Harry Valdman is a selfish, greedy asshole who cheats on his wife, ignores his children, and routinely swindles people out of their hard-earned money—but he’s a fairly decent boss. As long as I bring in lots of money, he doesn’t care what I do or how often I’m in the office, which has been immensely helpful over the last eight months since Mom was diagnosed and I became Son in a Leading Cancer Role. I’ve still been nailing big deals and even bigger clients left and right, even if I’m doing most of my work now from various infusion rooms.

So I assume it won’t be a problem when I leave a message with his secretary that I won’t be in to the office that day, but then I get a call back from Trent the Secretary right away.

“Good morning, Mr. Bell.” Trent the Secretary sounds a little nervous. “Mr. Valdman says he wants you in his office as soon as possible. Something big’s come up and it’s an emergency.”

I look across the room to where my mom sleeps fitfully, surrounded by a cluster of poles and wires and bags and screens.

I sigh. “My mom’s in the hospital right now. Is there any way it can wait?”

“Hold on, I’ll ask,” Trent says and I hear the electronic piano tones of a Liszt piece as I’m put on hold. Then Trent returns. “Uh, Mr. Bell? I’m really sorry, but Mr. Valdman says he needs to see you right away and that it can’t wait. Should I tell him you’re on your way?”

“Fuck,” I mumble, running a hand over my unshaven face. I look down at my wrinkled tuxedo. “Yes, I’m on my way. I have to swing by home to change, then I’ll be in.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll let him know.”

Fuck a damn duck.

I hang up the phone and stand up, reluctant to leave Mom alone. I’d made Dad go to work—he’s a warehouse manager for a small plumbing company, and his boss is not very forgiving of Dad missing work for any reason, even a sick wife—and Ryan’s all the way in Lawrence, getting settled into his new off-campus digs. Aiden’s at work. And obviously Tyler isn’t here.

I drop a kiss onto Mom’s cool forehead and she stirs, but she doesn’t wake up. I find a nurse and explain that I have to go in to work, but to call me at the slightest sign of trouble, and then I leave her every number of every person I can think of in case she can’t reach me, although she’ll be able to reach me. Valdman will understand if I have to dash out of our meeting, I’m certain of it.

Mostly certain.

Like, halfway certain.

Shit, maybe I’m not that certain at all. I chew over this as I get into my car and speed back to my apartment, tapping my fingers anxiously on the steering wheel. It’s legitimately the first time taking care of Mom has been a problem with my job, and I have to admit—even knowing that Valdman’s an asshole—I’m surprised he still insisted on me coming in. Trent said it was an emergency—but what fucking investment emergency is more important than my mom’s surgical emergency?

And then I feel like an idiot, because I didn’t get all the money I have now by asking myself those kinds of questions. I’ve always, always put work first, at least until Mom’s illness. And even after, I’ve done my best to give this firm every part of me not locked down by chemo-chauffeur duties and pharmacy runs. If Valdman says it’s an emergency, then I fucking believe him and I need to fix it, whatever it is.

But Jesus, for real. What could it be?

I get to my place, take the world’s fastest shower and jump into a clean suit without bothering to shave. I won’t be seeing any clients anyway, so it’s fine, although the foreign sensation of stubble abrading the fabric of a clean shirt collar is distracting. I feel unkempt, and when I glance up at the mirror to make sure my tie-knot is straight, I barely recognize the grim, scruffy man looking back at me.

Well, it can’t be helped. It was a long fucking night, and not the good kind…except for the part with Mary, because I could have spent a thousand long nights with her.

Which means I’m going straight to hell.

Thirty-six year old men like me have no business wanting to see a college student’s pussy. Wanting to lick and rub her until she’s wet and mewling, wanting to split her legs open and mount her. Wanting to fuck and thrust and grind until she’s come so many times under me that she’s forgotten her name—and her fake name. And now I’m hard, which is great, just fucking great.

I toss all my shit into a leather satchel and run out the door to meet my boss, boner be damned. Lord knows it will shrivel the moment I get to his office anyway.

* * *

Rosacea decorates Valdman’s cheeks like red, splotchy spiders, and I find myself staring at the tiny ruptured capillaries and veins as he talks, wondering if all rich white guys end up gouty and drink-ruddy and wondering what I need to do to avoid getting the Henry VIII look myself. Stop drinking probably, although I do eat a lot of kale, and that feels like it should count for something.

He’s been ranting since I came in and sat down a few minutes ago, and I still have no idea what’s wrong.

“—fucked, Sean, we’re fucked, and I’ve already heard from two clients complaining about the bad PR bouncing back onto them. And the news—Jesus, you would not believe those vultures! They’ve been ringing everyone off the hook, even the fucking interns.”

I force myself to tear my eyes from his cheeks. “If you’ll tell me what’s happened, I’ll fix it. I promise.”

Valdman heaves himself into his chair and reaches for the globe bar he keeps next to his desk. “You want a drink?” he asks, already rummaging for a glass and the scotch decanter.

I glance discreetly over at the clock. It’s a little after nine a.m.

“I’m good,” I decline cautiously. “Now, sir, about whatever’s happened—”

“Right, right,” he mumbles, taking a drink and then setting the scotch decanter on the desk between us. “The Keegan deal.”

I’m honestly confused. “The Keegan deal, sir?”

Valdman blinks at me with bloodshot eyes, takes another drink. Waiting for me to say something.

But what is there to say? “Every version of that deal went through legal at least twice,” I offer, racking my brain, trying to think of any potential snags that would have Valdman in such apoplexy. But there were none, seriously. Fucking none. It was a good deal—every contingency prepared for, every clause examined, every city code and sales tax bond painstakingly referenced and braided into the agreement. “And we did have to get special approval from the City Council, but that went better and easier than we ever could have planned for. And then we sent it through our legal a final time, after the Keegan team’s legal went through it. There’s nothing even close to illegal or unethical in there, I promise you, sir.”

Valdman grunts. “Illegal, maybe not. But unethical? You sure about that?”

I stare at him. I know I’m wrecked from no sleep and stress, I know I’m thoroughly wrung dry from the last four weeks of late nights and early mornings trying to get this deal to paper—but my mind has always worked best when pushed like this, and so I know I’m genuinely stumped. I mean, I’ll be the first to admit that in the past I’ve drafted some deals that nudged a few moral boundaries—the best money is made on the frontiers of morality, after all—but there wasn’t even a whiff of that in the Keegan deal. No trace of anything slimy or suspicious. Just some old brick buildings that will be turned into shiny new profit centers. Hell, even as a citizen I think it’s a good deal.

Valdman finally sees that I honestly have no idea what he’s hinting at, and he sets his glass down with an irritated thump. “The man selling the property—Ernest Ealey? Did he ever mention anything about a lease? Tenants?”

Easy question. “Not once,” I say firmly. “And we pulled every agreement logged in those three buildings for the last forty years. No standing leases, no liens, no surprise historical registry shit. It’s clean property, sir, I promise.”

“You’re wrong,” my boss tells me. “Because there is a lease, and there are tenants.”

I shake my head. “No, we checked—”

“Ealey lied to you, son, or he just plain forgot because it was a handshake agreement done twenty years ago.”

“If it wasn’t disclosed—”

“I don’t care about fucking disclosure right now,” Valdman says. “I care about the fucking newspapers breathing down my neck.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I still don’t understand why the press would care about some random tenants—”

“Nuns, Sean,” Valdman interrupts. “They’re fucking nuns.”

Of all the things he could have said, the word nuns was probably the farthest down on my list of possibilities and I’m still asking myself if I heard him right when he continues. “They run a shelter and soup kitchen there, and in the last year, they’ve used it as a place to put up victims of human trafficking.”

Nuns. Shelter.

Human trafficking victims.

I blink.

And blink.

Because.

This is bad.

“Good old Ernest Ealey couldn’t sell those buildings for years, so he rented them out to the nuns for one dollar a year to get the tax write-off.”

“One dollar a year,” I echo.

Shit, this is so bad.

Valdman appraises me shrewdly over a sip of scotch. “I see you’re finally grasping the extent of the fucking problem.”

Oh, I am, and here it is: it doesn’t matter how legal and aboveboard the actual deal is now. Because the story is that an out-of-state developer is kicking a group of sweet, do-gooding nuns out of the place they do good from. The story is that a place of charity will be torn down and turned into a temple of consumerism and greed. The story is that these tiny old nuns—fuck, I can see them on the news now, with little wimples and adorable wrinkled faces—just want to feed and clothe the poor, and the big, bad millionaires are punishing them and the city’s needy just to make a quick buck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. How did I fucking miss this?

I run a hand through my hair and pull for a minute, using the pain to focus. “Do you want me to find a way to cancel the deal?”

“Fuck no,” Valdman scoffs. “Do you know how much money we’re making from it?”

Of course I fucking do, but I don’t say that.

My boss leans forward, tapping the top of his desk for emphasis. “No, it’s in Keegan’s and Ealey’s best interest to move forward, not to mention ours. Keep the deal, but fix this. Fix our image.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me,” he rumbles. “The PR is the real problem, not the deal, so you fix the PR.”

“I—” I actually don’t know what to say. “Sir, I don’t know shit about PR.”

“No, but you inked the deal, so it’s best if you’re the one the press sees. Plus you aren’t half bad-looking, kid. Makes the rest of us look good.”

I’m already shaking my head. “Sir, please—”

“It’s done, Sean. I’ve already had Trent reach out to the nuns—”

“You what?”

“And they were going to send their boss or whatever to meet you, but I guess one of the sisters is sick, so they’re sending a nun intern to meet with you.”

“A nun intern?”

Valdman looks impatient. “You know, like she’s not a nun yet, but she’s a nun-in-training or something. I don’t know—you’re the one with the priest brother, right?”

“Postulant,” I say, surprised I still know the word. “She must be a postulant.” And then I add, “And he’s not a priest anymore.”

His brow furrows. “But that must mean your whole family is Catholic, right? That you’re Catholic?”

“They used to be, and I haven’t been Catholic since college,” I say, and something in the tone of my voice makes Valdman shut up about it.

“Ah, okay. Well, anyway, the training nun offered to come here, but I think you better go to her. Makes for a better first impression. She’s expecting you around ten at the shelter.”

I glance at the clock. Thirty minutes from now I’m going to be shaking hands with a nun. What the fuck happened to my day? “What’s the postulant’s name?” I ask as I stand. Might as well go in having as much information as possible.

Valdman glances at his computer screen. “Um, it’s Iverson.”

My blood jumps up a degree in temperature.

Chill out, Sean. There’s probably lots of Catholics with the last name Iverson in Kansas City.

Valdman squints at whatever notes Trent the Secretary left him in the call memo. “Zenobia,” he pronounces. “Zenobia Iverson.”

“Zenny,” I correct automatically.

Valdman looks up at me. “Pardon?”

I smooth down my jacket and grab my briefcase. My blood is hot with something between anxiety and relief. “It’s Zenny. She hates the name Zenobia.”

“Do you…do you know this training nun?”

“Postulant. And yes, I do.”

“Well, I don’t know how well she knows you. She was the one who leaked the story to the press yesterday—with your name attached.”

This does nothing to settle my pulse. “Oh.”

Valdman tilts his head at me. “How do you know her again?”

I answer as I’m walking out of the door. “She’s my best friend’s little sister.”

“Careful, son,” he calls after me. “Remember the deal comes first.”

As if I’d have any trouble remembering that. I give him a wave as I round the corner into the hall, check my phone to make sure I haven’t missed any calls from the hospital, and then head down to meet Elijah’s little sister and cajole her into calling off the press dogs.

Easy peasy, right?