Page 80 of Wicked Fortune

He’s just a good man, hurt by reality and by circumstances that he can’t go back and change.

“You’ve been a rock through all of this,” I tell him one evening as we’re snuggled together on the sofa in the treehouse. The video screen is down, and we’ve paused The Thomas Crown Affair, a movie we both love, so that we can read the latest report from Homeland on Matthew’s phone.

He looks at me. “A rock? No, baby, you’ve been my rock. My strength. My port in a storm. Call it whatever you like, but I couldn’t have gotten through this without you.”

He presses his lips to my forehead. “I love you,” he whispers, and I sigh with pleasure. He’s told me that so often since that night in the limo, but hearing it tonight brings tears to my eyes.

My smile is watery as I say, “It sounds silly because you’re only doing what should be done, but I’m so proud of how you’ve handled all this. I mean, you’ve stepped up so much more than so many people would.”

“No, I⁠—”

I press a finger to his lips. “Yes. You’ve helped the authorities, you haven’t spouted bullshit to the public, and you’ve put money and your own time into helping. What Elias Trent did wasn’t your fault.”

I squeeze his hand and keep my finger on those gorgeous lips. “But the way you handled it was your choice. And the fact that you’re the kind of man who would make those choices is one of the reasons I love you, too.”

“I’ve made a lot of choices in my life,” he says, his voice tinged with something dark. “Trust me when I say that not all of them would win your approval.”

I shrug. “Not the point,” I say, though the truth is I’m curious about that past that he holds in such disdain.

As if he’s read my mind, his mouth quirks into a half smile, and he offers a tiny shrug. “But no matter what I’ve done before, I do think I’ve taken the right path on this.”

“You did,” I say. “You helped so much. From funding rescue operations to rehab centers and all the rest.”

“It was the right thing to do,” he says. “And the good karma can’t hurt, either, right? Balancing the scale. Making up for my checkered past.”

He says it as a joke, but I can’t shake the feeling that he means it. That he truly believes there’s something horrible he has to make up for.

“Like what?” Bree asks the next morning as we’re sipping our Sunday lattes at Blue Bottle—a tradition we used to share with Jenny. I tear off a piece of chocolate chip cookie and munch on it. It may only be ten, but it’s never too early for cookies.

“I’m not sure,” I admit.

“Maybe he feels guilty. Hardline’s his baby, and that monster Trent was operating right under his nose.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” I tell her. “He’s done so much and been so open with the media. I think it’s something far removed from the trafficking.”

“Hmm.” She sips her coffee. “Well, this is just gossip, but there’s always been a lot of buzz about the way he built Hardline. Shady deals. Less than conventional financing. Some folks say that his start-up capital was dicey, and that’s why he’s never gone public. Doesn’t want anyone looking too closely.” She shrugs. “I don’t know if anything was illegal per se. More likely he managed to cut through the usual paperwork and just bulldozed his way onto the scene.”

“But that’s ambition, isn’t it? I mean, unless you’re saying he stole money or committed fraud or something.”

She just shrugs. “I’m not saying anything. Rumors are rumors and the ones I’ve heard are so vague I can’t remember the details. But maybe this whole thing has made him think about how Hardline came into being.” She shrugs. “Although it hardly matters now. Hardline’s been a hit-making machine for years. Any funny business about financing would have taken place long ago.”

We share a glance. We both know that long ago doesn’t make anything okay.

I eat the last bite of cookie, then wash it down with my latte. “You might be right. He’s in the spotlight now for owning what Trent was doing at Hardline and using all his resources to try and make it right for the victims. So maybe he’s feeling guilty about whatever he did—or didn’t do—back when he was getting his start.” I shrug. “You think?”

She cocks her head. “You want to know what I really think?”

“Duh. Yes.”

“I think the only way you’ll know is to ask him.”

“Well, fuck,” I say, then sit back in my chair. “If he did do dicey stuff back in the day, he’s not going to want to tell me.”

“Yeah, but if it’s eating him up, he needs to get it out of his system. Be his sounding board. Remind him that you love him. Maybe wait a few days to ask. In the meantime, touch him a lot. And sex,” she adds with a mischievous smile. “Lots and lots of sex.”

I laugh. “That’s why we’re friends. I like the way you think.” She lifts her hand for a high five, and I give it a nice smack before saying, “There’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

“Yeah?” She glances up, frowns, then shifts her chair, trying to get back in the shade of the umbrella as the sun continues to move across the sky. “I’m all ears.”