Friction(15)

"It's ... old."

"Then make a new one. It's a Gmail account, so it can't be that hard to set up. Hell, your Snapchat and Instagram are even under Duncan."

I startle, scooting forward to look at him. “You found me on social media?”

“It’s in your email signature. No shit I looked you up.”

Sliding back, I twist my fingers together and stare down at my lap. "Why does it matter what last name I use?"

"Because I don't like it."

Why? I’m desperate to ask. Why don't you like it? What’s my last name matter to you if I do a good job? "You're bossy," I say, voicing none of the words I'm dying to say. He lifts a broad shoulder and gives me a pointed look.

"Technically, love, I am your boss. And as your boss, I'd rather you not use an email with the same last name as the man who called you a shitty person with poor work ethic and no regard for commitment."

"You spoke to him?" I blurt out in a voice that sounds like a pitiful whine. Jace nods. I tighten my arms around myself so forcefully my chest and stomach aches from the pressure. "And he said that?"

"Among other things. Which is why I'm glad you explained your situation before I checked your references. Your former employer—W-L-something or another—is very team Lucy, by the way. Even told me that they'd welcome you back with open arms, just as soon as the lawsuit with Tom, the wanker, is settled."

He knows about the suit. Shit. “I’m guessing that wanker bit is yours?”

“All me. You can take the man out of London, but—hell, you know how the rest goes.” He snorts and glares at the road. “Just so you’re aware, ten minutes on the phone with your ex and I wanted to elbow him in the nose for being such a little shit. What the fuck possessed you to marry someone like that? I bet he attends brunch at country clubs on Saturdays and golfs with his old schoolmates every Sunday.”

Tom plays soccer with his friends on Sundays, but still, Jace has the man figured out after one conversation. I sink down further into the leather seat. "Christ."

"He's not here, love. Only me. Why didn't you tell me about the lawsuit?"

"Because it didn't—" I drag in a breath that burns my lungs then move my arms from my chest to run my hands through my pulled-back hair. "I didn't think it mattered. Because it’s not a lawsuit at this point … he’s just contacted his attorney.” Which means the lawsuit is probably inevitable. Because Tom’s a turd.

"It wouldn’t have changed my decision. I just would've liked to have known all the facts."

"So, after you knew them all, why did you call me?"

"I wanted the best person for the job. Pending lawsuit or not, you've got a reputation for getting shit done, and that's what I need." One corner of his mouth tilts into a half-smile. "Plus, like I said, your ex-husband is an arse I'd like to punch in the face a couple of times. I’m sure it would do him some good."

This is the second time he's done this—favor my side over Tom's. I feel a sharp tug in my chest at the support from the man who’d driven me crazy when we were kids. After I got over the initial numbness caused by the destruction of my marriage, I found myself stunned by the number of friends in San Francisco who sided with Tom. The same people that we vacationed with in Vegas and brought into our home for Stir-Fridays thought I was being irrational, and that had stung. He's going through a rough time. If he cheated on you, there must have been a good reason. He deserves a second chance … don't be a bitch, Lucy. I had heard it all, but I also wasn’t willing to listen to excuses for Tom’s bad behavior.

Jace hasn’t even come close to defending my ex-husband, and I appreciate that more than he’ll ever know.

"Yes," I murmur at last, fireworks exploding beneath my skin because I feel his blue stare against the side of my face. "He is a jerk.”

"So, make a new email."

There it is again—that commanding edge to his voice—but I find myself nodding, despite common sense yelling for me to tell him to shove his bossiness up his own arse. "I will.”

“See. It’s really not so hard to listen.”

He stops his black Challenger in front of the wrought iron gate of a sprawling, white house that's on at least a two-acre lot, a rarity for Winchester with its small lot sizes and subdivisions. Letting down his window, he punches the intercom button. I can't hear exactly what he’s saying over the rock version of Taylor Swift's "Blank Space" blaring from the stereo, but a moment later, the gates swing open.

He drives forward.

I tilt my head to the side, marveling over the trees lining each side of the wide driveway. "Private collector?"

"Overachiever." He gives me a look that tells me he thinks I'm the same way. "He likes these parties held at his home, so he's willing to invest in the cause."

The cause? What the hell is he investing in—sitting around and watching the minute hand go around a pretty clock? I don't have time to ask questions, because as soon as he maneuvers his car between a sleek Mercedes and a Range Rover, he walks around to open my door for me.

I gawk up at him.

"Why’s your mouth wide open?" he demands, rolling his eyes when I ignore his hand and grip the door frame to hoist myself out of the tiny muscle car. "Ahh, that's right. Germaphobe."