Chasing Frost by Isabel Jolie
Twenty-Eight
Sadie
I’m headed into the office. I don’t have my phone with me. It’s still in Sam’s car. I believe he’s having it delivered to your apartment today. Do not go into BB&E today. If you can, stay home. Call me when you wake up, and I’ll bring lunch. -S
I spent minutes staring at that note, waffling on the signature. I have so much to explain, but how do you do that in a note? I opted for saying what absolutely had to be said. It felt a little formal, but sharing feelings isn’t my personal strength. In closing, I finally decided on simply ‘S,’ as it has the added benefit of not throwing it in his face that he didn’t know my real name until sometime early this morning. I thought about signing with love, or I love you, but we haven’t said those words yet, and again…you don’t pop that in a note. When he wakes, he could take this so many ways. The whole relationship built on lies thing…my gut says that’s where our conversation, when we finally have one, could net out.
Chalk it up to one more reason you’re not supposed to get involved when you’re undercover. The guy you fall for will have to forgive you once he learns the truth, and he may not be able to. Of course, there are so many other reasons, too. Emotion adds a layer of complexity. Emotion can put the entire mission at risk. I hear my instructor’s voice as I scold myself, but the reality is I didn’t get involved with Chase until after we determined he wasn’t a suspect. This piece of the case will provide supportive evidence, but it’s not critical. We have a strong case against Senator McLoughlin and three successful CEOs, and evidence against one BB&E employee.
As I enter 26 Federal Plaza, I alternate between reprimanding myself for what I’ve done and defending what I’ve done. It’s almost 11 a.m., and televisions in the main area and in the office are on, covering the mass shooting. On the screen, a woman in her mid-twenties cries, and the caption below reads Shooter Girlfriend Unaware of His Plans.
“There she is.” Hopkins is the first to notice my entrance.
“Didn’t think we’d see you today, Keating.” Hopkins told me last night I didn’t have to come in. It’s a big day for Operation Quagmire, but all the activity is going on in Chicago.
White letters scrolling on the bottom of the screen catch my attention. Sen. McLoughlin charged with bribery, extortion, and fraud.
“Wanted to be here on the big day. Have all the indictments been delivered?”
“Everyone except Garrick Carlson. Still can’t locate him. The Chicago team is interrogating Eileen Becker as we speak. She’s agreed to fully cooperate, and she has evidence tying Tom Bennett and Evan Mitchell to the entire scheme. Apparently, she’s been taping their meetings for a while now, as she didn’t trust them.”
“That’s not surprising. She’s the one member of that group who didn’t socialize with the Stanford crew. She has two young children, too.”
“We should be ready to deliver indictments to Tom Bennett and Evan Mitchell tomorrow.”
“Is the organized crime unit still investigating Joe McGurn?”
“Yes, they asked us to leave him in play for now. Heat’s on, and they want to see what he does.”
“What about the SEC?”
“Oh, they’re all over South Fork Research. There will be a trickle effect of charges to several they suspect were involved in insider trading.”
“Any news on the shooter? Any connections to this case?”
“No. If it was a hit, it was done well. There are no ties we can find connecting him to any of the Stanford Six, or their businesses. The shooter has a history with gangs, but nothing that ties to McGurn’s mafia connections. We haven’t found any suspicious payments. He wasn’t a social media guy, so there’s little to go on there. His girlfriend came forward this morning.”
The news replays the same segment of her crying in front of a microphone as he mentions her.
“She’s got to be twenty years younger than him.”
Hopkin’s face contorts, and I can tell there are things he wants to say that won’t be appropriate.
A caption below the girlfriend reads “McLoughlin Claims Witch Hunt.” Of course he does.
“What do you need me to do?” It’s my first day back in the New York office, but I spent one day in a conference room before I was nominated for the undercover role, so I need direction.
“I need you to get an appointment with psych. Standard protocol. You need to be cleared before you can resume field duty.”
There are at least twelve men gathered in the office. Most of them are watching the television, keen to hear what the media is saying. There’s a news conference scheduled in fifteen minutes with the Illinois DA’s office. The New York DA’s office will hold a news conference later in the week on our case. Right now, the sole focus of the New York media is last night’s mass shooting. For that matter, the mass shooting is greatly overshadowing news of the Illinois senator’s indictment. At the end of the day, one more politician charged with using funds from a charity inappropriately isn’t remotely eyebrow raising. The ticker tape on the bottom of the screen announces that Senator McLoughlin will hold a press conference this afternoon.
Hopkins puts his hand on my shoulder and waits until he has my attention before speaking. “We’ll be getting reports from the Chicago team all day. Not sure if you’re aware, but video of you shooting the assailant last night has surfaced. It’s all over the Internet. There’s one video, in particular, that you can be seen clearly. You might be identified on the street.”
One of the other agents adds, “You’re gonna be a celebrity.”
“You couldn’t get the footage taken down?” I ask the question, but I know the answer.
He shakes his head. “So much footage is out there. There’s no point. Our communications group is attempting to take charge of the conversation and focus on safety procedures. It’s clear from the footage that taking cover was important for survival.”
“Homeland’s staying on this, right? They aren’t going to give up? The coincidence is too great. They’ve got to look into the shooter’s medical records. Maybe he had a terminal illness, so he agreed to this? Maybe he had a ton of debt, or someone he’s close to did? Maybe he never expected to die, and something went wrong with his plan? Maybe—”
“The investigation is ongoing. There may be a connection. Homeland is on it. This isn’t your case, you know that, right?” Hopkins squeezes my shoulder. “By now, everyone’s seen you, and you’d be recognized as the person who shot him. It wouldn’t be safe for you to interview his friends and family.”
“I know. I just need for it to be investigated. Seventeen people are dead. If it’s a for-hire situation, then at least one, if not all, of the Stanford Six should go down for murder.”
“Hey, Sadie, you’re on TV,” one of the agents in the front of the room says.
On the screen, in amateur video shot by a shaky hand, an image of me fills the screen, as the videographer zooms in. I’m leaning over Wes, checking his pulse, crouched down, partially hidden from the shooter above by the lower level of the dance floor and the raised booth platform.
When Wes jumped over our table, he was seeking cover, as well as alerting us to take shelter. From the angle of the video, you can’t see where I got the gun from, but it’s clear I brace myself on one knee and raise the gun, two-handed for maximum stability. The video does not capture the assailant being hit, but that image will forever be seared in my brain.
The caption scrolling in white letters reads “Off-duty FBI agent killed shooter.”
“Are you going to share my name?”
“It’s gonna come out, Sadie. No more undercover work for you in New York, or maybe in the U.S., at least for a while.”
“UC’s not for me, anyway,” I say, eyes trained on the TV monitor, like all the other agents in the room.
A commercial breaks in, and the agent in charge approaches Hopkins to ask, “Can you get her situated at her new desk?” Then to me, he says, “We shuffled some things around. You’ve got paperwork to do, just some repeat stuff on what happened last night. Get in with psych, then get outta here. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“What about Chase Maitlin? Are you keeping a detail on him?”
“For now. But Eileen Becker’s testimony is far more damning to the Stanford Six than Maitlin’s. We’ll regroup later, but there’s a good chance we’ll pull it. Is he in the office?”
“No. I told him not to go in.”
“They don’t have anything to gain by going after him. I expect we’ll drop his detail.”
“What about Garrick Carlson?” My lips go numb as my heart rate increases.
“You think he’s a threat?”
I think back on my interaction with Garrick Carlson. He’s scrawny, not a physical threat based on size. But he’s intelligent.
“Is the only evidence we have against Garrick Carlson from Maitlin? I haven’t seen what Maitlin provided the FBI. I still haven’t watched the tape of him coming forward.”
Hopkins tugs on his chin, staring off in the distance. He’s seen everything from Maitlin. I’ve been on my one little piece of this case for weeks, but there are so many pieces of this puzzle to consider. I suspect he’s running through all scenarios. He scratches along his jaw.
“That’s a good point. Maybe we should keep a detail on Maitlin until we locate Carlson. We suspect he’s out of the country. We got a warrant and searched his apartment this morning when he didn’t answer to receive the indictment. It doesn't look like anyone’s lived there for weeks.”
Our SPIC and Hopkins nod in silent agreement to discuss this point further, then Hopkins leads me to a desk that’s in the bullpen. There’s a desk phone on one side with a red light blinking behind a plastic square.
“You’ve got a message. Did you lose your FBI issued cell?”
“It took a bullet last night. Had it in my purse on the center of the table. My personal cell is in my briefcase, which was in Sam Duke’s car. I’ll get that back today.”
“Did you hand your FBI phone over to evidence?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, put in for a new one before you leave today. It takes a while to process.”
I strum my fingers on the desk. Hopkins stands beside me, observing me.
“To be safe, should Maitlin go into WITSEC?” I ask. Going into witness protection isn’t something to take lightly, but if last night’s shooting was meant to take Chase out, then it would be our safest option.
“I expect we’re going to end up with a wealth of additional evidence after we meet with all the individuals we’ve just charged. And once we indict Bennett and Mitchell, possibly more. Maitlin’s a small piece in this. That’s my opinion. But the team will give careful consideration to whether or not any of our witnesses need protection. We always do.”
He leaves me to return to the conference room. A television on the far wall shows the footage of me raising the gun. The news is on loop. A newscaster starts in with, “This is what we know.”
I drop into my desk chair and enter my code to listen to my voicemail. It’s from Chase. “Hey, I’m up. Happy to follow your orders and stay home today. Your briefcase is here. Since you don’t have your phone with you, here’s my number if you need to reach me. Wait. You’re the FBI. I’m sure you have my number. You probably know my last credit card charge too.” The message ends, and I smile. He’s probably half-joking. Hollywood portrays the FBI as all-knowing. We can find a lot of information, but it’s not as easy as a computer whiz clicking a few keys on a computer. Joking or not, he didn’t sound angry, and that’s a good start.
I take care of the few things I need to and leave. I have an appointment with psychology tomorrow afternoon. They’ll want to know how I’m handling my first kill. It’s a good thing the appointment is tomorrow because right now I’m numb. I couldn’t really tell her anything about how I’m handling it.
The cab drops me off on the corner of Charlton and Varick. I see the officers in the car across from Chase’s building. The other vehicles parked along the narrow street sit empty. A bike messenger whizzes by on the sidewalk across the street as I press Chase’s apartment number. He doesn’t even speak into the microphone before buzzing me in. Not safe at all, Chase.
When the elevator arrives at his floor, he’s standing at the door barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt. His hair is damp. He hasn’t shaved, and the skin below his eyes bears a shadow.
“It’s not safe to buzz someone in without checking to see who it is.”
“Well, good afternoon to you, too.”
I squeeze past him into his apartment. He kicks the door closed, grabs my hips, spins me around, and presses me against the wall. “You left without saying goodbye. Don’t do that again.” He pins me against the wall with his body and a smoldering, reprimanding glare.
“Yes, sir.”
He smirks at my jest and pauses, gently running a thumb across my cheek in a caress. He swallows hard and closes his eyes as he pushes away from the wall.
“You brought lunch?”
I lift the white paper bag in response and step past him into the kitchen.
“Deli sandwiches. Hope you don’t mind. I would have called to ask what you wanted, but I still don’t have my phone.”
“A deli sandwich is the food of kings. That’s good enough for me. Your bag is over there. Sam had it delivered this morning.”
I finish setting out our Reubens on plates and lick the thousand island dressing from my finger as I skirt past Chase to the kitchen table where he set down my briefcase.
“He let a random courier carry our bags?”
The sound of the icemaker fills the room as Chase prepares our glasses, picking up where I left off preparing our lunch. The contents of my briefcase are the same as I left them, the same papers, and my laptop in the same order as yesterday. I unzip the interior pocket and exhale when I locate my personal cell and my handgun. I lift it out and check the chamber and the safety, out of habit. I shouldn’t have let the government-issued gun out of my sight.
Chase freezes, holding two ceramic plates with our sandwiches in front of him.
“You carry a gun?”
Satisfied my gun hasn’t been tampered with, I slip it into the interior pocket and zip it closed. Then, since he’s still frozen in place, I take the plates from him and set them on the round table.
“Not always. I debated carrying a gun last night. It’s not like it did me any good once I left my briefcase in Sam’s car.”
“Were you off duty last night?” The questioning angle of his head and his deep squint warns me this isn’t the first time he’s thought about this.
“That point is probably debatable. Technically, yesterday was the last day I was supposed to go into BB&E’s office as an undercover agent. Today, the plan had been for me to resume my spot on my team within FBI offices.”
Chase pulls the chair out and sits down in front of one of the sandwiches. He pushes the plate away from him, leaving room for his forearms to rest on the table, and leans forward.
“Is that because indictments were going out today?”
“You saw the news?” I sit in front of the remaining sandwich, watching him, unsure of what’s running through his mind and uncertain how much I can say without risking harm to our operation. I won’t be a witness, so since I won’t be put on the stand, the risk level from sharing information seems low. But Chase could potentially be an important witness.
“Yes. No one’s been indicted from BB&E. At least, not that’s made the news.” His intonation rises as he finishes his sentence, leaving it open for me to add more.
I could tell him we can’t find Garrick Carlson, or that additional indictments still need to be delivered to others within BB&E, but I won’t. That’s crossing a line. I take a bite of my sandwich.
“This morning, I spent about thirty minutes on the line with BB&E’s chairman of the board.”
“Really?” I ask through a mouth full of Reuben.
“Apparently, Evan Mitchell called him and told him he’s expecting he and Tom Bennett will be receiving an indictment either today in Chicago or tomorrow when they return to New York. He believes Eileen Becker has shared some information that implicates BB&E. He notified Jonathan to give him a heads up.”
“Jonathan is the chairman of the board?” I’ve seen all the names of BB&E’s board but hadn’t paid a great amount of attention to them as we didn’t suspect any of the board members.
“Yeah. I’ve never spoken to the guy before. But he said they had an emergency board meeting this morning. Evan and Tom will be stepping away from the company to protect BB&E’s interest, and to allow them time to devote to building their defense.”
Interesting. The real question is who gave Mitchell the heads up. Did Eileen call them after her meeting with the FBI, or did Evan’s childhood friend within the FBI give him a heads up?
“He wants me to step in as interim CEO.”
“What?” I blurt. Chase flinches. “I mean, that’s a big promotion, right?” Organizationally, that change would put Chase jumping past a whole row of SVP division heads.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Syd.” He grimaces. “I mean, Sadie.” He exhales. “But I agree with you. It doesn’t make sense to me either. He said Evan Mitchell recommended it on the basis that I am the best they have at relationships, and in order to keep clients calm and with the firm through this, they’re going to need someone who can lead employees and keep morale positive while also hand-holding clients.”
I take another bite of my room temperature sandwich and think it through. “I can see that. I’ve only met three of the four division heads, and they aren’t personable. I doubt communications is a core strength for any of them. But…I don’t like that it’s Evan Mitchell who recommended it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t trust him, Chase.”
He nods slowly and drinks some of his water. He sets the glass back down on the table with a thud.
“I don’t trust him either, but I don’t have all the information you do.” The statement is pointed and full of expectation.
“I can’t share specifics of the case. But the team will want to get you back in to talk further about your testimony. If you ask, they may be able to share more information with you.”
He rests his elbow on the table and his chin on his fist. If only his elbow was on his knee, he’d look like the infamous Thinker sculpture.
“FBI first? Job first always?”
Thoughts of my parents growing up, the coldness in our home, and frequent relocations trail through my mind. Dad’s prolonged absences, the months not knowing where he was. Knowing no news meant he was alive. Mom acting as if we were like every other family, to the extent I still suspect she’s an agent, and I’m not even sure for what side. There’s no point in asking.
“Right now? Yes. The work we are doing is important, and I’m not going to jeopardize our case. But there comes a point when some agents do decide, or can decide, family comes first.” It’s a tough line to straddle. Any job that demands you be available at any time, twenty-four-seven, by definition, demands that at times the balance won’t fall on the side of the family or personal life. But plenty of agents make it through for decades in the bureau, with marriages intact and healthy, well-adjusted children. “I moved around a lot growing up. My father works for the CIA based in Moscow. My mother is a professor in Great Britain. My sister is in university. I’m close to my sister.”
“Are your parents divorced?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never asked. They don’t live together for most of the year. But I don’t think they’ve ever filed for a divorce.”
“Wow.” He scratches his jaw. “But your dad taught you how to shoot? So, you were close to him growing up?”
“Close is a subjective word. The definition varies by person. My father is committed to his cause. Guns are a means to an end.”
“I hate guns. They should be illegal.” There’s an edge to his tone.
“It’s a multi-faceted subject. I would never want to walk into a gunfight with a knife. I also don’t see a need for civilians to own machine guns. I’m well-versed in both sides of the gun rights debate. Is that what you really want to talk about?”
He shakes his head then lifts his gaze to mine. “You said last night that we’re real.”
“We are.” I reach for his hand and hold on to it. “I wasn’t with you for this case. What happened between us in Cedar Falls, that was all me. I wanted to be with you. Once I knew you were innocent, it wasn’t about the case anymore.”
“Wait. I was a suspect?”
I nod. Our primary suspect to start, but there’s no need to tell him that.
“So, my legal team knew what they were doing when they paraded me into the FBI with my statement and whistleblowing piece.”
“They gave you sound advice.” I straighten my spine and place my palms flat on my thighs.
“But you didn’t give me that advice. You were just watching what I was doing? Why?”
“I don’t call the shots. We had a different plan. If you hadn’t gone in on your own, we were going to bring you in today and ask for your testimony.”
“You mean demand it?”
“We would have asked nicely.” He squints at me. I have no recourse. I can’t change the way the system works.
He pushes the plate farther away from him. He’s barely touched his sandwich. He stands and picks the plate up, dumps the remains into the trash, and deposits the plate in the dishwasher. I twist in the chair and watch him warily, the way one watches a campfire on a windy day.
When he comes back to me, he leans against the breakfast bar and crosses his arms over his torso.
“Here’s the thing Syd—Sadie. We, you and I, we started this on lies. And I’ll be honest because we don’t stand a chance if I’m not. I don’t know where to go from here. Half the time I’m calling you by the wrong name in my head. I like you, I really like you. I know this for a fact because I know how fucking terrified I was last night when you were facing gunfire. But I don’t know what of you is real. I don’t know if the person I’m falling for even exists. And I don’t know how to deal with that. And then, there’s this other part of me that thinks, you know, the short guy never gets the Bond girl. Ever.” A sad, subdued smile plays across his lips. True to his personality, he’s making light of something he doesn’t find funny. He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “So, why should I try?”
I place one foot in front of the other, in slow, measured steps, until I reach him and cross my palms over his heart.
“How about we start with you getting to know me, the real me? I think you got to know the real me, but you’ve got to decide that for yourself.”
I rise onto my tiptoes, pressing my lower body against his, and brush my lips across his. At first, he doesn’t open. I stand close enough that I can examine the variations of brown and gold in his irises. He wraps his arms around me, and I lift mine around his neck. He tilts his head and gives me a slow, cautious kiss.
The sound of a phone vibrating breaks us apart. I run my fingers across the scruff along his jaw, and he leans into my touch.
“Why don’t you come back with me to my real apartment?” Of course, the reality is, all my business clothes are in the FBI apartment. I had planned to move them out this weekend, but other than clothes and bare necessities, all my personal life is sitting in my downtown apartment, yet to be unpacked.
“The place I’ve been in, that was an FBI cover?”
I nod. “Yes. FBI owns it. They use it from time to time.”
“Explains the absence of personality.”
“Well, don’t expect more from my real place. I’ve only spent a handful of nights there.”
“So, you really did just move to New York?”
I nod and back up a step, holding his hand. “Come on, let me show you.”
Chase insists on getting a cab. It’s not a far ride, but it’d be a long walk. I direct the cab to let us off at the corner of Reade and Church.
Chase peers around. “I’m not sure I like your hood.”
I shrug. “Didn’t pick it for the hood.”
Church street is all business. It’s a fairly major thoroughfare. He follows me as I dart along Reade Street. Reade Street is a narrow side street with limited parking. Stores line the lower level with apartments above. All the apartments feature a red brick facade and standard rectangular windows. One whole side of the building across from mine is covered in metal scaffolding. Horns beep, and sirens can be heard in the distance.
When we reach my apartment, I open my briefcase and dig deep down into the interior pocket for my key ring. I unlock the door, and he follows me inside and up two flights of stairs.
“It’s not much, but it’s home,” I say as I push my apartment door open. There’s a stale stench in the air, and I search for the thermostat to check what setting I left it on.
Unopened boxes are stacked in my den. My kitchen, if one can call it that, lines a part of the wall on one side. A narrow hall leads to the back where there is a sleeping area and a bathroom. It’s technically a studio apartment, but I selected it because it has the feel of a one-bedroom.
“This place is claustrophobic.” Chase says, unimpressed.
“I tend to agree with you. Would you believe I’m paying almost three thousand a month in rent for this place?” It’s truly insane how expensive things are here.
“Why did you pick this place?” He’s full of derision.
“I did what anyone does when moving to a new city. I looked for apartments close to work. I can walk to work from here. It’s clean. I mean, when it comes to studios, they’re all equally box-like with little to offer.”
“This is a studio?” He asks as he bysteps a tall stack of boxes to venture to the end of my apartment.
A mattress rests on the floor of the sleeping area. I had to sell my old bedroom set, as it wouldn’t fit here.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“It’s not bad for someone in their late twenties, but I’d encourage you to hunt for something better when your lease is up.”
“Hey, we can’t all live in palatial apartments like you.”
“Your FBI cover pad was way nicer than this.”
“Yeah, I’m aware. Thanks.”
He smirks then collapses onto one side of my sofa.
“So, we’re here so I can get to know the real you. You gonna open up some boxes and show me something? Because looking around this crap hole, what I see is someone who is so absorbed by work she hasn’t unpacked the first box, hasn’t even hung a shower curtain in the bathroom, has a pair of plain sheets thrown on a mattress, and doesn’t have a single personal photograph or anything at all out to make this feel like a home. Is that who you are?”
“Your place isn’t that much better. I don’t think you spend much time on that firm, uncomfortable sofa. And you have to hunt for personal effects in your place.”
He smirks. “Yeah, Carla took over designing my place. I let her go with it. I’ll grant you I’ve been jonesing to make it a bit more liveable, more me.”
“Who is Carla? An ex?” I sit on the sofa near him.
“Not an ex.” I get the uncomfortable sense he’s reflecting on Carla as he answers, “We did get to know each other while she was working on my project. I’d say it was more of a fling.”
“Hmmm. So, how much is the rent on a place like yours?”
“I own. But it could rent for around ten K a month. Renting’s just throwing away your money.” He sounds judgmental.
“That’s right. You own properties and rent them out. How’d you decide which one you wanted to live in?”
“I liked the area. But this isn’t getting to know Chase time. This is getting to know Sadie time. Whatcha got?”
I’m not sure what to show him. Sometimes I’m not even sure I know myself. I make my way through the boxes until I locate the one box marked “personal.” I open it and lug it over to the floor space in front of the sofa. I show him photos of my sister, my mom and dad.
“Your sister looks like you.”
I agree with his assessment. “She always worries about me. I don’t do a good enough job keeping in touch with her.”
“Time difference. It must be tough.”
I nod. “She knows about you. I did tell her.”
He flips through photos. Most of my photos are landscape shots or shots of historically relevant locations that are popular with tourists. The ones in the box are photos I liked enough to print. He tosses them in the box.
“Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“Clearly, you only printed photos you deemed worthy. Your phone will have the photos I want to see.”
I hand him my personal cell. My photos in my Google photos file go all the way back to university. He points at a few people, asking me who they are. “After getting my MBA, I was accepted into the FBI. There aren’t many photos at all from that point forward.”
“Any boyfriend?” he asks as he swipes, probably recognizing he’s no longer coming across human beings.
“There was one. He was FBI, too.”
“Let me guess. All work, just like you.”
“Yes. But, if I’m honest—”
“And we’re being honest here.”
“Yes, if I’m honest, I haven’t been happy for a while. It can get lonely. I didn’t plan on going into UC, but in some ways, I’ve enjoyed this time being more of a regular person. I moved here for a change, and that’s what I got. A different life.”
“You enjoyed life as an accountant?” He seems amused.
“I enjoyed giving myself a life outside of work. Going to the gym, hanging out with you, that kind of stuff.”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t go to the gym in DC.” He pointedly checks me out.
“Of course I did. But it was the FBI gym, and it was get in, get it done, get out. Your gym is like a spa. I can see why you spend hours there hanging out and talking. It’s a social place for you.”
“I’m a social guy.” He reaches out for my hand and tugs me closer. His fingers toy with my hair, then he slides it behind my ear. “The picture I’m getting of Sadie is of a lonely workaholic.”
“But I want to change that.” And I do. I like being with Chase. I kick my shoes off and slide onto Chase’s lap, straddling him.
“Sadie, I’m in for helping you.” He opens my shirt, button by button. I lift the hem of his t-shirt over his head. His heart pounds beneath my fingers. My pulse throbs against his skin.
Ever so slowly, we undress each other. He takes his time, caressing my body, adoring me, and I take my turn on him. When he enters me, he is tender. Our lovemaking is slow and sensual and earth-shattering.
Earth-shattering, not because of the physical, but because as he pulses inside me, and I hold him tight, it hits me with the force of a .475 A&M Magnum that I care more about this man than I do my career. And I don’t have any idea how he’s going to feel about me over time, as he gets to know the real me.