by Lauren Esker
"Water would be nice," Debi murmured.
The water was warm, but she took a few sips and felt better. Marginally. She didn't think her problem was physical, even if it felt like it. Although, once she got a little more water into herself, she started to think food was probably a good idea. When was the last time she'd eaten properly? Not on the plane. Sometime back in Seattle. Possibly yesterday.
"So, here's a plan," she said, capping the water bottle.
"I like plans," Nia said earnestly.
"We drive to the nearest town, check into whatever fleabag motel we can find, and then we go looking for a bar."
"I am completely on board with that plan," Nia said, shifting the car into drive, "as long as some part of that plan involves getting some food into you before you start putting drinks in there. Because otherwise I'm probably going to have to carry you back to the motel, and you are way bigger than me."
Debi looked at her for a minute, then: "Deal." It came out on a sigh. She took another sip from Nia's bottle of water. "Why do you care, anyway? Even taking me down here at the last minute like this ... it's your job, but you didn't have to drop everything and run off to Wyoming because I wanted to go now. So what's in it for you?"
"I care because you're my friend," Nia said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the word. "And I've never been to Wyoming before. So that's fun too. I'm ready to see more of it than a prison now, though."
Debi couldn't help laughing a little. "Me too," she said quietly.
Nia smiled and reached over to turn the radio on.
Debi leaned her head back on the seat. Friend, she thought. That word was warm; it curled up at the bottom of her soul and glowed like a tiny, banked fire.
Chapter Twelve
Fletcher wouldn't have believed he'd find time for this much regret in between everything else he had going on, but Debi's face kept haunting him, especially that moment when the open, naked hope in her eyes faded away, frozen over by icy rage and hurt. Little reminders seemed to be everywhere, even after the short time they'd known each other. Some of her things were still in his apartment—her makeup bag, her briefcase—and, for that matter, she still had the office key he'd given her, assuming she hadn't flushed it. He wasn't sure how to arrange an exchange of belongings without having them thrown in his face. He wouldn't have blamed her if she had.
He'd never wanted to fix anything so badly in his life. If he had a time machine, he'd have taken it back to that moment when everything went wrong and ... and ...
And told her yes?
Because that was where it broke down, wasn't it? Even in the depths of his despair, even while he was kicking himself over and over for letting the most beautiful, amazing woman he'd ever met—a beautiful, smart, amazing woman who was as into him as he was into her—walk out the door (no, let's be honest here: driving her out the door), he still wasn't entirely sure that, if he had it to do all over again, he'd be able to bring himself to grant her request.
Can I stand up in front of a court of law and put my reputation on the line for her?
Do I trust her that much?
Do I trust anyone that much?
All his life, he'd relied only on himself. Every time he had allowed himself to place his faith in someone else, it had been betrayed. He'd loved his parents with a desperate, all-consuming love, but his mother had died and his father had ended up a shattered wreck of a man, leaving teenage Fletcher in charge of the family. He'd loved Chloe, and she had abandoned him.
Having a relationship with Debi had been fine as long as it stayed fun and light, with great sex and pleasant conversation. But as soon as it came time to take that long step out into the unknown—
Nothing he'd done in his life had ever terrified him so much.
So you ran her off. Good going, Fletcher, you amazing dink. Are you going to spend the rest of your life doing this every time someone tries to get close to you?
He was definitely going to spend the rest of his life regretting that moment when Debi had walked out the door.
The question was, how did he fix it? How could he fix it, when he wasn't sure if he'd be able to say "yes" to the one request she'd ever really made of him? He wanted to give her everything she dreamed of, to pamper and treasure her; he wanted to lay his company at her door as a bridal offering. He might not be a lion, but he could hunt like one, and the corporate world was his savannah. He wanted to stalk and bring her the kind of prey that he hunted: corporate mergers dragged home by the neck, companies stalked and brought down, wealth and fine things brought to lay at her feet.
But it wasn't money and nice things she wanted. It was the answer to a simple question: do you trust me this much? And he knew I don't know wasn't an answer she could accept.
So he'd stared at her number on his phone a thousand times, let his finger hover over it ... sometimes even touched it and then quickly slapped the little red icon to disconnect before it could ring.
He agonized for her touch, jerked off in the shower thinking about her, slipped off into daydreams of her vanilla perfume and the infinite softness of her skin, the heat of her mouth and the unexpected strength in her long, powerful body.
But he couldn't even try to fix what had gone wrong between them until he could bring her the offering she wanted most: his trust. Otherwise his apologies would be mere empty words.
Was winning her worth the risk of losing everything else?
"Court case going badly?" Janice asked with warm sympathy, coming in to set a cup of coffee on the edge of his desk.
"What? No ..." He'd been zoning out again, gazing at the paperwork spread out in front of him.
For a moment he thought about spilling the entire story to Janice. He had no one else to talk to about it, and he could really use a sympathetic ear right now.
But no, it wouldn't be appropriate. His office manager already had to deal with enough spillover from her employers' bitter divorce. The last thing he needed was to lay a giant pile of his romantic and legal woes on her too.
Janice touched one of the papers scattered on her side of the desk, rotating it so she could get a clearer look. "Your accountant leaving must have really landed you in a bind, if you're having to file purchase orders from two years ago. Want me to take some of these?"
Fletcher pulled the file back toward himself. "No thanks. I've got it."
Janice nodded and smiled at him. "Well, call me if you need anything else, boss."
"Thanks, Janice. I don't know how I'd get along without you."
She smiled again and left the office.
Fletcher scooped the papers together to make sure there was nothing attention-getting on display. A wave of frustration rose in him. He had to stop himself from sweeping the papers off the desk in fury.
The trouble was, without Debi, none of it seemed to matter. Say he won the court case, got sole title to the company—and then what?
Then you'd have everything you wanted.
Everything he wanted ... except Debi.
And without her, all of it counted for exactly nothing.
Fletcher rose from his desk and went to stand in front of the window, staring out at the Seattle skyline. He'd built himself up from a poor kid in a nothing neighborhood to the master of all he surveyed—or at least it felt like it. Everything he'd dreamed about when he was young and poor was his now: a swanky downtown office, a luxury condo, employees at his beck and call.
But the thing that really mattered had slipped through his fingers because of his determination to hang onto this.
Things.
Stuff.
Was this what his entire life had built up to? The pinnacle, the apex?
Is this what really matters most?
He wished suddenly, with a yearning ache he hadn't felt in years, that he could talk to his father about this. They'd had a conflicted relationship during the years before his father's death. There had never been a time when they weren't close, never a time he had doubted his father's deep
love for him, but at the same time, teenage Fletcher had been struggling beneath the burden of having to take on many of the adult responsibilities in the household while also planning for his own future. And yes, there had been a part of him, a part he'd come to be ashamed of later, that had blamed his father for not being able to provide for his family.
But even as his father's alcoholism and ill health had begun to drive a wedge between them, Fletcher had still been able to go to him for advice. His father might not have been everything that Fletcher aspired to be, but Fletcher had always known that he could count on his father for level-headed advice.
I wish you were here now, Dad. I wish I could tell you about Debi.
I wish you could tell me if I ... if ...
If he'd done the right thing? No. Even asking the question in his head brought its own answer. He hadn't done the right thing. He'd lost Debi because he had put his own reputation, his desire for stuff, above the people who should have been the most important to him.
It had been a long time since Fletcher had relied on anyone other than himself, a long time since he'd asked anyone for advice. And sometimes, when you got too lost in your own head, it was very easy to get lost out here in the real world, too.
If his dad had been here, his dad would have told him what really mattered.
And now Fletcher knew what he had to do.
***
It was much later, in the gray of a damp evening, when Fletcher stopped at the Sperlin estate with his briefcase in hand. This time, he was left to wait in the foyer for almost twenty minutes before Chloe arrived, cool and beautiful in a wine-red blouse with pearls glimmering at her throat. Her hair and understated makeup were impeccable. She wore a frosty lipstick that made her lips look as if they'd been touched with ice.
Here in the Sperlins' gilded entryway, she looked perfectly at home, at one with her luxurious surroundings in a way Fletcher knew he never had been and never would be. It was like a last glimpse of another life, the life he might have had as Chloe's husband—glittering and bright, a life of money and power and wealth.
Regret? A little. But not much.
Stuff. It was all stuff.
"You have a lot of nerve coming by after what you said." Chloe's tone was as chill as her lipstick. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Olivia is upstairs, but if you try to walk out of here with her, I'm calling security."
His heart gave a sharp pang at the knowledge that his daughter was so close and yet so far. But, for a change, he had other priorities. "I'm not here for Olivia, not at the moment. I came here tonight to offer you a deal."
"I have absolutely no interest in any deals that you—"
"I'll give you the company," Fletcher interrupted. "Lock, stock, and barrel, every property, every last nail and scrap of plywood, if you'll agree to joint custody of Olivia. The paperwork is already drawn up. I stopped by my lawyer's first, to make sure everything was in order. It's all in my briefcase right here."
Chloe had stopped speaking with her mouth open. Slowly she closed it and stared at him, her lips pressed into a frosty line. At last she said, "What's the catch?"
Fletcher had to laugh. Now that the offer was made, now that he'd stepped off the cliff, he felt nothing but relief. "There is no catch. I give up. I concede. You win. You can have everything; the only thing I won't give up is Olivia."
Chloe was still staring. "You never give up. You never give in. You never lose. It was always the main thing we had in common. It was what drew me to you in the first place."
"Yeah, well ..." He had to look away. "Maybe I don't want to be that person anymore."
In a strange voice, Chloe said, "This is for her, isn't it?"
Fletcher looked back at her, startled. "What? Who?"
"That blonde accountant." She was looking at him in an open, startled way, as if she'd never seen him before—or perhaps had never seen this side of him. "Did she put you up to this?"
"Hardly," Fletcher said. "She's gone. Walked right out. I don't really blame her; I've had my head pretty far up my own ass for awhile now."
Chloe's lips twitched, a hint of humor beginning to crack the ice. "Well, I'm the last person in the world to argue with that."
Fletcher set the briefcase on an expensive-looking lacquered table in the entryway and removed a file folder that he held out to Chloe. "Here. Take as much time as you need to look over it. I've already signed everything and had copies made. As soon as you sign, it's yours."
Chloe flipped through the top few forms, her brows drawing together in a tiny crease. "You really did it. This is all legal."
"It's a hundred percent legit, Chloe. It's not a trick or a trap."
She flipped another page. "I don't see anything in here about Olivia."
"No, we couldn't add anything about Livvy's custody without getting your lawyers involved as well, and anyway, our daughter isn't a piece of property to be handed over as part of a business deal. For that part, all I can do is ask. I can't compel you, but ..." For the first time, his voice cracked. "Please don't take my little girl away from me."
"Fletcher, I ..." Chloe shook her head and blew out her cheeks. She tapped the edge of the folder against the wall. "Let me think about this, okay? I'm not going to sign anything right off. Just let me sit on this for a day or two and make up my mind."
"Yeah, go ahead. Have your lawyers look at it, make sure everything's in there."
"Oh, trust me, I will." She gave him a peculiar smile. "It is for her, though, isn't it? Your accountant. I wasn't wrong. You did this for her."
"Does it matter?" Fletcher asked. "She's gone. She'll never even know."
"And that's the part that makes it such an appallingly romantic sacrifice. You've just laid down everything you have for her, and she may never even find out about it." Chloe shook her head. "You're a sad country song in human form, Fletcher. But you know what?"
Having started to turn to go, he looked back.
"For what it's worth, I hope you and your accountant work it out." Her frosted lips turned up at one corner, with wry amusement and even a hint of warmth. "She's lucky. Luckier than I ever was. I hope she realizes that, one of these days."
Chapter Thirteen
The trip to Wyoming wasn't supposed to be fun, but somehow, it turned out that way.
In the morning, Nia rescheduled their flight for late the following day, giving them almost two full days for sightseeing. Debi informed her boss at Chang & Luntz that she'd been to the doctor and it probably was the flu, so she'd be out for another couple of days at least. And then they went out to explore Wyoming.
Debi ached to be able to shift and run through the tawny hills, but if that wasn't an option, at least she got to do a bit of hiking in a pair of brand-new hiking boots Nia talked her into buying. ("You'll break an ankle if you try hiking in those heels, and then I'll have to carry you, and I believe we already established you're too big to carry.")
As they sat on a rocky outcropping at the base of a waterfall, with a picnic lunch spread out between them and curtains of spray cooling the air around them as the wind changed direction, Debi said, "Isn't it a bit of an ethical violation to, well, hang out with your parolee like this?"
"If we were human, sure. The rules are a lot more relaxed for the SCB—because there are so few of us, you know. I wouldn't have been assigned to an immediate family member, but fraternization is all right."
Debi thought about Fletcher's problem with the divorce lawyer. It did make it different that shifters were such a small, close-knit community, compared to the much larger and more impersonal human world.
"Candy bar?" Nia asked brightly, holding out a fun-sized chocolate bar.
Debi accepted it. "You know," she said, looking at Nia sitting beside her in the sunshine, "I've never asked you about, well, you. Tell me about Nia Veliz."
Nia, it turned out, was short for Yesenia. Her family was from Chile, though Nia and her sisters had grown up in the U.S. She came from a large extended
family of rodent shifters who were, from the sound of things, scattered throughout the world: cousins in Chile and Peru, an aunt in New Zealand, an uncle working for an oil company in Nigeria.
"It makes family reunions problematic," Nia admitted, taking off her shoes one at a time to roll her ankles and stretch out her toes. She was hiking in the same sneakers she'd worn on the plane. "But I got the best presents for birthdays and Christmas the whole time I was growing up, and loads of postcards. It made me want to travel, but my family couldn't really afford it ... Are your boots chafing at all?"
"A little," Debi admitted. Actually it was more like a lot; she felt like she was getting blisters on both feet.
When they got back to the hotel room that night, Nia flinched as she watched Debi peel off her blood-spotted socks. "Oh, my God. You should have said!"
"It didn't feel that bad."
"Bathroom. Now." Nia made her sit on the edge of the tub and washed her feet with cool water before doctoring them from a tube of Neosporin and Band-Aids that, apparently, she carried everywhere with her, including on domestic jet flights.
"Going for a hike in brand-new boots probably wasn't the best idea," Nia muttered as she worked. "I stand by my earlier statement that you would've been worse off in your power-lunch heels, though."
Debi snorted. "You know this will heal by morning. There's no point in fussing over it."
"Sure it will, but it hurts now. Shifters or not, we're still mortal. Yes, you too, whether you want to admit it or not. Now hush up and let me doctor you."
Debi leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. Letting someone take care of her was both familiar and strange. One of the prerogatives of being a younger sibling in a large family was that she'd rarely had to deal with things on her own, growing up. Someone was always there to hug her, kiss away her hurts, tell her they loved her. There had never been a time when she hadn't been taken care of. And then the pride had shattered, broken by its own hubris—leaving only Debi, alone, to pick up the pieces.
