Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
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.