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It’s evident he sees his mom and sisters—the ones he couldn’t save—in every woman who comes to us. And he does it all with a smile on his face.
I suck as a human being in comparison, which is why I add, “Your self-assessment pisses me off. But if that’s what you think—that you can’t look yourself in the mirror, that you wouldn’t even try to be with someone—then why shove this shit with Celeste down my throat?”
He taps a nervous finger on his mahogany desk. “Because I thought I saw a spark between you two—on both sides. And if there’s even the slimmest chance that she could make you half as happy as Ivy makes Wells, then I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t do everything in my power to make sure you got out of your own damn way.”
I bend forward, resting my elbows on my knees, head in my hands. “She’s got me so fucked up. It’s been a lot thrown at me really fast.”
“Maybe,” he muses. “But you were irritating the hell out of each other when she was here in July—in a way that made zero sense outside of sexual tension. And you’ve always thought Celeste was gorgeous, way back when she was just the sidekick to the High Society redhead we were surveilling.”
“Yeah.” I did always notice her, but who wouldn’t? I also knew I wasn’t the kind of guy a girl like Celeste went for—which is the kind of bullshit I am too old to put up with—so it was never more than a passing gawk.
He chews the inside of his cheek—a terrible habit he resorts to when fretting, like he’s chomping away his demons. “I’m not pressuring, man, but time isn’t on your side. She’s being shoved in another direction. You either change her route soon or you let her go.”
I’m not sure it’s that dire, but she does have a date tonight, so he has a point. My hands cramp at the thought. Fortunately, my building anxiety is interrupted.
A few soft taps on the door alert us that Ivy is here. She has a lighter touch than the rest of us.
“C’mon in, High Society.”
She swings it open with a megawatt grin. “Yay. You’re both here,” she says, waddling over and cautiously lowering herself onto the couch beside me. When she catches me biting back a laugh, she jabs her finger into my bicep. “Don’t say a damn word.”
I hold up surrendering hands. “About what?”
She falls into me and wraps her arms around my waist. “Better.”
“I told you I’d handle things today, Freckles,” Ty scolds.
“You say that every day, and as I keep reminding you and Wells, there is no reason to cover me. I’m pregnant, not incapacitated,” she counters, but she isn’t moving from her cozy slump in my arms.
Keeping my amusement in check, I squeeze her against me. “I have a gift for you.”
Her chin snaps up, dancing blue eyes. “Is it good?”
“Aren’t all presents good? It’s the thought that counts, right?” I quip.
“Liam.” Her eyes flutter in exasperation. “I’m in no condition to deal with your beating around the bush. Give it to me.”
“Must be nice. Getting mad at us for taking care of you one minute and then using this pregnancy as an excuse when it’s convenient,” I tease and pull my head back because it looks like she might strike me.
Ty laughs.
She makes a weak attempt at jostling my leg but gives up quickly. “Knitting a human permits hypocrisy. My patience is thinning.”
“Fine. While it isn’t a direct relation, it seems Oliver Jensen is connected to Johnny Balzano.”
She springs up straight, hand under her belly. “Shut the front door!”
“Shut the front door?” I question, chuckling.
“Language, blockhead.” She winks, glowing. “Tell me more.”
“Johnny Balzano has a stepsister, Glenda, who is married to Sean Welch. Sean’s sister is Maeve Welch—married name Jensen—Oliver’s mommy,” I explain, leaving out that Pruitt Lancaster is Sean Welch’s grandson. No need for that yet. “They aren’t actually related, but it’s odd that Balzano never mentioned the association when you discussed the candidates with the chairs.”
There are five seats on KORT, representing different families, secret societies, organizations. Ivy and Wells each hold one and get along fine with two of the other seat holders. But Johnny Balzano is the one chair that Ivy doesn’t jive with. He fights her on everything. And he’s as slimy as they come, so she’s not a fan of his either.
“What are you thinking?” she asks, her brain clearly already noodling what this could mean.
“No idea yet,” I tell her honestly. “It may be nothing, but I have a hunch it’s something big. First thing I’d do is get O’Reilly to show you any files he has on Jensen from his early days. I know you’ve questioned him before, but not in light of this information. Maybe there’s something there. A link to Balzano. A shady donation. I’d keep dear old Johnny in the dark about our discovery until we know more.”
