Judiciary Committee Schedules Closed-Door Hearing with Senator David Crawford.
Alicia turns back to it, blinking, her expression shuttered again. “Apparently the storm took out power in three counties. Looks like power’s restored across the grid,” she says, reaching for the remote. “Guess life goes on.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Guess it does.”
But when she walks past me, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine, I feel her everywhere. She doesn’t apologize. Just gives a small, knowing smile before seating herself at the rower.
I stay where I am, towel still in hand, heart rate climbing again for reasons that have nothing to do with cardio. She settles at the rower, muscles flexing as the machine whirs to life. The controlled power in every movement, the focused intensity on her face—I’m watching her the way I’d watch a threat. Except everything in me knows she’s dangerous for entirely different reasons.
Every flex of muscle, every controlled movement—I should look away. Should head upstairs. Instead I’m memorizing the curve of her shoulder, the line of her thigh, the way she moves like she’s in complete control of everything. Including me.
I need to move. Need to get upstairs, get space, get my head back in the job. Instead, I grab my water bottle and head for the weight bench. If she can pretend last night didn’t happen, so can I. Even if neither of us believes it.
Chapter
Twelve
Alicia
I spot Christine at a back corner table in Maman. The cozy café is packed with the Sunday morning brunch crowd, and I weave through patrons lined up for pastries.
“Ordered us our usual,” Christine says as I’m unwinding my scarf. She looks past me. “I thought you said you have security.”
“I do.” I glance over my shoulder. “But I slipped out.”
“You gave your bodyguard the slip?” Christine’s eyebrows climb. “That’s very Jason Bourne of you.”
“He couldn’t exactly stand in here without looking conspicuous. Besides, what was he going to do—lurk outside in the rain like a stalker?”
“If he’s hot, I’d allow it.” She raises her champagne glass. “Here’s to rainy day brunch and questionable life choices.”
We clink glasses, and I let the bubbles settle my nerves. We’ve been doing this since the first weekend after my divorce—that first Sunday when the house felt too quiet and I’d questioned every decision that led me there.
“How are you holding up?” Christine asks, her voice dropping the playful edge.
“I’m good.”
“Alicia.” She gives me the look—the one that says she’s known me too long for bullshit.
“I am,” I insist. “Mostly.”
“You were close to Matthew.”
“Not that close.” The words come too quickly, too defensive. “You worked with him too.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, noting that deflection. “Elena’s taking it hard.”
I close my eyes, picturing Elena—his wife. Their kids, who must be in high school now. My heart clenches—that sharp, cold ache you get when you’ve inhaled winter air too fast.
“Are you in touch with her?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since one of those holiday parties years ago.” Christine fidgets with her glass. “I bought a condolence card. Can’t decide if reaching out would be supportive or weird.”
“Let me know what you decide. I’ll send flowers.”
“Britney Calloway said the kids are worried about her. Seventeen and fifteen.”
“God.” The word escapes before I can stop it. “Those are brutal ages to lose your father.”