Nine Months to Bear By Nicole Fox - 54

54

Taras and I have been dancing around landmines for weeks now. Every conversation is loaded with shit neither of us wants to detonate.

He shows up at my office at seven in the morning, which only ever means bad news. Good news can wait until noon. Disasters demand that we met at the fucking crack of dawn.

“FBI’s been sniffing around the warehouses yet again.” He drops into the chair across from my desk without invitation. “Two agents came by asking nosy-ass questions at the docks yesterday.”

“Same ones as before?”

He shakes his head. “No, these were new faces. Younger. Nosier.” He lights a cigarette, which is fast becoming a regular habit, no longer just a nervous one. “They’re not just fishing anymore. They know something, Stef. I’m telling you, they fuckin’ know something.”

I pour myself coffee from the carafe Mikayla left on my desk. It’s still hot, which means she’s somewhere in the building, probably plotting my demise after last week’s rejection.

“Let them sniff. Everything’s clean.”

“For now.” Taras ashes into my crystal paperweight. “But that stunt you pulled yesterday? Waltzing into Madison’s meeting like some fucking white knight? That’s gonna draw attention, man.”

“I was protecting our investment.”

“Bullshit.” He leans forward. “You were protecting her . Big-ass difference, in my humble opinion.”

I take a sip of coffee instead of answering. It’s bitter. To be fair, everything tastes bitter lately. Everything except⁠—

“I will say that it was effective, though. She’s gotten twelve new clients since yesterday.” Taras pulls out his phone and waggles it in front of my face. “High-profile ones, too. Madison’s wife. Two of his board members. Even that senator’s daughter, the one with the reality show.”

I keep my face carefully neutral. “Good for her.”

“‘Good for her’?” He cackles like I told a funny joke. “Three months ago, you wanted to destroy her clinic. Now, you’re playing Superman, saving her from the evil Rebecca Walsh? What changed, man ? ”

“The plan evolved.”

“Don’t act like the plan even exists anymore.” He stubs out his cigarette on my desk. The burn mark will be there forever, which is probably his intention. “You were supposed to acquire the clinic, not become its guardian angel.”

“I’m nobody’s guardian angel.”

“No? Then explain why Mikayla’s been ordered to stop the sabotage campaign. Explain why you’re personally vetting her new clients. Better yet, explain why you just publicly declared yourself her baby daddy to save her reputation.”

Each accusation is worse than the last. All true. All damning.

“The acquisition is still happening,” I say.

“When?”

“When the time is right.”

I watch Taras study me from across the desk. It’s stubbornness versus stubbornness, two brothers who’ve known each other for too long locking horns, neither one willing to concede.

Until, finally, he does.

“I just want what’s best for you, man. That’s all.” He sighs.

“I know.”

I stand, needing distance, time to think, a moment just to breathe. The Boston skyline stretches out beyond my office windows, gray and indifferent. Down there, Olivia’s probably at her clinic. Probably arranging those white orchids in her window. Probably⁠—

“You’re doing it again.”

I turn. “Doing what?”

“That thing where you zone out thinking about her.” Taras gestures at my desk. “Then you come back and start organizing shit like you’re trying to put your brain back in order.”

I look down. I’ve unconsciously lined up the scattered pens. Perfectly parallel. Exactly two inches apart.

“It’s called being detail-oriented.”

“No, it’s called being fucked in the head over a woman.” He leans over my desk and deliberately knocks the pens askew. “You can’t control everything, Stefan. Not the FBI. Not Iakov. And definitely not whatever’s happening between you and Olivia.”

I force myself not to fix the pens. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you’re compromised. Emotionally. Strategically. Every-fucking-way-ally.” He heads for the door. “And the worst part is that you know it. You just won’t admit it.”

“Where are you going?” I ask as he leaves.

“To do my job. You know, keeping us out of federal prison so you can have fun playing Prince Charming?”

“Taras—”

He pauses at the door. “You want my advice? Either cut her loose or marry her. This in-between bullshit is gonna get someone killed. Probably her.”

I stare at the door after Taras leaves. His words hang in the air, along with the smoke from his cigarettes.

The messed-up pens laugh at me. But I won’t fix them. I won’t prove him right about my need for control. Matter of fact? Fuck it. I grab all three pens and throw them in the trash.

There . No pens, no problem. No compulsive need to arrange them. I’m perfectly capable of functioning without⁠—

But my hand is already reaching for the drawer where I keep spares.

No.

I pull my hand back. Drum my fingers on the empty desk. The bare wood looks wrong without the pens. Naked. Vulnerable. Like I felt last week when Mikayla pressed against me and all I could think about was vanilla and orchids.

And that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? It’s not about what anyone else sees. It’s about the chaos in my own head that only goes quiet when things are exactly where they should be.

I last maybe half a minute before I’m pulling three new pens from the drawer. Black ink. Same brand. Same weight.

Only when they’re arranged back in place can I breathe again.