Page 72 of Dignity

I stare into her hazel eyes. “Life’s going to get crazy for me.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m radioactive right now. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She rests her head against me, and I close my eyes and remember all the fun we’ve had together in twenty years as friends.

It’s not her fault she’s not Chris. It never was.

“Love you,” she says.

“Love you, too.” I rub my chinin her hair. “I don’t expect you to softball me, either. I won’t lie to you about stuff to try to manipulate you. But we’llhaveto be careful about how we’re seen in public for a while.”

“Probably.” She sniffles. “They gave me your office.”

“Oooh, lucky girl. Enjoy the tinted windows.”

“I know. I always envied that.” I always thought it was unfair I made more than her when she was just asgood of a journalist as I was. But she was a woman, and another of FNB’s shortcomings is a pay discrepancy. She got a bump her last contract renewal, but she still made less than I was.

And the male talent tend to get better office digs. It wasn’t uncommon for me to come in to work and find her using my office because she couldn’t hardly work in hers due to sun glare, despite repeated requestsfor a fix other than taping craft paper in the window, which then made it dark as hell inside. I asked for heavy tint for my office windows, and had it three days later. I gave her keys to my office, just like to my house, so she could work there.

“Sooo…” She looks up. “How does Cutie McBigGuns downstairs play into things?”

“Well, I’m going to be taking a massive pay cut. I’m going to sell thisplace. Chris offered to let me stay at his place, not that I’ll be in DC much during the campaign.” The excuse comes to me easily. “As you know, he’s Secret Service, so he’ll be on the road a lot during campaign season, too. It helps him out with bills, helps me out with expenses, and means I don’t have to worry about upkeep on this place.”

“You could move in with me.”

I slowly shake my head.“I can’t do that, honey, and you know why.” She still lives in the townhouse we used to share. “Too much conflict of interest for both of us.” I smile. “We can revisit that after the election, if you still want to be seen with me then.”

She sticks her tongue out at me. “Democrat, huh?Phhhpt.”

I tickle her, loving her laugh, missing this part of our lives together. When I look back with an honesteye, I pulled away from her more than she did me. Work was a legitimate excuse, sure, but it allowed me to hide from her and avoid the question of sex.

That wasn’t fair to her.

Once we’re back downstairs, Chris stands.

“I need to get me an Uber,” she says, pulling her phone out.

“I can drive you, Ms. Baltazar,” he says with a panty-melting smile, if ever there was one.

Huh?Chrisjustputa damn chicken in the oven before she arrived. One of his stated goals for our relationship is to teach me how to cook something besides ramen noodle packs and hard-boiled eggs.

Lauren smiles at him in a way that sends a sharp and jagged lance through my balls, and not in a fun way. “Thank you, Special Agent Bruunt. I appreciate that.”

“Please, call me Chris.” He pulls his keys from his pocketand heads for the door.

Lauren leans in and kisses me. “Love you.”

“Love you,” I say automatically, because ofcourseI do.

My flash of satisfaction over the storms in his gaze is then eclipsed by the sadist one-upping me. He opens the front door for Lauren, and rests his hand in the small of her back while flashing her a winning smile that hardens my cock. “After you, ma’am.”

Shegiggles.

Shit, Iknowthat giggle, that’s herflirtinggiggle. “Call me Lauren.”

His smile widens. “Lauren.” He glances back at me after she steps through, his gaze narrowing. “I’ll be back. Take the chicken out when the timer goes off.” He blows me a kiss Lauren can’t see.

And they’re gone.

I’m left standing there wondering what thehelljust happened, a chicken I have no clue what the fuck to do withafter it comes out of the oven…and a growing cum puddle in my jeans.

Motherfucker.