Page 24 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)
I shake my head because I don’t trust myself to speak, don’t trust my voice not to shake or tremble or do some other thing that would convey how deeply his knowledge of my likes and needs has affected me.
Since signing the papers that effectively ended my marriage, I’ve been plagued with this sense of loneliness, an intrinsic sadness stemming from the teenage girl inside of me who met and fell in love with Aubrey, who wanted things with him she’ll never get to have, who worries what the world will look and feel like now that she doesn’t belong to anyone.
Now that there’s not a single person in this world who loves her, who cares if she eats or sleeps or hurts.
I thought I had put that girl away, stuffed her and all of her feelings down into a box where her worries and wants could no longer bother me, but here she is, right on the surface, ready to shed tears and spill truths to a man who only cares because he has to.
Cal ends the call, pocketing his phone. “Beck should be here soon. Would you like me to get you something to hold you over while we wait?”
I drop his gaze, wanting nothing more than to be alone with my wayward emotions. “No, thank you.”
This time, he takes my dismissal for what it is, rapping his knuckles on the desk before turning on his heel. “I’ll leave you to it.”
When he’s gone, it takes me a while to get back into the groove, but I manage to eventually.
By the time Cal comes back—with Agent Beckham and bags of food in tow—I’m done with my speech and my stomach is wrapping itself around my spine.
All of which means I’m feeling incredibly grateful when Cal hands me my food.
That feeling, coupled with the warmth and weight of the plate in my hand, plus the subtle savory and spicy scent wafting into my nostrils, has me moaning with delight.
“Mmmm. This smells amazing.” I hit a little shoulder shimmy that would be embarrassing if I weren’t too starved to care about such things. “Thank you,” I say to Cal as he hands me my ginger beer.
“Beck’s the one who made the stop,” he reminds me, tipping his chin in the direction of the other man who’s been standing near the door, quietly watching our exchange. I catch his eye, holding his steely gaze for as long as I can bear to.
“Thank you, Agent Beckham.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
A tense silence follows our exchange, and I can see both men preparing to retreat.
For some reason, the idea of them leaving me here to eat alone when they’re probably going to sit down and consume the food they ordered together doesn’t sit right with me, so I find myself issuing an invitation I probably shouldn’t.
“You could eat in here if you’d like,” I start, holding out a hand to gesture at the conference table where Monique and I usually share lunches.
Agent Beckham looks to Cal, giving him a subtle shake of his head. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks with every second that passes with my hand still hanging in the air, so I bring it down and pray the embarrassment isn’t showing on my face. Confirmation that it is comes in the form of Cal’s tight smile.
“That’s a generous offer, Selene. We’d be happy to take you up on it, but only if you join us.
” He crosses the room to the table, looking at Agent Beckham, who grimaces but moves over as well.
While I gather my things to move over to our makeshift dining area, I hear the low murmur of Cal’s voice along with the soft rustle of plastic bags from a different restaurant.
I can’t make out everything, but I can tell he’s trying to inspire a change in his partner’s attitude.
Whatever he says works because Agent Beckham’s demeanor is noticeably more relaxed when I sit down in the seat they left for me at the head of the table.
It’s odd being between them. Hell, it’s odd seeing them seated, but the feeling doesn’t last for long as we tuck into our respective meals.
Cal forces us into a conversation that’s stilted at first but grows more comfortable when both Agent Beckham and I accept that he won’t allow us to exist in silence.
Because I’m starved and ravenous, I finish my meal before both of them, which gives me the chance to sit back and observe the two of them together.
I find myself equally captivated by the men, desperate to know more than what’s right on the surface of their bond.
It’s harder than it should be for someone like me who’s been perfecting the skill of decoding people for decades.
I started doing it as a kid, memorizing the hallmarks of normalcy in order to fit in better with the kids around me, using that information to paint different faces on the masks I used to hide my own quirks because people were more comfortable around me when I was nothing more than a reflection of them.
Miming the way they spoke, repeating their jokes, telegraphing their mannerisms.
It became a vital skill, one I could use to blend in or ease my transitions into new spaces, to ensure that people felt comfortable around me, even if I never truly felt comfortable around them.
This isn’t that, though. I’m not using the skill because I feel like I need it to survive this interaction; I’m using it because I want to understand why, in my mind, they are two pieces of the same whole.
I search for an answer to that question in the inside jokes that reveal the depth of their history, in the smile lines that crinkle the corners of Cal’s eyes and the spark of rare openness that flashes across Agent Beckham’s face when they tell me about the first case they closed together in their days at the Bureau.
But even with all that, I feel dissatisfied, unable to point to any quantifiable reason that explains it.
Monique would roll her eyes if she heard me say that. Then she’d launch into a whole speech about how you can’t break people and their bonds down into neat little science terms like negative and positive charges or chemical bonds. She’d tell me that some people just work.
And there’s no denying that these two men work. They belong together in a way that makes me ache with envy, that makes me want to insert myself between the two of them, not to disrupt their bond, but to be a part of it.