didn’t acknowledge. “Why wouldn’t I?”
The dismissive lift of her shoulder didn’t match the penetrating heat of her gaze. It smoothed over him on a slow shift that plucked at that damn awareness he’d tried to bank where she was concerned.
“You don’t always come across as a warm and compassionate person,” she told him, the honesty refreshing and harsh at once.
“I’m fully aware of that.” He’d been told so often he’d have to be stupid or in complete denial if he didn’t recognize that about himself. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand how to be.”
“I know.”
The soft agreement floated between them on a wave of memories he couldn’t repel. Of the passion she’d unleashed in him. Of the roar of possessiveness that’d raced forward at her first lust-filled whimper. Of the need to see her cry out in pure abandonment.
The sun was making its descent through the fog that’d rolled in yet again. The diminished light didn’t hide the understanding that rushed between them, or the questions that came with it. Had the Boardroom really been just a moment? Could there be something more?
How?
“How much of your debate was based on actual experience?” she questioned, true concern and warmth in every word.
He could shut that intrusion down with a single clipped remark. Yet within this room, with the door half-closed and the outer office drifting into a different world, his truth was safe.
“Enough.” He could expand, but her small wince told him he didn’t have to. “You?”
Her slow inhalation lifted her breast and softened her expression even more. There was a true sadness there when she answered. “Not nearly enough.”
“Why do you say that?” He frowned. “Actual knowledge isn’t required for empathy.” Another fact he knew from personal experience.
“True.” She wet her lips with that same slow glide that’d driven him mad in the Boardroom. He tracked the movement, his breath hitching against the urge to follow its retreat and rediscover every sweet, heated corner of her mouth. “But there are times when I have to step back and see that my own past and problems are so incredibly minor when compared to others.”
“Yet we just concluded that the only one who can judge the impact of each event is the person who experienced it.” He let that stand for a long moment, curiosity bursting to learn more. What was her pain? Her history? Where did she want to go? What had she overcome to be here? “What may be perceived as minor by others could be devastating to you.”
She swallowed. The silence stretched as she stared at him. Understanding buzzed over his skin on the energy that flowed between them and never seemed to go away.
The distant ring of a telephone filtered into the room to remind him of where they were. The interruption was innocuous, yet highlighted the lines he’d crossed once again.
They were at work. She was his subordinate.
And he still wanted to sink into her until he was lost in her sweet passion once again.
Brie cleared her throat, jerked her focus to her computer, lips compressing as she squinted at the screen.
“Donaldson and Jackman are working through the state files to untangle the property rights,” she said, all professionalism now. Gone was the note of remembrance and the easy banter between friends.
Ryan stared at her for another long moment, that damn regret hardening into a permanent ball in his stomach. Regrets were useless when they couldn’t be changed. Actions stood as deeds that didn’t morph with time, and he owned every one of his.
They’d fucked in the Boardroom under the agreement of detachment, and in her case, anonymity. He’d already blown one of those terms. He refused to do so with the other.
“Good.” The crisp snap of the word cut through the last of his useless longing. “Have them go back as far as the records provide. I don’t want a loophole being missed.” One that could benefit either side.
“Done.”
They worked in silence for a long while before he arched back, stretching his arms once again. The persistent pinch along his neck and shoulders rarely went away anymore. Except in the Boardroom, and he hadn’t been back since Brie.
He was staring at her again, his gaze traveling to her without conscious thought. Her hair fell in a soft fan where she’d brushed it to one side as she read through a document. A low blush highlighted her cheeks and countered the deeper rose of her lipstick.
It was lighter than the Boardroom shade she’d worn. More subtle. Yet it still highlighted each arch and curve to perfection.
The outer office had gone quiet and faint shadows ran long and thin over the table from the surrounding buildings. He glanced at the time, winced.
“You can go,” he said into the quiet.
She straightened, blinking before she frowned. “What?”
“It’s after seven.” He pointed to his watch. “You should go home.”
“Oh.” She looked around, brow furrowing. “I had no idea.”
He chuckled softly. “I understand.” He lost track of time more than he kept it when he was buried in research.
The wrinkles disappeared from her forehead as she let a hushed laugh roll out. “I bet you do.” She started clicking away on her computer and he assumed she was shutting things down. He should do the same, or at least get back to his own work, but he didn’t. Not when each little movement she made fascinated him. There was a concise grace to everything she did. She was always so engaged in what she was doing.
Just like in the Boardroom. Only there, every movement had been layered in passion.
“You should go home too,” she said as she tucked her laptop into her bag and stood.
“I will.” At some point.
“When?” Her raised brow said she knew the answer wouldn’t be soon.
He motioned to his computer. “After I finish this.”
Her light chuckle should’ve irritated him. It normally would’ve—from anyone else. But she left it at that. Missing was the reprimand for not having a personal life. Yet no one complained when he won his cases or brought in a high-profile client based on his work ethic and record.
He tracked her departure as she moved to the door. She’d worn black slacks today and paired them with a gray summer sweater that hugged her breasts. A string of pearls capped off the professional look.
She paused at the door, her hand braced on the frame. She scanned the outer office before looking back to him. That softness was back in her expression. The one that reached beneath his defenses and warmed him when it shouldn’t.
Her hand tightened around her bag strap, and her tongue snuck out to wet her lips. The action had become a tease that almost had him groaning with the want it stirred. He doubted it was intentional, yet the effect was the same.
“In case you didn’t know,” she said, the throaty rumble of her words reaching out to spread the warmth through his chest, “Ryan is safe with me.”
His heart fell to his stomach while his pulse raced in the long moment it took for him to process her words. Ryan is safe with me.
She cracked a half-smile and left before he could respond. But what would he have said?
He slumped forward, head braced in his hands. His heart declared its presence with every hard beat that nailed his ribs. He squeezed his eyes closed in a useless attempt to block the full meaning of her words.
Ryan is safe with me.
She’d turned his words on him with a deftness he had to admire. Which also made it impossible to misinterpret her intent, and fucked up every good intention he had when it came to Brie.