I have more business than I can manage—and what keeps me grounded is that my clients have faces. They may have screwed up, but there’s always someone behind the headlines: children, parents, employees. People who rely on them. Most just want a way through the storm, a chance to do better.
Maybe it’s naïve, but it’s how I rationalize what I do. And I have zero interest in crafting smoke and mirrors to cloud the transparency of a lobbying group.
I scan my email, determine nothing requires a response before tomorrow, and push up from my desk, done for the day. I cross the hall, enter my closet, and change into a cashmere lounge set, taking care to box my heels and place my slacks and blouse in the drycleaning pile. I always dress professionally, even when working from home. One never knows when a crisis might arise—or when one might have to face the press.
It’s early to be finished, and maybe I’m tempting fate by ending my workday before six, but I promised myself I’d cook dinner for Stella tonight. There’s a glass of wine near the stove with my name on it.
It’s early evening, but the sun has set and outside a blend of red brake lights and white headlights blurs. The back patio is lit via floodlight, casting a golden glow.
As I pour myself a glass of wine before setting about cooking dinner, I watch Noah Bennett. He appears to be studying the roofline. The collar of his jacket is raised to his angular jaw, his dark hair cropped short with military precision. Even at this distance, the faint scar through one eyebrow gives his face a harder edge. A scarf covers his neck. He was tall and undeniably attractive, warm bronze skin and hard angles softened only by the quiet steadiness of his expression. The kind of man women noticed first and only afterward began to study.
KOAN provided his resume when he worked on Senator Crawford’s case. Joined the Army at eighteen, multiple deployments. Speaks conversational Spanish, basic Arabic, and Pashto. Expert marksman, martial arts training, tactical driving, first aid certified.
Thirty-one. Born in 1995.
So many choices still ahead.
I pull ingredients from the refrigerator—salmon, potatoes, herbs for the salad—and my mind drifts to where I was myself at his age. Juggling a newborn, an unraveling marriage, postpartum depression, and a fledgling business I refused to let die. He’s out there assessing rooflines. I was trying to keep my life from collapsing. I wonder what it’s like—to end a day and actually be done.
No responsibilities. No one depending on you.
It’s hard not to envy that.
His deep brown eyes meet mine through the glass, pinning me in place. I blink, realizing I’ve been staring. I nod—unembarrassed. He’s on my patio, after all. And a man like him is probably used to catching stares.
His easy view inside to me is a reminder that at dusk, my house turns into a fishbowl. I grab the remote and press a button. The soft whir of descending shades fills the silence. Privacy restored, I cue up an evening playlist and check my phone, tracking Stella’s location.
Her father passes her school on the way home, so he’ll pick her up after play practice and bring her home. She should be back by now, but sometimes practice runs long. Based on her location, she’s still at school. I hope that means play practice is running long, and Richard isn’t running late.
A knock at the front door startles me. When I open it, Noah stands there, framed in the street lights.
“You have a key. You can come in.”
A slow, subtle smile spreads. “It’s still your home. I want to be respectful.”
“Well, come on in. Did you decide we’re safe for the night?”
“After you lowered the shades—yes. I checked the sightlines around your house—the shades are effective.”
The door clicks closed behind him. “My friend, Dorian, insisted I hire professionals to outfit the place when I purchased this house. Hence, shades.”
“Did you move in recently?”
“After my divorce—or, well, separation, really. So…” I run through the years, the separation, moving out of our marital home against my lawyer’s advice, buying this place against my friend’s recommendations, Stella having to adjust to two homes when she was in first grade… “About six years? Would you like some wine?” I offer, padding silently in my fuzzy socks back to the kitchen. A chill entered the house when I opened the door, so I click a button and the gas fireplace comes to life with golden flames.
“Oh, I don’t want to be in your way,” he’s quick to say.
“Please. Join us. I don’t always cook dinner, but I did tonight and there’s more than Stella and I can eat. Since you’ll be around, it’s better that she meets you in a friendly setting in case you cross paths, and besides, I don’t like drinking alone.”
That last bit isn’t exactly true, as a glass of wine at the end of the day is my ritual. If I’m not out for a work event or dinner, I drink that glass alone and find it therapeutic. But tonight, saying it feels welcoming.
He unbuttons his coat and pulls at the scarf looped around his neck.
“Here,” I offer, taking both, “I’ll put them in the entry closet.”
He hands them over and I can’t help but notice the pull of the sweater across his chest, his broad shoulders, and the narrow waist. Definitely fit.
I return from the closet to find Noah standing by the kitchen island, hands resting lightly on the marble countertop, his gaze tracking the room with quiet assessment. Even relaxed, he’s watchful, evidenced by the way his shoulders angle toward the door, the slight tilt of his head as I approach.