Page 120 of King of Pain

I nod, a little more confidently this time. “Thank you. I’m excited to gain more experience.”

Meg smiles, but then she gives me a knowing look. “That being said, I’m not blind. Jason has eyes for you, and his motivations for inviting you to lunch are likely less than professional.”

I sit up straighter. “I caught on to that too, and full disclosure, if it were a different circumstance, I might welcome his advances. But my career is more important. I won’t do anything to risk my standing here.”

Meg chuckles. “I kind of figured. You don’t usually get flustered in meetings. He had you tongue-tied and red as a tomato.”

I laugh. “Yep. It’s been a while since I’ve been that affected.”

Sincehim.

Meg nods, her tone softening. “Listen, I have a reputation here as a shark, but I’m not heartless. Just remain open and honest with me. If the two of you can’t resist each other, we’ll cross that road together. I can insulate you from anything having to do with him as a client to avoid conflict. Just don’t blindside me.”

I smile, nodding. “That’s not my focus, and it’s highly unlikely, but I appreciate this conversation. Just reminds me how lucky I am to be working for you instead of any other senior agent here.”

Meg waves a hand dismissively. “No luck involved. You earned your spot.”

“Thanks, Meg,” I say, then pause. “Speaking of being blindsided… is Jason out? Are we making assumptions here? Or is this something we need to keep a lid on and prepare for the best- and worst-case scenarios?”

Meg glances at a notification on her phone, then looks back to me with a smile. “That thinking right there is why you’re next in line to be an agent. No, we haven’t assumed anything. He’s been upfront with me. Professionally, he’s still closeted. Personally, he’s not worried if it ever gets out. So yes, we prepare—but we won’t be dealing with a panicked client if it happens.”

I nod and enter a few notes into my phone. “Consider the preparation handled.”

“Knew it would be.” She smirks and stands from her desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting to charm my way through. Good luck at lunch. Let me know how it goes.”

“Thank you, I will.” I stand and head back to my desk, my mind still spinning as I prepare for the rest of the day.

I pull into the parking lot of Purple, a popular spot for business lunches just north of downtown Phoenix. As I circle the lot looking for a spot, a black SUV glides past me. My pulse picks up as I catch a glimpse of the same muscled man from this morning behind the wheel.

I grit my teeth and shake my head. I’m looking too much into this. It’s just a coincidence. My brain curses me for being this paranoid, but I can’t help it. Even though I’ve never seen the priest again since that Halloween night, I have noticed the same men and cars showing up wherever I go.

Right after Chance disappeared, there was the heavily tattooed, beautiful guy about my age, always parked in his whitesedan outside the apartment complex. Then there was the Secret Service looking bro—all suit, sunglasses, and an earpiece. I saw him at the grocery store, at the gym, even in my rearview mirror on my first day at work.

Now there’s thisReacherlooking dude: thick hair—kept short—military look, built like a damn tank. His head nearly hits the top of the SUV interior, so I’m guessing he’s over 6’4” with at least 250 pounds of pure muscle.

The thing is, I’ve never really felt threatened when I’ve seen any of them.

Almost the opposite.

Almost the way I felt withhim.

Almost.

I exhale and park my car, forcing myself to push the thoughts aside. Stepping out, I head inside, where a young hostess greets me with a professional smile.

“I’m meeting Jason Ciccone,” I tell her as I check emails on my phone.

She nods. “Ah yes. Mr. Ciccone is already seated. Right this way, Mr. Pacini.”

I follow her through the sleek, modern dining room. As we approach, Jason rises to greet me, and I nearly lose my footing for a second. He’s wearing skintight black pants and a crisp white dress shirt, the bright fabric popping against his dark olive skin. His sleeves are rolled up, accentuating his strong forearms, the kind of forearms only a pitcher could have.

The hostess hands me a menu. “Your server will be right over.”

“Thanks for meeting me,” Jason says as I slide into my seat. He flashes that bright white smile. “And for the restaurant recommendation—everything on the menu looks incredible. I looked it up during my flight.”

I smirk. “You should go for the roasted chicken with cauliflower mash for your first time. It’s what they’re known for. And I know you’re all about clean eating, so it’s basically mandatory.”

Jason’s eyes twinkle as his smile shifts from polite to playful. “I like first times.”