Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(71)

“Yeah, because she has integrity,” I snap, even though it’s not Vanessa I’m mad at. It’s those shitheads who set me up, who forced Lara to choose between her dream of the FBI and her morals.

“I know,” Vanessa replies quietly. “What do you need from me, Ian?” She studies me. “Ah. You want your girl to get her job back.”

“Yes!” I say a little too enthusiastically. “I mean, yeah, if it’s a possibility . . .”

“It’s not impossible,” she says slowly. “But the SEC is scrambling right now. Even if Lara didn’t actually do anything wrong, her boss did a damn good job of smearing her rep.”

“But he’s guilty for corruption of justice, accepting a bribe, and being an immense dick! His word doesn’t mean shit.”

“I know that. You know that. Everyone in this room knows that. But that’s not how this world works, Ian. It’s a perception thing. Investment brokers can come back from it. Hedge fund managers can come back from it. But SEC investigators suspected of sleeping with their suspect . . .”

I shake my head. “We waited—”

“Nobody’s going to care about the timing,” she says gently. “I suspect Lara knew that all along. It speaks highly of her feelings for you.”

The words should make me elated. Instead, I’ve never been so miserable.

What’s the point of clearing my name, of getting my life back, if she’s not in it?

That’s not even the worst possibility, though, I realize as I look at the closed door to my bedroom. Worse than no Lara in my life would be having her but her not having the SEC or the FBI because of her relationship with me.

I swallow, feeling the urge to throw my drink at the wall.

I remember now why I’ve never wanted to be in a relationship.

They fucking blow.





36

LARA

Week 6: Sunday Night

Of all the treks I’ve made to Ian’s apartment over the past couple of weeks, this is without a doubt the hardest.

He opens the door at my knock, and it takes me a moment to register the sight of a wooden spoon in his hand, the smell of garlic permeating the apartment.

“Are you cooking right now?” I ask, a little bit stunned.

He gestures me in with the spoon and kisses my cheek. “I am. And you should be both flattered and worried that this is a first for me.”

“Why worried?” I step inside and shut the door.

“Because I’m ninety percent sure I burned the garlic. I couldn’t find shallots in the grocery store, so I subbed capers, which I later learned were not even close. And let’s just say deboning a chicken is a hell of a lot harder than YouTube makes it look.” He glances over his shoulder as he turns back to the stove. “Wine?”

“I’m good,” I say, going to the counter and praying for courage to do what I came here to do.

He’s already making it so hard. He’s cooking, for God’s sake. For the first time. For me.

I wouldn’t have imagined there’d be a hotter sight than Ian in his suit or, better yet, Ian naked. But this Ian does something dangerous to my heart. This Ian has ditched the tie and jacket, rolled up his dress sleeves, and looks perfectly at ease.

No, not just at ease. Happy.

And for one brief moment, I wonder if maybe this could be our life . . . together.

But then I remember it’s too soon, this happened too fast, and now we don’t have the time we need.

“How’d the résumé updating go?” he asks, stirring whatever’s on the stove.

I flinch. I’d told him I wanted to spend the day at the library updating my résumé, looking for jobs.

I’d lied.

“And are you sure you don’t want wine? It’s an excellent Malb—”

“Ian.”

He turns toward me, and the second he sees my face, he flips off the burner and drops the spoon into the skillet. “What?” he asks, coming toward me and taking my hands. “Tell me.”

“It’s good news!” I say, forcing myself to smile.

He frowns, probably because my smile feels like a sad imitation of happiness.

“Just rip off the Band-Aid, Lara,” he says squeezing my hands. “I can handle whatever you throw at me.”

Not this.

“I got a new job,” I say.

He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, then gives a tentative smile that breaks my heart. “That’s great. Fantastic. Right?”

I nod enthusiastically, but like my smile, it doesn’t feel right. “It’s with the FBI. But—” I hold out my hand before he can get the wrong idea. “Not as an agent. As an analyst. It’s a desk job. Bottom of the food chain, paper pushing, etc.”

“Ah.”

Yeah. Ah.

I have no issues with administration work. Hell, those people work harder than anyone I know and are some of the smartest.

But it’s not what I wanted. It’s not the dream. I know it. Ian knows it.

“With all that’s happened, I’m no longer on the track to be an agent. My parents talked to some people, explained the situation, but . . . Well, like I said before, Quantico’s competitive. My reputation right now? Mud.”