Page 192 of Empire State Enemies

“Just tight muscles.”

I’ve been on edge all night. In fact, not just tonight but in the lead-up to this event.

“You make sure you take care of yourself. Hell, head home now if you’ve had enough.”

“Come on now, Killian, I’ve got a reputation to uphold as the fun one between us.” I chuckle.

“I bet nobody would even notice if we dipped out now. Half of them are too wasted to remember their own names. I’ve already had to tell the bar to cut some of them off.”

He shifts his gaze to the street below, and we settle into a comfortable silence.

“You know,” he starts, his voice laced with a hesitation that’s rare for him, “I don’t think I’ve said how proud I am of you.”

I raise an eyebrow, surprised, and crack a small smile.

Okay I had some major fuckups this year, meaning hotel builds stalled and revenue dipped. But I’ve done some good—three more hotels under our belt, revenue climbing this quarter, and now the team’s pockets are heavier with well-deserved bonuses. “Yeah, the acquisitions were smooth sailing. Almost too smooth,” I laugh.

But he’s looking at me steadily. “I wasn’t talking about the business side of things. This year’s been rough on you. I’m proud of how you’ve handled it. You could’ve fallen back into some bad habits, but you’ve been damn strong. You’ve achieved so much in a short space of time.”

“Guess I’m the only idiot who finds it harder to step back from work than to dive headfirst into it.” I chuckle, the sound more rueful than amused. “You know how hard it is to unwind? It’s a talent just learning how to do it.”

“Of course I do,” he says. “We’re cut from the same cloth.”

Handing off half my duties to lighten the load was no walk in the park at first. Turns out, I’ve got a bit of a control freak in me. Now, I’ve cut down to just three days a week at the grind. And once a month, I head out to the great outdoors for some solo camping.

When people say “just relax and chill,” they don’t understand that it takes skill to unwind when your natural state is being a pathologically driven workaholic.

I’ve started on a regimen of Immunosuppressive Therapy which, for now, is keeping my condition stable. I’ve quit drinking entirely, since the meds can be tough on the liver. That was fucking hard. I miss my scotch and wine. The medication sometimes gives me stomach ulcers, but I’m a grown man; I can handle it. People face far worse without the advantages I have.

The truth is, the immunosuppressants might not work indefinitely. They could lose their effectiveness in weeks, months, or years, and my doctors say my condition ranges from moderate to severe, so it’s like living with a time bomb.

Once I approached my health as if it were a new hotel project, I found I could manage. I have the resources here to make a difference. And it feels pretty rewarding.

He clears his throat awkwardly. “I love you, Connor. I know I don’t say it enough.”

Ah, fucking hell, now he’s lobbing emotional grenades at me?

I force a strained laugh. “Cut the sappy crap before the staff overhears and we lose whatever shreds of respect we have left. And I love you too, by the way. Most of the time.”

He laughs and gives me a solid thump on the back. “Fair enough. I’m heading back in. Stay out here as long as you need, yeah?”

I muster a halfhearted smile. “Go, enjoy your night.”

“I’m dragging my lady home in thirty, if I can get her away, then heading straight to bed.”

I’m happy for him. He’s got everything he could possibly want in life.

Desperate for quiet time, I lean against the railing, eyes drifting to the street below.

Grace totters down the hotel steps, looking a little worse for wear. Huh. She’s leaving early. Sensible girl.

I frown, uneasy seeing her walk toward a cab in those ridiculous heels. Maybe I should send one of my guys to make sure she gets back to her staff apartment safe and sound.

But then my gaze snags on something else, and the world grinds to a screeching halt.

Someoneelse.

The sight slams into me like a freight train at full speed.