Chapter Twenty-Nine

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

EVAN SWIPED HIS MetroCard and pushed through the turnstile, navigating through the throng of passengers hurrying through the underground maze. His body was exhausted from the weekend, but his mind was running a mile a minute. And at the forefront of his thoughts was Reagan.

He felt the loss of her acutely, though he’d dropped her off at her apartment only a half-hour ago with promises to return after he took care of a little personal matter.

Though it wasn’t spoken aloud, the wall between them had crumbled, the bond between them solidifying into something…more. He felt it, felt it in his gut, knew it in his heart. He was fucking done for.

Rubbing his forehead, he yawned and stepped forward as the C train slowed to a stop, and then took a spot inside standing against the opposite doors.

Reagan fucking Spencer. The bombshell who’d taken over his brain these past few months, the one he’d done everything, and he did mean everything, to get a fucking release from. The fiery, independent woman who didn’t do relationships or second dates or weekends away with a member of the opposite sex. And she was crazy about him. Wanted to hold his hand while he drove the nine hours back to Manhattan. Wanted him in her bed tonight. Was willing to try with him even knowing every fucking one of his faults.

He wasn’t about to complain, but he did wonder if maybe she’d lost her damn mind.

The thought had him grinning, and as he looked up, he caught his reflection in the window. It was such a marked difference from the last time he remembered seeing what he’d become through the grimy glass of a subway car. Was he really the man staring back at him? The one who smiled, the one with a great job, money in the bank, and an incredible woman who wanted to be by his side? Fuck, but he wanted to be. He hoped he was. The broken man looking for a quick alley fuck was someone he didn’t recognize in that reflection, but it scared him that he was still inside somewhere, lurking deep down, ready to strike and take over at a moment’s notice.

Fuck off. One day at a time. I’m taking it one fucking day at a time.

But there was something else on his mind. Or someone else, rather. There were questions he couldn’t get out of his head, and only one person could answer them.

When he reached his stop, he exited the train and took the stairs leading above ground two at a time. He’d never been to this destination specifically, but he was familiar enough with the area. This part of Brooklyn felt like suburbia compared to the rush of his neighborhood. It was quiet here, and the occupants of the brownstones were occupied by the age group that loved to tend to the small gardens they kept in the boxed backyards, and the fruits of their green thumbs lined the stoops.

He pulled out the paper Reagan had written the address on, and double-checked the house number before walking up the stairs to number fourteen thirty-seven. Taking a deep breath, he knocked twice, and then waited, an unexpected rush of nerves shooting through his stomach.

And as the door opened, he came face to face with the man who knew far more about him than he’d ever expected.

Bill gave him a warm smile when he opened his front door. “I thought I might be hearing from you.”

“I have questions.”

“Then you might wanna come inside,” Bill said, holding the door open wide. “I’ve got answers.”

* * *

REAGAN STOOD AT the bottom of the wide stairs that led up to the most beautifully restored brownstone on the street, and looked back at the Hudson River. She’d been here before. Well, not here exactly, but she’d stood on the opposite side of the street and watched Evan vacate this building once before.

It was gorgeous and slightly intimidating in the way it towered up toward the sky. Tangled vines of ivy trailed up the staircase railing, and as she clutched the strap of her handbag and took a fortifying breath, Reagan reminded herself that she was there for a good reason. She wasn’t being nosy, nor was she being invasive, in her opinion. She was there to make sure that the man who she’d fallen in love with was not going to break her heart.

But how realistic is that? Can I really expect Evan’s therapist to talk to me? And if so, will he tell me what I want to hear? These were the thoughts that’d been running through her head on the way back from North Carolina.

Her weekend away with Evan had been enlightening. Enlightening and life changing. She’d gone from a woman who was hellbent on taking things slow and getting their relationship back to a “friendlier” place, to one who had fallen head over heels.

Evan James was in her soul. She’d tried in vain to push him aside, to forget about him and how he made her feel. But after eighteen hours trapped in a car with the man, and the hours they’d spent rolling around in the hotel bed together, it was no use. He was forever ingrained there. Every part of him tugged at her heart: the man anguished over his lost childhood, the dark, desperate side of him he tried to squash down, and the charming professional he was—it all called to something in her. Something forbidden that made her feel just as needy as he was whenever they touched.

She loved this man. As broken, damaged, and fucked up as he may be. She loved him. Which is why she was here.

Making her way up the stairs, she swallowed back the lump of fear she could feel in her throat and rang the doorbell. She turned away from the large double door, and stared back across at the spot on the street where Evan had tricked her into going speed-dating with him. That was the night she’d seen beneath the darkness for the first time. He’d been fun, carefree, and even managed to get the upper hand on her, which rarely happened. His boyish charm had resurfaced that night, and she’d been powerless against it.

The sound of a door handle being turned had her spinning back to see a man in his early fifties standing in the open doorway. He was wearing casual, light-colored slacks and a thin black knit sweater, and his dark hair was peppered with flecks of grey. He smiled at her in greeting, and the warmth of it made Reagan automatically return the gesture.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Reagan regretted showing up there.

“Um…you know what, I think I have the wrong house,” she rushed out, and headed back down the steps.

“Wait…miss, just one second.”

She slowly turned back to face the man at the top of the stairs, feeling like an idiot.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“No. No, you don’t know me.”

“May I ask your name?”

Reagan hesitated, wondering how much he knew. Had Evan mentioned her? She was almost positive he had. Yeah, this was a stupid, stupid decision.

The man’s forehead creased, and he asked, “Are you all right?”

Oh fuck it.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” She took a tentative step back onto the stoop. “I’m Reagan Spencer, and I’m not really sure what I’m doing here.”

If the man was aware of who she was, his face didn’t betray that knowledge. “Sure you do. Why don’t you come inside? I’ve made a hot pot of tea.”

“You mean you don’t serve alcohol?”

“You know,” he said, “I was just asked that same question recently.” As Reagan reached the top of the staircase, he held out his hand. “Michael Glover.”

She gave him a firm handshake. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“And it’s very nice to meet you, Reagan. Come on in.” He held the door open for her to pass through and then led her to a tidy kitchen, more long than it was wide, and motioned for her to sit down at a circular glass table.

“Cream and sugar okay?” he said when he brought out an ornate teapot and matching cups.

“Yes, thank you. Cute set you have there.”

“They’re my wife’s,” he said, pouring some of the steaming liquid into Reagan’s cup. “I stole her away from England, but she wouldn’t leave without her fine china. No doubt she’ll have another set when she gets back from seeing her family this week.” He set down the pot and took the seat across from Reagan. “So, Ms. Spencer. What brings you by?”

Reagan stirred the sugar in her mug until it dissolved, and then looked up. “You know who I am.”

Not a question. A statement.

Again, Dr. Glover’s face gave nothing away. “Why would you assume that?”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

He took a long sip of his tea, and when he put it down, he looked at her expectantly.

“Of course not,” she said. “Well, your client, Evan James, is a…close, personal friend of mine.”

He didn’t blink.

“And I was wondering. Hoping, really, that you could…” Could what, exactly? What the hell do I expect him to tell me? She rubbed her forehead and blew out a breath. “I need you to tell me I’m not making a massive fuck-up of my life by falling for your client.”

* * *

EVAN WANDERED INSIDE past Bill and made his way down the narrow hall. Bill shut the door behind him and followed as Evan took in the cozy surroundings of a well-lived-in home. As he stopped in the living room and spotted the bar off to the side, he immediately felt comfortable.

This was Bill. From the well-worn recliner, to the fireplace with photos of friends and… Wait a minute. Evan walked over to the mantel and picked up a framed image. The woman staring back at him was like a ghost from his past. She certainly wasn’t the same woman he’d seen just this weekend, but as he turned to face his boss, Bill gave him a smile that was filled with as much joy as sadness.

“Your mother was an extremely beautiful lady.”

Evan lowered his eyes back to the image to see a young Bill, dressed smartly in a suit and tie with his mother on tiptoe kissing his cheek. Her hair was free and flowing behind her, as though the wind had caught it in its fingers, and behind them was the spectacular view from the top of the Empire State Building. The photo could’ve been taken professionally, it was so well captured, but Evan somehow knew—

“Did my father take this?”

Bill ambled around the recliner and took a seat before replying, “Yes, he did. We were close back then. Your parents and me.”

Evan’s eyebrow winged up as he cocked his head to the side. “How close? I mean, we are talking the seventies here—there wasn’t any—”

“No, no.” Bill chuckled. “Not like that. At least not with your father.”

The silence that stretched between them was tense, and Evan ran his finger down the side of the frame as he thought about his next question. Did he really want to get into this? What if he learned something he didn’t want to? Would that make him spiral back to old habits?

He was almost scared to continue. He didn’t want anything to fuck up this new version of himself. The version Reagan deserved.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Bill suggested.

“No, I think I’d rather stand.”

“For a quick getaway? It’s not like I could chase you down,” he said, and then indicated his leg.

Instead of laughing at the genial man seated, Evan turned away. He wasn’t sure how he felt about what Bill had just revealed, even though he’d suspected it ever since his mother had brought it up back at the prison.

“So you and my mom—” He stopped and looked over his shoulder at Bill. “You were what? Fucking behind my father’s back?”

Bill’s mouth opened, but before he could continue, Evan blurted, “He is still my father, right?” He was almost hopeful for a second that Bill would say no. Yeah, ’cause that would make your life easier, moron.

“Yes, yes. He’s definitely your father, Evan. Your mother and I didn’t start seeing each other until the last couple of years before—”

“Before they both got carted off to prison?” Evan supplied, when Bill seemed hesitant to say the actual words.

“Yes. Before then. You see, we were very close, Evan, all three of us. We were talking about going into partnership with one another, but your father had some ideas that I wasn’t onboard with.”

“Like pillaging from your unsuspecting clients.”

“Well, we didn’t know about those dealings until much later on.”

“We? Are you saying my mother wasn’t involved?”

Bill leveled his gaze on Evan. “She wasn’t involved.”

“The justice system would beg to disagree.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time it was wrong. Not that she was innocent by the end of it all. When she—we found out about the schemes your father had been conducting behind our backs, she tried to leave him. She knew he was a ticking time bomb, and she didn’t want that to be your lives.”

“But?”

“But your father can be quite…conniving. When he found out she was planning to divorce him, he blackmailed her into staying.”

“And how did he do that?”

Bill shook his head. “That’s neither here nor there, and it’s not my place to say.”

“So it wasn’t because my father found out about you two?”

“Not entirely. Though he wasn’t exactly pleased when he found out.”

Evan rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hand. Bill, the friendly, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly Bill, wasn’t as innocent as he would’ve guessed. His mind was spinning with the revelations, but before he could try to fill in the gaps in the story, Bill continued.

“I guess there are a few more questions you’d like answered. Yes, I still talk to your mom. I was fond of her then; I’m fond of her now. She’s curious about her son, always has been, which I’m sure you can understand. You don’t check in with her much.”

“So you’re spying on me?”

“Looking out for you would be more like it.”

Evan scoffed. “Let me guess, you were the one behind my first car? The scholarships I received for college? You’re the one who’s saving me from rock bottom by giving me a job. Thanks. Really. I appreciate you throwing money my way like a fairy fucking godfather, but did it ever occur to you that maybe a little moral support would be more useful?”

“What was I supposed to do? Some strange man comes to you when you’re ten, wanting to be a father figure to you? I helped you in the only way I knew how. You were in good hands with your grandparents. Your scholarships were all you. Hell, this job is all you. You want to blame any personal problems on anyone else, and I’ll slap that notion right down. Be responsible for your own choices, Evan, and don’t blame the way you were raised on the effects of bad decisions.”

“Sounds like I’m not the only one who’s made some really bad decisions.”

Bill pursed his lips and nodded. “And I pay for that every day. Maybe it’s time we both start making some good decisions.”

“Such as?”

“Reagan. She’d be one of the best decisions you ever made, son.”

Fuck, he’s right about that one. Looks like he’s not done looking out for me yet.

* * *

REAGAN CHEWED THE inside of her cheek as she stared across the table at the stoic therapist. He hadn’t said a word in the past five minutes, and she knew that because she’d been watching the clock just over his shoulder.

Cagey bastard.

She raised her teacup to her lips and took a sip, trying to remember the manners her mother had instilled within her and the fact that she was a lady. Otherwise, she’d have dumped it on the table, stood up, and demanded he tell her what the fuck he knew. But…she was a lady. And she was going to have to weave her way through this conversation as though walking through a maze.

Placing the cup back on the saucer, she settled into the chair, hoping for nonchalance as she racked her mind on how to bring up a topic she knew he wasn’t allowed to discuss.

“So,” she started, and that damn eyebrow of his arched up, halting her before she began. “You’re kind of intimidating. Anyone ever told you that?”

“Intimidating?” Dr. Glover said. “I have been called many things in this house, some that aren’t polite to repeat in front of a lady, but intimidating isn’t one.” He leaned to the side, placed his teacup down, and then rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his chin. “Why do you feel intimidated? You aren’t a client of mine. You can say whatever you please.”

Reagan resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He was such a…doctor. And it was clear he was used to talking his clients in a circle until they confessed, admitted, or whatever they did when they came to see him.

“Look, I know you can’t tell me anything, but I don’t want to be…oh, I don’t know, leaping the hell off this bridge with someone who might not jump with me.” She stopped, thought about that, and then shook her head. “Okay, no, that sounds wrong. I don’t want Evan…I mean your client to jump off buildings with me. But metaphorically speaking—”

“I like metaphors,” the doctor interrupted.

“Do you? Oh good. Well, umm…let’s just pretend something for a minute, is that okay? Surely you role-play in here all the time.”

When Dr. Glover’s lips twitched, Reagan wanted to kick her own ass. Why did everything sound ridiculous coming out of her mouth right now? Because you’re nervous. A nervous fool in love.

“Say you were a vet, and I brought my dog to see you. But I’ve never had a dog before, and I want to know what brand of dog food to feed him. I ask you what you feed your dog instead of asking you what you recommend, because I know you can’t flat-out tell me and show bias. So then you would say…” She knew the expression on her face must have been stuck somewhere between hopeful and ridiculous, but she figured what the hell at this stage.

The doctor sat back in his chair and nodded as he seemed to ponder her question. “I see. Well, I would feed my dog Science Diet dog food.”

“No, no.” Reagan sighed, waving her hand in the air. “I don’t actually mean—”

“Ms. Spencer?”

Reagan shut her mouth. He was probably about to tell her to quit rambling about dog food, and get the hell out of his house.

“If I had a daughter, and not a dog, and a certain young man came into her life that she wanted approval to pursue, I would tell her to follow her heart but use her head.”

Reagan sat forward on the seat and felt as though the heart that was really under discussion, her own, was about to thump right out of her chest.

“So you think there’s hope here—I mean, hope for your daughter?”

Dr. Glover gave her a smile and stood. When she did the same, he held out his hand to her and she took it. His warm fingers wrapped around hers, a comfort in his grip, and when he said, “There’s always hope,” Reagan believed him.