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More pieces of Everett fall into place. It makes sense how he could go from a traumatic event like that to wanting to be a bodyguard. To wanting to know how to protect himself and others. He reaches for salt, smoked paprika, and pepper.
“I’m so sorry, Ev,” I say.
He braces himself against the counter and sighs, then looks up at me with a hint of tears catching the light.
A wave of tenderness crashes over my soul. I want to hug him so tight, to heal him where he’s hurting. I wish it was my role to console him, to embrace him, to be there for him. I may be his “wife,” but I still don’t have license to act like it.
Everett pushes away from the counter and moves to the stove, talking to me over his shoulder. “Things were strained in our family from a young age. Dad had a golden path for me, to be ready to take over as CEO once I had my MBA. There was a timeline and everything down to the month.”
“You were meant to be CEO of Lourden Luxuries?” Although it sounds strange at first, I could see it. Everett has such a commanding presence, yet he’s likable and easy to talk to. He’d probably be amazing at running a company like Lourden.
Everett shakes his head, raising his voice over the hiss of butter hitting the skillet. “I never wanted it, it was just my dad’s dream. Once I pieced together what he was doing, I decided to cut myself off from my parents, especially from him and his money and his plans for me.”
“But…” I start, not knowing where I want to go with my sentence. Everett pours the egg mixture into the pan with another wide hiss and uses a flat whisk to stir it.
I should just stop talking at this point, let him be. He folds the whisk through the eggs until they cook into a fluffy pile of creamy goodness. Everett puts some sourdough in the toaster, chops chives to sprinkle on top of the eggs, and brings two plates of eggs and toast over, setting one down in front of me with a fork.
I take a bite, closing my eyes and savoring the flavors of a dish as simple as scrambled eggs, but prepared to perfection.
“Good?” he asks.
“The best,” I murmur in response. I’ve died and gone to culinary heaven, but I feel that way every time Everett makes me food.
We don’t say a word until we finish every speck of food on our plates. I wash the dishes and let the soapy, hot water soothe my senses, leaving Everett to his own thoughts.
Without my asking, he comes over and takes a dish towel from the front of the stove and starts plucking items out of the drying rack, wiping them down, and putting them away. He moves next to me, silent and sure, just far away enough that we don’t even brush up against each other.
The way we’ve just shared secrets, the way we’re going through sadness and loss and pain together is special, and I’m overwhelmed by how right it feels. But the secrets also hurt, like pushing on a deep bruise. At least we have each other right now, we’re not alone. For how much longer though? My chest goes tight as I fight to keep my emotions at bay.
When the last dish is dried and put away, Everett leans back against the counter alongside me, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I did not know my dad was a mole. Everything I thought I knew…it throws it on its head. I wish I could talk to him, get some closure, but…” he trails off as emotion takes over his voice.
“Ev,” I say, taking a few small steps closer to his side. I have to hug him. I have to. He’s my friend and I love him and he’s hurting and there’s no one left to hug him but me. As a friend.
I hesitantly ease my arm around his waist, watching to make sure he doesn’t flinch, that a side hug is the right thing right now. He puts his arms around my shoulders, leans his head to rest on top of mine. His body relaxes until we’re both holding each other.
We’ve never stood like this before, but we fit perfectly. The heat running down the side of me that’s pressed to him makes my body hum with awareness. I can hear his heartbeat and I hope he can’t tell how my own heart is trying to run away. It’s just a hug from a friend.
Who happens to be my husband.
“Let’s go see what we find in the safe,” he says.
CHAPTER 8
The high-tech family safe used to be in my parents’ closet. My small selection of jewelry sat alongside Mom’s diverse array of bracelets, necklaces, and earrings, all encrusted with rubies, emeralds, pearls, and sapphires. Dad’s diamond cufflink collection took up a whole shelf in the steel box.
But after they died, I didn’t want to have to walk through their room just to access it. Their room is frozen in time. Their clothes hang in the closet, their perfume and cologne sit on the dresser, the book Mom was reading is on her nightstand with a bookmark near the half-way point. I don’t like to go in there anymore.
I swing open the double doors to my own closet and stare at the wall opposite me, where the family safe is now mounted. I’ve added my own expensive watches to it, but otherwise everything is the same. It’s coded to biometrics for my dad, my mom, and me.
Everett and I stand in front of the safe, arms crossed, looking at the metal box a little bigger than a microwave. Everett studies it with an experienced eye. “I was here when you moved this. There wasn’t anything suspicious.”
What if Dad was wrong? What if he’s delusional?
“Do you have a scanner with x-ray vision that you can wave over it to find a heat pattern or something?” I ask.
Everett chuckles at my suggestion. “I’m no Ethan Hunt.”
