Page 73 of Bombshell

“Sterling, tell me now.”

“Nikolai decided to make a little statement,” he says, continuing in a rush when I gasp. “He’s got Sutton, but I have a plan. If you can’t reach me this afternoon, don’t worry.”

“Oh, sure,” I hiss into the phone, hoping none of my colleagues can hear me. “I’ll just hang out here while you play cat and mouse with the Russian mafia. Are you ever not in trouble?”

“I guess not,” he says dryly. “I promise everything is fine. I know exactly who to talk to, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Don’t—”

“Worry,” I finish for him, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I know. I’ll just read a book.”

“Good idea,” he says, missing my sarcasm. “Love you.”

He hangs up before I can respond, and I’m left staring at my desk. I shove my phone back into my bag, feeling a little numb. There’s no way I can concentrate on edits for my first acquisition. I need to lose myself in a book, the way I only can on a first read. I rifle through a stack of possibilities someone’s plopped on my desk looking for one that will sweep me away from this mess, even for a few hours.

Stay there.

We’re going to have a serious talk about ordering me around later. For now, I’m forced to comply. The last thing he needs is for Nikolai to grab me, too. I get the impression he can compartmentalize and handle this like he claims. I’m not so sure he’d be able to do that if I’m involved. Or maybe I’m reading too much into his need to repeatedly tell me I belong to him when we’re in bed. Either way, I’m stuck in the office for the day while my heart and my head are somewhere else. None of the manuscripts in my slush pile grab me, and then it hits me. In all the chaos, I’d nearly forgotten about the secret I found in a locked drawer at the Eaton.

I pull my mother’s manuscript out of my black Louis Vuitton Neverfull tote, Poppy’s congratulations-on-the-new-job gift. Trust her to know how to make me look like a professional, even when I show up to work in a loose, linen sundress without make-up. I need all the help I can get. I’d barely had time to swing by the Eaton, change, and grab the bag by the time I pried myself away from Sterling’s bed. So much has happened in the last two days, I haven’t even looked at it since I found it in the drawer. I can’t believe it’s only been two days. Maybe it’s spending so much time reliving the past with Sterling as we piece together our time apart, but it feels like years since I pried open the locked drawer at the Eaton and found her book. I trail my fingers over the title page, wishing I could unlock more than just the drawer.

My mother wrote a book. I still can’t quite process it. It feels as though I should have known she was a writer. I keep searching my memories for one of her writing or even talking about it. But there’s nothing. No clue. No hint. The most evidence I can scrounge together of her literary leanings is how strongly she encouraged me towards books my whole life.

“What’s that?” Trish interrupts my day dreams, holding a coffee mug emblazoned with the words Bless your heart. You just flipped my bitch switch.

“Sorry,” I say quickly, shoving it to the side. I have a different manuscript I’m supposed to be working on. “It’s personal. I should get back to work.”

“Already cheating on your first book. Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” she teases, tilting her head to read the title page. “MacLaine? Did you write that?”

“My mother,” I say.

“I didn’t know your mother was a writer.”

“Neither did I,” I confess. “I found it.”

“Have you read it?” she asks.

“Not yet.” I stare at it. “Should I?”

Trish sips her coffee thoughtfully. “I would,” she finally answers, “but I’m nosey.”

“So am I,” I say with a laugh. “But I promised you those edits and—”

“Adair, you have weeks to get those edits in,” she stops me, “and if I’m honest, you’ve seemed a bit distracted today. Maybe you should just read it and get it over with.”

“I don’t know that it’s just the book distracting me.” I chew on my lower lip as a mental list of all my current preoccupations starts scrolling through my brain.

“Tell me that your other distraction is six feet of smoldering manhood,” she says in a lowered voice. “I’ve been meaning to ask if he has a brother.”

“A sister,” I say apologetically.

“Is she as hot as he is?” Trish asks.

“She’s gorgeous,” I confirm, “but a bit of a…” I search for a kinder term than bitch that still gets the point across.

“I have not outgrown my bad phase.” Trish grins. “Bad boy. Bad girl. I’m a sucker for them.”

“Let me see what I can do,” I offer. I doubt Sutton will be interested in anyone I try to set her up with, but maybe it will give us something else to talk about. Like it or not, and she definitely doesn’t, I’m going to be a part of Sterling’s life moving forward. A big part. I need to start smoothing over that relationship as soon as possible.

“In the meantime, read the book,” Trish says firmly, taking her mug and wandering over to the front desk to accept a delivery.