Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(62)

Not that I want a proposal, but . . .

I groan and drop my forehead to my knees, wrapping my arms around my shins. I’m a wreck.

All this time, I’ve done such a good job of following the rules, doing what I was supposed to be doing, putting one foot in front of the other to get to my goal: the FBI.

Which is now more out of reach than ever.

And for what? A guy I’m not sure even wants me past tomorrow?

I texted Gabby but haven’t heard anything back yet.

It hits me that I have no one else to call. I’ve been so focused on my job I’ve neglected my life, and now I’m . . .

Alone. Utterly, heartbreakingly alone.

“Lara?”

My head snaps up. Ian’s just stepped off the elevator, though his footsteps slow as he nears me.

At first glance, he looks the same as always—briefcase in hand, clean-shaven, suit and tie perfectly in place. But then I notice his expression’s one I haven’t seen before—somber, worried, and . . . hurt.

Oh God, what did Steve tell him?

“What are you doing here, other than flashing my neighbors?”

I glance down. My position on the floor has my skirt riding up a bit, but nothing scandalous.

“I’ve been waiting to talk to you,” I say, starting to push to my feet. “I haven’t been able to reach you all day.”

He extends a hand to help me up. Just twenty-four hours ago, he’d have pulled me in for a kiss, too, or at least delivered some inappropriate quip. This time, he releases me the second I’m steady on my feet.

“Ian—” I touch his arm, but he shrugs me off.

My suspicions are confirmed. He’s been served his subpoena, and he thinks I either knew or had something to do with it.

“Let’s go inside,” he mutters, digging his key out of his pocket and opening the door. He gestures for me to precede him, but the motion is slightly mocking.

I set my purse on the side table and turn toward him, hands clasped. “You’ve had a crap day. Can I make you a drink? Pour wine? Order foo—”

Ian lets out an incredulous laugh as he tosses his keys beside my purse, setting his briefcase on the ground. “Yeah, a drink will make it all okay.”

“It may make it a little better,” I mutter.

He shoots me a dark look over his shoulder. He totally reminds me of Kennedy right now, but this probably isn’t the time to mention it.

He goes to the window, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stares at the skyline. He looks miserable, and though I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him, I know he’ll only shake me off.

So instead, I let him have his silence and quietly gather the supplies necessary for a Negroni. I wasn’t joking when I’d told him my grandma used to drink them. I even made a couple for her back in the day.

I do a quick Google search on my phone to see if my memory of the recipe’s close. It’s not. So I follow the instructions, measuring equal parts of Campari, gin, and the sweet vermouth I find in the fridge.

The recipe says it can be served on the rocks or in a cocktail glass. I’ve seen Ian drink it both ways, so I opt for pouring it over ice. Easier.

The orange twist, however, isn’t easy. I end up with a mangled, pube-looking thing, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

I take a sip. Not bad. Bitter, and an acquired taste, but I can see how it grows on people.

Despite all the noise I’m making in the kitchen, Ian doesn’t turn around. When I walk to him and hold the drink in front of his face, he blinks in surprise, and I realize he didn’t even know I was still here, much less register that I was making him a cocktail.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

Our fingers brush when he takes the glass, and our eyes lock for a moment. I hold my breath, but then the connection is broken and he looks away.

I stifle my sigh. Pouring myself a glass of wine, I go to sit on the couch and wait.

It doesn’t take him long. His expression is blank when he turns around. “You wanted the FBI that badly?”

I’m braced for the accusation, figured Steve would go there simply to be petty, but it still stings. A lot.

I take a sip of wine. “What happened today?” I ask, ignoring his question.

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t play dumb. Don’t pretend you don’t know about the subpoena for the formal investigation, that you didn’t sell me out to get your dream job.”

“Is that seriously what you think of me?”

He lets out a frustrated growl, running his hands through his hair. “What else am I supposed to think when you didn’t so much as warn me about the shitstorm coming my way?”

“I would have,” I say softly, “except I was with HR all morning. They don’t allow phones during exit interviews.”

He frowns. “Exit interviews. What—Hold on. He fired you? He said he didn’t.”

“Steve didn’t fire me,” I say. “I quit.”

Ian stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then he reaches for me. “Oh, Lara . . .”

I didn’t realize I wanted to be held until he wraps his arms around me. I let him absorb all the emotions I haven’t even begun to process yet.

I quit my job. I’m unemployed.

It’d be a doozy for anyone. But for the girl who’s literally lived for work for the past six years, it’s shattering.