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23
Damen drained his glass. Waited for her to do the same. Then he gave them each a beverage refresh, taking his time, buying them some time.
She was agitated and confused, and he was wise enough—compassionate enough—to give her wide berth. To not crowd her, not press her.
And to very particularly not state some obvious notions that lingered on the tip of his tongue.
Such as the fact that she had to have known all along, the way he had, that the hijacking of her computer could lead to the corruption of her personal data.
He didn’t believe the suspicion, the regret, he’d expressed was a newsflash to her.
Chances were good, however, she’d been in denial this whole time. Wishing and hoping for the best. Resistant to contemplating any other outcome.
She’d confessed to working with desired results in her profession, so it was entirely possible she’d mentally contended what her desired result was when it came to her laptop—that it’d remain fully intact. And she’d not allowed any other alternate ending to enter her mind.
The power of suggestion.
This concept aggravated him further, because if it was one she truly was operating under, then he’d just shot to hell her positive affirmation.
Planted doubt in her mind.
Tainted her optimistic view.
“Goddamn it,” he murmured as he twisted the cap back on the whisky bottle.
“What?” she asked, cautiously. “Something else you’ve thought of that’s going to further hurl me off my axis?”
He caught the edginess in her voice. It was full-on warranted.
Damen only wished he had something to tell her that would quell her nerves, smooth all those jagged edges.
He had nothing for her.
Nor was he one to sugarcoat anything related to them.
Returning to where she still stood, he passed the glass to her once more.
Then he settled on the sofa in front of the fireplace, which had a low blaze in the hearth.
He didn’t invite her to join him; though, of course, it was his hope that she would.
He sat forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, both of his hands holding his own cut-crystal tumbler as they dangled between his parted legs.
He said, “I’m a realist by nature. I have to be, Nikki. I have to look at things in an objective, black-and-white vein in order to separate and silo all the facts so that I can later analyze them and investigate the grey areas. But I have to start somewhere.”
She came around the end of the sofa, but moved no farther. Not inching closer to him, as he longed for her to do.
She sipped her drink, then gazed at him, asking, “How does that relate to me?”
“I had to sideline what could happen with your laptop for the sake of focusing on what needed to be done upfront. The backend had to be…”
He shook his head. Swore under his breath.
“Inconsequential,” she whispered.
He heard the pain in her voice and it fucking killed him.
He shot a look her way, insisting, “But you know that’s not how I feel. Right?”
