36
LARA
Week 6: Sunday Night
Of all the treks I’ve made to Ian’s apartment over the past couple of weeks, this is without a doubt the hardest.
He opens the door at my knock, and it takes me a moment to register the sight of a wooden spoon in his hand, the smell of garlic permeating the apartment.
“Are you cooking right now?” I ask, a little bit stunned.
He gestures me in with the spoon and kisses my cheek. “I am. And you should be both flattered and worried that this is a first for me.”
“Why worried?” I step inside and shut the door.
“Because I’m ninety percent sure I burned the garlic. I couldn’t find shallots in the grocery store, so I subbed capers, which I later learned were not even close. And let’s just say deboning a chicken is a hell of a lot harder than YouTube makes it look.” He glances over his shoulder as he turns back to the stove. “Wine?”
“I’m good,” I say, going to the counter and praying for courage to do what I came here to do.
He’s already making it so hard. He’s cooking, for God’s sake. For the first time. For me.
I wouldn’t have imagined there’d be a hotter sight than Ian in his suit or, better yet, Ian naked. But this Ian does something dangerous to my heart. This Ian has ditched the tie and jacket, rolled up his dress sleeves, and looks perfectly at ease.
No, not just at ease. Happy.
And for one brief moment, I wonder if maybe this could be our life . . . together.
But then I remember it’s too soon, this happened too fast, and now we don’t have the time we need.
“How’d the résumé updating go?” he asks, stirring whatever’s on the stove.
I flinch. I’d told him I wanted to spend the day at the library updating my résumé, looking for jobs.
I’d lied.
“And are you sure you don’t want wine? It’s an excellent Malb—”
“Ian.”
He turns toward me, and the second he sees my face, he flips off the burner and drops the spoon into the skillet. “What?” he asks, coming toward me and taking my hands. “Tell me.”
“It’s good news!” I say, forcing myself to smile.
He frowns, probably because my smile feels like a sad imitation of happiness.
“Just rip off the Band-Aid, Lara,” he says squeezing my hands. “I can handle whatever you throw at me.”
Not this.
“I got a new job,” I say.
He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, then gives a tentative smile that breaks my heart. “That’s great. Fantastic. Right?”
I nod enthusiastically, but like my smile, it doesn’t feel right. “It’s with the FBI. But—” I hold out my hand before he can get the wrong idea. “Not as an agent. As an analyst. It’s a desk job. Bottom of the food chain, paper pushing, etc.”
“Ah.”
Yeah. Ah.
I have no issues with administration work. Hell, those people work harder than anyone I know and are some of the smartest.
But it’s not what I wanted. It’s not the dream. I know it. Ian knows it.
“With all that’s happened, I’m no longer on the track to be an agent. My parents talked to some people, explained the situation, but . . . Well, like I said before, Quantico’s competitive. My reputation right now? Mud.”
He winces. “God, Lara. I’m so sorry—”
“No, it’s okay,” I interrupt, and this time my smile is a little more real, because it will be okay. I’m determined it will be. “It’s still closer than I’ve ever been before. The job’s in the white-collar division, so I’ll get a ton of exposure and make connections. And every year, Quantico accepts analysts looking to become agents. It’s not the way I thought I’d get in, but I’ll get there.”
“Then, hey, it is good news,” he says softly. “But”—he bends slightly to look more closely at my face—“you’re not happy. Why?”
I take a deep breath. “I wasn’t updating my résumé today. I was packing.” I say it quickly, directed at my feet.
His hands tense around mine. “Come again?”
I force myself to look up and meet his eyes. “I was packing. This FBI job . . . it’s in DC.”
His head snaps back in surprise. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
He releases my hands and locks his behind his neck as he begins to pace, as though trying to work out a solution he likes better. “There’s a branch of the FBI here, right? White collar, even.”
“There is. But they’re not the ones hiring analysts. And they’re not the ones my dad has a connection with.”
He stops pacing and drops his arms. “Your dad got you the job?”
I lift a shoulder. “My résumé got me the job. But yeah, he helped.”
Ian smiles, and it’s genuine. “That’s great. Really great. It’s taken him a while, but he’s finally gotten behind your dream.”
I study his face and see nothing but happiness. For me. Even as I walk away from him.
My eyes water, because it’s in that moment that I know I love him. Because it takes a hell of a guy to put someone else’s happiness above his own. To want something for me more than he wants something for himself.
He frowns when he sees my tears. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie. “Happy tears.”
Happy about the job, sad to be leaving you.
“Hey,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. “Don’t cry. This is a good thing.”
I nod, letting myself sink into his embrace, to absorb some of his strength and steadiness.
I hear him swallow, and his hand comes up to cup the back of my head. “Sucky for us, though.”
I wrap my arms around his back. “Yeah. Sucky for us.”
We hold each other for a long while. Not talking, not kissing. Just holding.
I wonder if he’s doing what I’ve been doing for the past twenty-four hours, trying to figure out how to make it all work. His job. My job. Us.
If he is thinking that, he apparently doesn’t come up with a solution, because he slowly eases me back. “What do you need from me? I can get a pizza. Help you pack.”
I’m tempted—horribly tempted—just to have a little more time with him. But I don’t think I can survive it.
I press the back of my hand to my nose to try and ward off the worst of the tears, but they come anyway. “I think I need a clean break,” I manage.
His face crumbles for a second, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor then back up at me. “Right. Yeah. I get it.”
We stand still in mute misery for a long moment.
Then he reaches for me, and I go to him, our mouths colliding in a kiss that’s as hot as it is sad, a frantic melding of lips that’s both a promise and a goodbye.
Don’t go, his kiss says.
I have to, mine answers back.
When we pull away, we’re both breathing hard, his hands on my face, his forehead resting on mine.
I have the fiercest urge to cling and an even more damaging urge to change my mind. To say the hell with the FBI and everything I’ve wanted and worked for my whole adult life for a guy who wants me but I think is still a long way off from loving me.
“I should go,” I whisper. I have to go.
Ian nods and slowly releases me until his arms drop to his sides, letting me go.
I make it as far as the door before he says my name, the word both frantic and hesitant.
“Lara, what would you say . . . what would you do . . . if I asked you to stay?”
I could do it. The guy has more than enough money. I could ask him for a loan, and I know he’d give it to me in a heartbeat, though he’d be a pain in the ass about letting me pay him back.
And then what? I move in? Live off his salary? Become the kept woman known for trading her integrity for a man? It’s not true, but the reputation would be there, and even if it weren’t . . .
I need more than to be Ian Bradley’s woman. I need to be Lara McKenzie, and Lara McKenzie still wants to be in the FBI.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Please don’t ask.”
He nods and lets me go without another word.
I make it all the way to the back seat of a cab before I start crying for real.