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Millie sleeps beside me, curled in a ball. I don’t want to wake her so early, and I don’t know if Tiffany is even available. But the last thing I want is for my boss-crush who’s repeatedly saved our bacon taking a freaking Uber or cab.
My gut clenches at his tone, too. The message was weirdly short and to the point.
Something’s wrong.
Nick Brandt sure as hell normally isn’t awake this early requesting rides.
Reese: How early? Let me see if Miss Tiffany can keep Millie.
Nick: I need to be across town by seven. The earlier, the better. Bring Millie if you have to.
Reese: Okay. That gives me a couple hours to work something out. Are you okay?
Nick: Fine.
I frown. My heart stalls as I remember the last time there was so much urgency.
Reese: ...is Beatrice okay?
Nick: Everyone’s fine. I just have a score to settle.
Huh? What score needs settling at four in the flipping morning?
It takes seven calls to get Tiffany to answer.
“Uh—hello?” she answers, still grogged out.
“Tiff, hey, I’m really sorry to bother you like this but I need an after-hours—or I guess before hours—sitter this morning. One of the Brandts has a seven o’clock emergency meeting.”
“No problem.” She perks up. “But the first bus to the office doesn’t run until six. Any chance you can drop her off here? I’ll get her to the playroom with me this morning.”
“Text me the address, and we’ll be on our way. Thanks again—you’re a lifesaver!”
Even though it’s true, my mind wanders to the real lifesaver—the man who hired her, who needs my help for a change.
Nick texts before Tiffany sends her address. Did you get it worked out? We’ll need to pick up my media attorney, too. His driver’s out sick.
God, does no one in Chicago drive themselves anymore? I feel like I’m one of the few people willing to brave city traffic.
I have to drop Millie at Tiffany’s, and I’m not sure what part of town she lives in, I text. I’ll be over as soon as I get her to the sitter. Are you sure you’re okay?
He doesn’t respond until I’m combing Millie’s hair and we’re almost out the door.
Nick: Don’t worry about it. This doesn’t concern you.
Cool. Jack Frost is back.
No problem, grump-zilla, I won’t.
When I get to Nick’s building, he’s already downstairs, stalking to the car before I can send him a text. It’s the fastest he’s ever come out.
“Were you waiting in the lobby?”
He doesn’t answer and slams the door shut. “Head to the Wellter and Schultz firm on Michigan Avenue. As soon, as we pick up this killer, I’ll give you the next address.”
Killer? My eyes flick to his in the rearview mirror.
Those emerald eyes gleam like drawn sabers today. He’s definitely worried about something—and furious.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” I venture.
“Not really,” he throws back.
Oof. I take the hint and raise the privacy screen, which he makes no effort to pull down.
The law firm is roughly fifteen minutes from Nick’s condo.
Fifteen minutes of cutting silence, separation, where I wonder how the stone-cold beast in the back seat can be the same man who made my little niece cocoa and held me like I was made of precious blown glass.
I pull up to the curb, get out, and open the back door. Nick slides over in the back seat, and a man in a black business suit carrying a leather briefcase climbs in beside him.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Brandt. Sorry it’s not under better circumstances.”
“We’ll take care of it, Wellter.” Nick crosses his arms.
Jeez Louise. What is he not telling me?
There’s no chance I’m going to find out with the attorney here. “Where to, bossman?”
“Check your phone,” he says.
It pings a second later with an address. I drive until I recognize the dark skyscraper stabbing at the sky before I’ve even turned into the parking lot.
“Oh, wait. Isn’t this—”
“Osprey Media,” he finishes. His tone is clipped and his jaw clenched.
I let them out at the front door.
“You know the drill.” I try smiling.
Nick nods at me without returning it.
Okay, then.
I’ll wait in the garage. He’ll text me as the meeting ends, and I’ll circle back around to the front.
Knowing this is Osprey’s office, I have a pretty good idea what triggered Nick’s mood. As soon as I’m parked, I pick up my phone and start flicking through social media. I click the first link he’s tagged in.
The Chicago Tea
Loose Leaves & Steaming Updates
Lame tagline alert.
Who reads this crap? Besides Abby, I mean?
I scroll through a dozen half-naked photos of Nick and Carmen on a beautiful beach. They make me wince, but the photos aren’t the worst of it, and soon I find the real problem.
Old text messages. Screenshots. Personal and visceral and embedded in a story with cringe commentary next to it.
Nick: I’ll always be a fuckup, Carmen. I’m Victor and Giselle Brandt’s spawn. Why would anyone expect more?
