Page 62 of The Billionaire's Wife

So why hadn’t I?

I blew out a breath.

I didn’t have a concrete answer that went beyond it not feeling…right.

I turned off the lights and pulled my office door shut behind me, pausing to check that it had locked, before heading back out to reception. I took a seat in one of the guest chairs and pulled out my phone, then tapped to open the word game I enjoyed when I had a minute of downtime.

I’d made it through three levels when the door opened and a burly guy in a messenger service uniform lumbered in.

I stood, tucking my phone in my pocket as I rose. “Can I help you?”

“Delivery for Tristan Lee.”

I held out my hand. “I’ll take it.”

“You’re Mr. Lee?”

There was no reason for my hesitancy to admit it. But it was there, nonetheless. “I’ll see that he gets it.”

The messenger scowled and looked like he wanted to object.

“Or you can come back tomorrow. But the receptionist will probably tell you the same thing. I’m only still here because Mr. Lee was expecting the delivery.” What was I doing? I opened my mouth with the intention of clearing it all up but was cut off.

“Fine.” The guy grunted and thrust a cardboard envelope at me, then a clipboard. “Sign here.”

“Been a while since I’ve seen a clipboard. I figured everyone was electronic these days.”

The guy shrugged.

I scrawled an unreadable signature on the receipt line, barely finishing before he yanked the clipboard away and squinted at the squiggle.

With a grunt, he turned and stomped out of the office.

I waited another couple of minutes before locking up and exiting myself. I really didn’t want to run into the guy in the parking lot. Or ever again. Did the Ortegas have their own goon delivery service? Apparently. All brawn, no brain, but the envelope had reached its destination, so maybe that was all that mattered.

I kept alert as I made my way to the car, but I didn’t see a messenger service truck or the guy anywhere. That should have put me more at ease than it did.

The drive home was typical, but I was wired by the time I reached my parking space in the condo’s garage. Even as I hurried to the elevators, I imagined footsteps that echoed mine just slightly off rhythm. But there was no reason for anyone to follow me.

Mr. Ortega knew where I lived. He knew where I worked. And he’d released us from any threat of retribution.

Basically.

I guessed I wouldn’t know for sure until I read through whatever document was in the envelope I carried. And his retainer. Ugh. Should I return that? I didn’t want his money. There was no situation where money from the Ortegas was legit.

On the other hand, returning the money might be seen as rejecting his deal. And that wasn’t what I was going for either.

I offered a tight smile to the small family that climbed into the elevator at the lobby. Their daughter jumped from one foot to the other as she waited for permission to push the button for their floor. Then she pushed the already lit button for my floor for good measure.

I leaned against the back wall as the car ascended. It paused on the family’s floor and they got off, the little girl dancing and hopping as her parents laughed. It stirred a sense of longing in my chest that I didn’t know what to do with.

Finally, I reached the top floor and made my way down the hall to my place. I unlocked the door—it was good Faith had been keeping it locked while she was home—closed it behind myself, and locked it again, then took off my shoes.

“Tristan?” Faith’s voice called out and after a moment, her face appeared poking around the corner from the kitchen. She smiled. “I was starting to worry.”

“Sorry.” I held up the envelope. “I had to wait for a messenger delivery from the Ortegas.”

Faith stepped fully into the hall. She wrapped her arms around her waist and I could almost feel the nerves pumping off of her. “Oh?”

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