Page 15 of Forced Proximity

A small chuckle escapes from him. ‘Right? Those games are boring as hell.’

I toss one last look at the court before we turn the corner. ‘I love basketball. The exhilaration, the constant action. It’s like the only time you can breathe is when there’s a foul or a timeout.’

‘Or a technical.’

Oh, the dreaded technical. One time during junior year I got one which was a bullshit foul after I accidentally slammed into a mouthy guard during a tournament. Sure, I might be heading towards my mid-thirties, but that grudge will never die. ‘Did you ever get one?’

‘No, but my high school coach did once.’ He puts his hands in his pockets and slows his pace. ‘He did it on purpose. The refs made horrible, biased calls. Ignored fouls. Let our team get kicked around. The guys were demoralized so Coach yelled at the refs enough to get a technical to show us that he had our back.’

A move like that reminds me of something Marcus would do. ‘That’s pretty cool. Sounds like a good coach.’

After finishing the lap around the house, Justin wipes off sweat beads from his brow. ‘Damn, it’s hot. Let’s head inside. I think Anthony and Zane left paperwork for you.’

After stepping back inside, I grab the paperwork from Justin and move to the den. For the next few hours, I familiarize myself with the inside of the house, type up my notes and check emails. At around six, I step into the kitchen to grab the sandwich I brought when a savory melting butter scent wafts to my nose.

‘Any dietary restrictions?’ Justin asks as he flips a dishtowel over his shoulder and adjusts the heat on the stovetop.

My eyebrows scrunch. ‘No, but why?’

‘I’m cooking.’

What? All my years in this business and never once has a client cooked for me. ‘For me? You don’t need to do that.’

He tosses the onions in the pan to sauté and flips them like a pro. ‘I like to cook.’

I can’t fully process this situation. A guy like this cooking for himself and offering to cook for me – a staff member? ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. Where would you like me to station myself? The goal is that you don’t even know I’m here,’ I say, offering my version of an olive branch. ‘I can be in the sitting room, kitchen, den. I prefer to stay close to the main entrance, but I’ll try to be as invisible as possible.’

He stops stirring and remains still for several moments. ‘It’s okay. Just do whatever works for you.’

His tone is warm, much warmer than I probably deserve for how I’ve treated him since meeting him. I’m slowly learning that Justin is not all bad, and even though this is good for a working relationship, I don’t love being wrong.

I know, I know – my bullheadedness is not one of my finest traits.

I grab my phone to check if Marcus has emailed back yet about the optimization plan I created, or if the cyber team made progress on tracking down the phantom IP address from the video. I pause mid-scroll to glance at Justin as he stirs, pinches salt over the food and … hums?

Yep, definitely humming.

I slip out to check my blood sugar and take my insulin. As I head back to the kitchen, chicken, brussels sprouts, shallots and prosciutto aromas swirl from the plates Justin set at the island. God, it smells good. Pretty sure the last time I had a real, home-cooked meal was last year when I visited my parents.

‘This smells amazing.’ I slide into the chair and inhale the steam. ‘Where did you learn to cook like this?’

He pulls up a chair and digs his fork into the food. ‘Growing up I loved watching cooking shows. My sister and I spent a lot of time alone, so I practiced cooking. It got my mind off things, fed us and seemed to make my parents happy, which was always a struggle.’

Huh. His tone sounds more sad than sarcastic. Maybe there’s more to his story than I know. I take a bite and whoa … I stop myself from moaning as I chew the balsamic-glazed, tender brussels sprout. ‘This is delicious. Seriously. How does it taste so good?’

‘A copious amount of salt.’ He raises his water glass with a grin and taps it against mine. ‘Cheers, Doc. We’ve officially survived six hours of your first day.’

Chapter 7

Justin

‘You sure you’re good? Do you need anything?’ I ask Mia for the billionth time in the last twenty minutes.

‘Dude. I’m good. Do you even listen to me? I’m like so good,’ Mia says through the sounds of frothing milk. ‘I gotta go. Break’s over. Love you.’

I fill up a glass with lemon and mint-infused water and sit at the island. Mia actually did seem happy. For the last ten minutes, she told me about her new barista job at a Seattle coffee shop, and how the owner taps trees herself to get the purest maple syrup for a salted maple latte. No matter how excited she seems, though, the reality could be vastly different. This is the shit that keeps me up at night.

When Mia was sick, in the depths of her addiction, she lied. With the house we grew up in, trust was a commodity we were never given, and she honed that skill. For two years, she lied to my face, in texts, in every conversation we had. She hid it so well that she could be the actor, not me. After a lifetime built on our family’s lies, I nearly broke when I learned the truth.