Page 86 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Aponi

T he rec center was quiet. I’d stayed late, going over files I already had memorized, pretending I wasn’t waiting.

But I was.

Tag had said he’d stop by. Help strategize next steps. Grab food. Nothing official. Just... him and me. I was going to suggest he stay at the rec center. There was plenty of room and it had a kitchen.

So when the door creaked open and I heard his voice echo down the hall, something fluttered in my chest.

Then I heard hers.

A soft, breathy laugh.

I turned the corner too fast and regretted it immediately.

She was stunning.

Wavy blonde hair that fell over her shoulders like something out of a shampoo commercial. High heels in a neighborhood where most people wore sneakers. Her hand casually resting on Tag’s arm like it belonged there.

I froze.

Tag looked up. “Hey. Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

I shrugged, folding my arms. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His companion turned toward me. “You must be Aponi. Tag’s told me so much about you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Has he?”

She smiled—bright and polished and probably fake. “I’m Camille, an old friend of his.”

Of course, she had a name like Camille. Not a battle-hardened detective or trauma-worn fighter, but Camille, who probably had a matching set of luggage and used perfume that didn’t come from a drugstore.

Okay, I’ll let the two of you check out the place. I’m sure Camille would like a look around,” I said, grabbing my coat and turning. “I was going to ask if you would like to stay here. That way, you don’t have the long commute.”

“That would be great.”

I walked outside, climbed into my car, my Apartment was two blocks away.

Tag followed me out. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Damn it, I couldn’t keep quiet. “I’m just surprised that you go for women like Camille,” I was becoming angry. “I’m nothing like her. My skin is dark, my hair is black and straight,

Tag’s gaze sharpened. “What are you talking about? You think that’s what I want?”

“I don’t know what you want,” I said. “You don’t let anyone close enough to find out.”

He didn’t blink. “I know what I don’t want. And it’s someone fake.”

His hand lifted, not touching me—but close.

“You think those cheekbones of yours are a flaw?” he said softly. “You don’t even see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“That you walk into a room and people feel it. That kind of presence doesn’t come from a bottle, Aponi. It comes from surviving.”

My throat tightened.

“Next time you compare yourself to a woman like that,” he said, voice like gravel and warmth, “make sure you’re not selling yourself short.”

I didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

But somewhere deep in my chest… the wall cracked.

Just a little.