Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

LANDON

" W hat's all this?" Ethan asks the following day when he walks into the office to find me intently studying a noticeboard I've covered in printouts.

"The Bear is owned by a man who has never owned any previous businesses, has a clean police record, and has never been in any other trouble. Except he's a childhood friend of Damon O'Connell's."

"Right …" Ethan puts his briefcase on his desk and prepares for the day. "The Bear is that bar?"

"Damon O'Connell is the patriarch of an Irish mob family," I go on.

"The mob?" Ethan says, his tone suddenly taut. "That pro bono work has mob connections?"

"Damon O'Connell," I say, ignoring the disgust in his voice, "has been seen in public with two separate cartel leaders, both of whom have been known to dabble in using children either as drug mules or … worse."

I can't say the second bit, and Ethan doesn't need me to. He steeples his fingers and stares at me coldly across the office. "You realize we've got a day full of meetings booked from …" He checks his gold watch. "Now until seven p.m."

"Yeah," I grunt. Not years, months . The doctor's office called me again this morning, but I let it go to voicemail. I'll have to face this at some point, just not right now. "So what?"

"So … is your head in the game? I don't need to use the M-word with you, do I?"

He says it in his usual bantering way. For a couple of years, that has been our catchphrase. Whenever we're working late nights or frantically trying to get our next task done, we'll look at each other and say, "Millions, brother, millions …" That's what we're dealing with these days, but it seems so hollow suddenly. Or maybe it always did, and this news dragged my true feelings out. Still, I've got a responsibility. I can't leave him in the lurch.

I force a smirk on my face. "Nah, no need. Let's do this."

He smiles, clearly relieved.

I take out my phone and shoot off a quick text. What are you doing tonight? I won't be able to meet until around 8, but I have some news about The Bear.

Her reply comes quickly. That makes me even more confident she's got no clue about the romantic angle—the desire that initially triggered my texting. If this were even a bit romantic, surely she'd wait before texting me back as petty revenge for me leaving her on read for so long.

Instead, she writes, News about The Bear? I can't wait to hear it!

And I can't wait to see her. I've got months, not years. Months to follow my desire. Months finally to seize what I want instead of thinking, " There's always tomorrow. " Not for me anymore.

I can pick you up, I reply.

"You sure you're good?" Ethan asks me toward the end of the day as we're both getting ready to leave.

"I'm fine," I grunt. "We did everything we needed to."

"I know." He sighs. "Two years we've been working on that settlement. We finally get the all-clear today and then nothing."

The phrase all-clear brings to mind my other news.

"You know we can talk," he says as he packs things into his briefcase. "If something's wrong …"

"I'm fine," I tell him. "Really. Let me know if I seem off in meetings, and I'll make adjustments."

He sighs again. I'm purposefully looking down at my desk so he doesn't read me, but I can feel him staring at me from across the office. I can sense all the things he probably wants to say. I'm not usually the most cheerful guy around, but I'm never a buzzkill. I'm always able to hide any bad moods which grip me.

"Okay, brother," he says. "Well … see you tomorrow."

Walking out to the parking lot, I listen to my latest voicemail. "Mr. Cross, it's of the utmost importance that we schedule this specialist appointment as soon as possible."

I end the voicemail, gritting my teeth. I don't want to learn all the different ways my body has turned against me. I don't want to hear the case the cancer is making against my life. Tomorrow, I promise myself. I'll call and make arrangements tomorrow, do the mature thing, and make a reasonable choice.

But now, I want to see Lily.

As I drive through the city, I don't overthink this desire. It's difficult to remember her as the small, shy girl she was anyway. Mostly, I can recall the desperate look in her eyes, the way she stared at me with saucer-wide eyes as if I was the only person who could save her. She had that glint of determination even back then.

I pull up outside her new apartment building in a superior area of the city. After shooting her a text letting her know I'm here, I lean back and compose myself. I have to remember that this is a business meeting, sharing info. Two warriors in the fight against the darkness this city can inflict on people.

When I spot her walking across the street, an alarm goes off in my head. Now-or-never-now-or-never . I push the thought as far down as I can get it. It's that damn C-word. It's that damn doctor. He has me feeling on edge, like I have to act now. Yet even if I did, where would it lead? What would it mean? So much for not overthinking.

I climb out of the car and walk to the passenger side, trying not to take too much notice of her outfit. She's wearing a casual dress with a light sweater over her shoulders. Her hair is down today, framing her face in an endearing, beautiful, impossible-not-to-note way.

"Thank you," she murmurs when I open the door for her.

"No problem …"

As I return to the driver's seat, I try not to notice her bare legs, the thickness, how perfect they look. I want to grab them, massage them slowly, and make her feel every subtle movement until she's gasping and moaning right on the edge of a release.

"It's not far," I tell her. "I've got my files in the back."

I'm looking at the road, so it's difficult to be sure, but I think I see her shoulders slump out of the corner of my eye, almost like she's disappointed I'm making this about work right away. "Oh … good."

"How did your mom react when you told her you'd run into me?"

"I didn't," Lily murmurs. "Honestly, she hates talking about before she got clean. I think she feels as if everything was her fault. It doesn't matter if I tell her she's wrong. She was a good mom despite everything. He was the problem."

"That's a mature perspective," I say, "but I shouldn't be surprised. You thought the same back then. You were determined to stay with your mom."

"I knew she was a good person in a bad place, that's all."

"That's one hell of an insight for a girl in your spot," I tell her.

"Yeah, well, maybe I've always been a genius." She laughs, then says, "That was a joke, but clearly not very funny."

She's talking about the fact I didn't laugh. As we stop at a red light, I turn to her with a smirk. Her hands are resting on her legs, almost like she's trying to draw attention to her flawless shape.

"Maybe I don't see it as a joke."

She rolls her eyes. "So I'm a genius, then, am I, Mr. Cross?"

"See, you remembered my surname. You must have a next-level intellect."

"Ha ha ," she says, slapping my arm. She quickly snatches her hand back when we make contact, and then the light changes, so I'm forced to focus on the road.

The moment seems to hold more meaning. The warmth and sensation of her touch lingers on my arm, sizzling through my body. Months, not years … "Months" is so vague. It could be as few as two. I may only have sixty days to take the chances I never took before, to stop being so reserved and cautious, always making intelligent decisions, weighing the pros and cons.

"Have you had a busy day?" she asks.

"Yeah, meetings, meetings, and more meetings."

"It must be tough working with so many depressing cases, huh?"

I glance at her when I hear the hitch in her voice. She looks back at me with compassion in her eyes, with true meaning in her expression. That's when it hits me. She thinks I do this charity-style work all the time. She thinks it's my main job. I hope I've got it wrong, but I don't think I have. Even worse, I don't correct her.

"Coming from you, that means a lot," I say.

"I argue with my boss about this," she replies. "I always tell him we shouldn't have to be miserable. If we build a wall between work and our home life, we should be able to stay sane. He thinks I'm just green."

"Hmm," I mutter.

"What do you think?" She's so bubbly, so animated. It's so damn attractive. I think I finally understand when people describe others as magnetic .

"I think it can wear on a person," I say. "Sometimes, a person has to choose their own sanity." That's the excuse I've given myself repeatedly for letting the pro bono work slide. "It also depends on the person. Not everybody is built like you."

"Like me?"

"Naturally optimistic. With a natural desire to do right. Forgiving. Caring. Determined."

I need to chill. Months, not years …

"You can tell all that about me, can you?"

"I saw it ten years ago, Lily," I say. "Now, I can just see that nothing's changed."

Her smile is all the reward a man could ever want. She turns away, looking out the window, almost embarrassed by the praise. "Yeah, yeah …"

"No need to act surprised. You must hear that all the time."

"I just try to focus on one task, then the next, then the next. Any big-picture stuff always makes my head spin."

"Your boyfriend probably lets you know plenty." I throw the word "boyfriend" out before I can think twice about it.

"Oh, boyfriend? No time for that."

I nod. "Yeah, you must be really busy."

"Beyond busy. I've got no time for boyfriends or to even think about boyfriends."

This is where I should receive her hint—well, not even a hint —loud and clear, but I don't. All I can think of is that our lives are short. If we don't think we have time for something or somebody, we should make time.