A Lie for a Lie (All In, #1)(41)

“I’ll think about it.”



The following day RJ shows up while I’m covering the information desk. It’s a Tuesday, which is one of the slower days of the week. Not that it’s ever slow per se, but there are fewer staff on days like this one. And it means I can’t run away and hide in one of the anterooms of the exhibits.

He’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. His hair is styled instead of covered with a ball cap. He looks just as gorgeous as he did a year ago, if not even more so. Today his arms are loaded with white flowers. Truce. Surrender. Peace.

I plaster my hands to the countertop so I don’t give in to the urge to touch my hair. My heart stutters in my chest and then kicks into a full gallop as he approaches the desk.

“Hi.” His voice is soft and warm, like marshmallows melting in hot chocolate.

“Hello.” Mine is hard and sharp like knives.

“I brought these for you. I don’t know if you’ve gotten all the other things I’ve left for you or not—”

“I got them all.” Each one has been like twisting a knife in a wound, because they’ve all been attached to memories from Alaska—which is clearly the point.

He sets the bouquet of flowers on the desk; the fragrant scent of the blossoms surrounds me. I want to reach out and stroke the pretty petals, but instead I keep my hands on the counter. “Lainey, please, can we talk? I know I lied to you, and you have every right to be angry with me about that—but if you just give me a chance to explain, then maybe you’ll understand that it wasn’t my intention to ever hurt you.”

“I can’t right now.”

“I understand that, but can we set something up?” His hand covers mine before I can pull it away and hide it under the counter. “Just—please, Lainey, all I want to do is talk.”

My heart aches, and my skin burns where he touches it. “Fine. We can talk.”

He clasps my hand between his, lids fluttering shut as he lifts it to his lips, brushing them over my knuckle. I can’t breathe through the sudden emotional deluge. I pull my hand free from his grasp and take a step back, even though my head feels light.

“Tonight? Are you free? I can come to you if that works best.”

“No!” I lace my fingers together to keep from fidgeting. “I mean—tonight won’t work, and I would prefer if we did this in a public place.”

“Uh, that might not be the best idea. Chicago is a hockey city—I get recognized a lot here, so it would be ideal if I either came to you or you come to me.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t considered that. “It would be better if I came to you, then.”

“Would tomorrow night work? Or—Thursday’s your day off, right? That might be better for you.”

“How do you know Thursday’s my day off?”

“Uhhhh . . .” RJ taps on the counter nervously. “I might’ve asked about your schedule in exchange for tickets to the first game of the season. I can get you tickets too, if you want—for whatever game you want, really.”

“I’ll have to get back to you about Thursday.” I also need to speak to Eden about taking bribes.

“You’ll call me—or text?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

I remain stone faced apart from my arched brow.

“Okay. I’ll wait to hear from you.”



On Thursday morning I’m standing on the curb waiting for a car to pick me up. Apparently RJ has sent a taxi for me—or something. I assume he didn’t come to pick me up himself so as not to make me uncomfortable. I have a car, but I’m not sure driving is a good idea, considering how anxious I am.

I looked up his address on my computer. It’s in a very nice neighborhood, from what I can tell. A black SUV with dark tinted windows pulls up to the curb. I step back, assuming someone is going to get out. I don’t want to get hit with the door.

A man dressed in a black suit, wearing sunglasses, rounds the hood of the SUV. “Miss Carver?”

I look around, expecting someone with the same last name as me to breeze by, but there’s no one there.

“Miss Lainey Carver?” The man looks at something in his hand.

“Yes?”

“I’m here to take you to Mr. Bowman’s.”

I glance at the nondescript black SUV and then back at the man in the suit. “Can you give me a minute, please?”

“Certainly, Miss Carver.”

He folds his hands in front of him and stands beside the SUV while I pull up RJ’s contact and hit the Call button.

It doesn’t even finish ringing once. “Please tell me you haven’t changed your mind.”

“Welllll, that depends,” I say slowly.

“On what?” His panic is frustratingly endearing.

“There’s a black SUV and a man in a suit claiming he’s here to take me to you, but I’ve watched enough crime shows to know better than to trust a man in a suit driving an SUV with tinted windows.”

“You can ask him to tell you his name—it’s George Oriole.”

“That sounds like a fake name.”

“It’s not. I promise.”

“And I should have faith in your promises? How do I even know RJ isn’t something you made up?” It’s a legitimate question. He’s been dishonest with me before. In fact, everything I know about him is based on a lie.