Page 3 of The Allure of Ruins

“Brize is over there too,” Libby announced, tapping me on the shoulder. “It might be helpful for you to say hello to him so when I suggest he take you from Jonah, then he will.”

“So in this scenario, I’ve left Colton and now work for Jonah Dumont?”

Before she could answer, Natalie chimed in. “You’re better off working for Pilar.” She used tongs to put spinach salad on her plate. “As I’ve said a million times, Brize is an entitled ass.”

“Again,” Libby snapped, “you simply don’t like him because he demands perfection.”

“He demands ,” she began, enunciating the word, “that people work overtime when he misses deadlines.”

I turned to look at Libby.

“That’s not true.”

“The hell it’s not,” Koji backed up Natalie.

“He expects his people to read his mind, can’t be bothered to follow up when we text him, and when we put his work aside after letting him know it won’t get done unless he actually talks to us, we end up staying late to dig him out of the hole he’s created. ”

“That’s categorically untrue,” Libby defended her boss.

“At least we get paid overtime,” Natalie apprised Koji.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to get paid overtime. I want to go home and then go out and get laid.”

She snickered. “Well, good luck with that. I haven’t been on a date in ages.”

“Same,” he muttered.

“It’s not like that all the time,” Libby assured me. “And you work late for Gates, so you know we all have to burn the midnight oil on occasion.”

“It happens with Brize all the time,” Koji imparted. “Libby is lying because she doesn’t stay.”

“I’m not lying,” she retorted.

“This goes back to what I was saying before about you not protecting your people,” Natalie insisted.

“I protect my people, but associates are not mine, only the support staff.”

Koji grunted.

“Brize is gifted,” Libby told Natalie, “and sometimes that translates to late hours when he’s discovered some masterful loophole.”

“He’s lazy,” Natalie declared, shooting me a look. “And he has all of us doing his work while he takes the credit.”

“Clients want to see partner hours,” I reminded them. “Makes them think they’re being taken care of. Brize has to take the credit, you all know that.”

It got quiet for a moment before they all ended up nodding. Libby was smiling at me before she pointed over my shoulder. “He’s right there. Hurry up and introduce yourself.”

“Who are you pointing at? Brize or Jonah?” Natalie asked her.

“Jonah. I’ll talk to Brize first, then I’ll reintroduce you.”

“Will you two get out of the way,” ordered Koji, waving his hand to get us to move. “I need the quiche and the baby pickles off that plate too.”

Stepping out of line, Libby took hold of my bicep and drew me after her. When we were standing near the prime-rib station—it must be nice to have both the space and the money for a catered work dinner with waitstaff—she pointed at Dumont, who was talking to a strikingly beautiful blonde girl.

I had never been the kind of person who thought girl instead of woman , but in this case, it fit. Her outfit conveyed grown-up, but one look told me she was very young. And more importantly, very uncomfortable.

Her left arm was across her chest, almost like she was hugging herself, and in her right hand was a filled-to-the-brim glass of champagne.

Clearly, she had not come from the same grueling day the rest of us had, as she was wearing a tiny skintight black dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination.

Dumont, standing too close, was the cause of her distress, as evidenced by the slight steps she took back.

All that ended up doing was to bump her into another man, dressed like Dumont, in a suit with a dress shirt and no tie.

He too turned and smiled, also too close, looming over her.

“You know what, Libby,” I said softly, passing her the plate I’d filled with food, “I really am happy working for Gates.”

“What?” she asked, horrified.

Moving quickly, I made it to the girl’s side at the same time Dumont closed his hand around her upper arm.

“Becky, is that you?” I said far too loudly, using a weird high-pitched, excited voice, stepping in front of her, jostling her on purpose so that the champagne never stood a chance.

Some of it splashed me—which was fine, I was wearing jeans, an old Henley, and sneakers that had seen better days—but the rest got on the sleeve of the very expensive bespoke Italian suit Dumont was wearing.

Dumont yelled and recoiled. His buddy bumped me out of the way as he passed me to grab napkins from the table to our left. As both men were distracted, I put my hand out for the girl, offering, and the second she took my hand, I led her away.

I didn’t stop moving, and walked her all the way to one end of the long kitchen before rounding on her. “Are you okay?”

She seemed stunned.

“I had to get you outta there, am I right?”

“Ohmygod,” she whimpered, putting the almost empty flute on the counter before launching herself at me. It wasn’t hard. In her three-inch stilettos, we were more or less the same height, both of us hovering near five-nine.

I hugged her back, able to, as she was a woman.

With men, I could only manage a brief clench before the pressure, the holding, even the suggestion of restraint, started to make me queasy.

Always, I had to step away quickly. It was not at all the same when a woman embraced me and so I waited until she was ready to let me go.

“Who are you? What’s with the dress? Are you here alone?” I fired the questions at her quickly, my concern making me panicky. “Also, why are you talking to men twice your age? Are you in trouble? Do you need help?”

It took her a moment, and I understood that. I’d asked a lot of questions all at once.

Deep breath out. “I’m Janelle, Winston’s daughter, and I’m waiting for my friends to show up. We’re going to a party at our friend Ruben’s house in River North.”

My scowl was automatic. “Aren’t you, like, fourteen?”

Her eyes got big like an anime character. “I’m seventeen ,” she said firmly, defensively, like how dare I.

“Girl,” I said, because for starters, she still was one, and secondly, she needed to wake up. “Did your father see this outfit?”

“Yes,” she stated, her voice rising.

I crossed my arms, squinting at her. “If you go out to a club with your fake-ass ID, if someone puts something in your drink and then walks you out of there, that’s it.

No one will ever see you again.” She opened her mouth to say something.

“Yes, in a perfect society where every man respected every woman, and vice versa, we’d never have to worry about that scenario, but that’s not where we’re currently at, is it? ”

“I told you I’m going to a house party?”

I tipped my head.

“Fine,” she groused. “I’m going to a club.”

“I get the fake-ID thing. I had one too. But I’m fully prepared to narc to your father if you don’t go change.”

“I—”

“And make your friends change too before they get here,” I said, piling on another stipulation. “Because they have to come in to get you, and I want to see what everyone’s wearing before you go anywhere with them.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” she proclaimed haughtily.

I grinned. “You wanna be grounded until you’re, like, thirty-five?”

She bit her bottom lip.

“Well?”

“Okay,” she whispered, and I heard it then. She wasn’t fighting me, I suspected, because she was still a bit spooked from Dumont giving her the attention of a woman he was interested in and not his boss’s underage daughter.

“That’s what it’s like in clubs too, unless one of your guy friends is going to stick to you like glue all night. But they probably want to pick someone up, so where does that leave you?”

“I get it.”

I stared into her big brown eyes. “I’m really not trying to frighten you. I just want you to be careful.”

“No, I know,” she said, giving me a hint of a smile. “Who even was that guy?”

I winced.

“He works for my dad, right?”

I nodded. “That’s Jonah Dumont.”

“Dumont? Really? I think his daughter is in my geometry class.”

“Maybe don’t tell her.”

She put up both hands. “Don’t even worry.”

“Okay, so where’s your phone?” She pointed in the living room, and I saw the tiny drawstring black-sequin bag.

“Let’s go get it, because I want you to call me, and I’m gonna save your number, so if anything weird ever happens, you’ll have another person to call if you can’t reach your dad or whoever he’s dating. ”

“Oh, I am not making friends with any of those whores he’s dating.”

“Whores?” I grimaced. “Isn’t the one he’s seeing now an oil and gas heiress or something? I thought I read that.”

“I swear to God she’s maybe five years older than me.”

“She is not.”

“Swear to God, look it up.”

I pulled my phone, and she leaned in close so we both saw my screen. When her age came up as twenty-three, we both ewwed.

“Told you,” she said with a shiver.

“It’s probably uncomplicated.”

“Double eww.”

“I don’t really have anything to say.”

She grunted.

“None of this is the point. All I wanted was for you to know you can call me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

A real smile then, finally, tremulous but real, lit her sweet face. “I’d love to be friends. What’s your name?”

“Pax.”

“Is that short for something?”

“Paxton.”

“That’s cool,” she murmured, and then grinned big, and I could see her playfulness and spark return. She’d been scared, but her equilibrium was back. “And I meant it, I’m happy to be friends. You’re a good guy.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I said flatly as we crossed the floor together to the couch. She pulled the phone out of her bag that was basically holding that plus a lipstick and her ID.

“I know we just met, but you were totally my guardian angel, which was awesome.”

“I—”

“And you’re prettier than me and most of my girls.”

I scowled at her. “Men don’t want to be called pretty, believe me.”

“Sucks to be you, then,” she scoffed, arching an eyebrow before taking in my expression and giggling with relief. “Thick brown hair and big blue eyes—yeah, you’re really pretty.”

“Listen—”

“And your lashes are to die for,” she said, moving so she could look at my profile. “Damn. Even with falsies on, mine aren’t that long.”

“Would you call me already so I can store your number,” I ordered, giving her a gentle annoyed shove away from me that caused a snort of laughter. “And turn on your location so I can find you.”

“You have to do the same.”

“Fine,” I grumbled.

She smiled at me. “You have to follow me on TikTok and IG as well.”

“Whatever,” I said with an eye roll and got a gentle elbow jab in response.

We perched on the back of the couch, and I looked at her TikTok as she explained who the other people were in some of the photos.

“Who’s the guy carrying you on his shoulders?”

“Jesse,” she whispered, blushing.

I grunted.

“Janey?”

Her father stood in front of us, not glaring at me, but it was a close thing.

“Hey, Daddy,” she said softly, standing too as he leaned sideways so she could reach his cheek to peck. “It’s a great party. Your people are all super nice, especially Pax.”

He nodded, taking in the dress, the heels, the makeup. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, he’s dope,” she sighed, smiling at me, looking utterly smitten before she left, taking off one shoe, hopping for a moment, and then the other, before she turned the corner and was gone.

Mr. Somerset stepped close to me, arms crossed, making sure I couldn’t run, effectively caging me there, still perched on the couch.

What made it okay was that I could have easily scrambled over the back of the lovely piece of furniture to safety if that became necessary.

Which it wouldn’t—of course it wouldn’t—but my brain needed the safety net.

“It’s Paxton, isn’t it?”

“Yessir,” I replied evenly, putting my feet on the floor so he had to make room or crowd me. Thankfully, he edged back as I straightened to my full height, still having to tip my head to hold his gaze. “I work for Colton Gates.”

“That’s right. He brought you with him from the state’s attorney’s office.”

“He did.”

He gave me a grin then, the one that deepened the laugh lines in the corners of his lovely peaty-brown eyes.

Handsome man who gave off a feeling of stability and fun, kindness and money, all at the same time, and of course I understood why every woman who came into the office, our clients, always watched him walk by when he deigned to be on any floor but his own.

“So,” he said, studying me, “what made you strike up a conversation with my daughter?”

It was his focus, singularly on me, plus the serious tone, that made my flight reflex kick in. And logically I knew he wasn’t going to grab my arm and make me tell him. He wasn’t about to hurt me, but I took two steps to the left anyway, so that my back was to the room and no longer the couch.

“Are you all right?” He tipped his head, and I heard his tone change from questioning to a trace of worry.

“Yessir, I’m fine,” I answered too fast, ending up having to exhale slowly so I didn’t begin either stuttering or hyperventilating.

I was so much better with women, kids, and dogs. And cats. Cats were good too.

Shit.

“Paxton?”

Double shit. He sounded concerned. “If you’ll excuse me for a second,” I said, and tried to slip by him.

He caught my arm, and instantly I felt my face heat, my stomach fill with ice, and a noticeable tremor ran through me.

I wasn’t having a full-blown panic attack, but it was close.

As usual, even as it happened, I had to try and identify the trigger.

I was betting it was his height and his proximity, but I would need to think about it again later when I could breathe.