Page 67 of Broken Boss

He’s trying to change things. For the better.

But if that’s true, what does it say about Stephen being here? I reach across the table, gripping his hand so tight he looks up in surprise.

“Stephen. You didn’t do this. Don’t forget that; you shouldn’t be here.” After twelve years, I finally say out loud the promise I made the day he got convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

I just have no idea how.

By the time I get back to the house, I’m so exhausted from traveling—and lying to myself and Stephen—that seeing Chris in the foyer startles a gasp from me.

“Where have you been?”

He doesn’t look at the hand pressed to my chest or the purse gripped tightly. His dark eyes bore into mine, but now they don’t stir desire, just anxiety.

“I went to Fishkill.”

I try to make it sound casual, but Chris’s face reddens and Frank slinks nervously into the living room.

He steps forward and takes hold of my forearms. My purse drops to the ground. His grip is gentle but insistent, his gaze imploring.

“Why would you do that? Why didn’t you just ask me to drive you? I’ve been worried?—”

Chris catches on the last word. Embarrassment flashes across his face.

Of course he was worried about me. Dropping my eyes and biting my lip, I explain, “I just had to see Stephen.”

With an exasperated sigh, Chris lets go and steps back, running a hand through his hair. It’s a nervous habit, one that I find frustratingly attractive.

“You drive me crazy. And Frank, he was acting like something was wrong. You didn’t answer my calls.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.” Digging through my purse pockets, I pull out my cell and see two missed calls and texts. “It was on silent.”

Chris turns and paces away into the house, hands on his hips. He looks angry, worried, confused. I follow, too tired to care that I probably look less than impressive in my jeans and white T-shirt. As he takes me in, Chris tousles his hair again, eyes going to the ceiling.

“Autumn, I know he’s your brother. I know who he is. But I need you to tell me; I need it to come from you.”

Surprised, I drop the purse into an armchair in the living room.

“You know…”

Chris waits, but when I don’t finish, he nods wearily. “Yes. I know who Stephen Cooper is.” His face is serious, eyes pinning me in place, expectant but not forceful. “I know Cavendish isn’t your last name.”

My body goes cold, then flushes with heat.

The last decade of hard work, of building a new name for myself, literally, might be ruined this very moment.

“I need you to tell me,” he repeats quietly.

I drop into the armchair, completely oblivious to the purse digging into my back. With a low whine, Frank is at my side, his big head in my lap. I stroke his ears blindly, trying to find comfort in this sudden wash of anxiety and adrenaline.

Chris sits across from me on the stylish and totally impractical leather sofa. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes intense.

With a deep breath, it all comes spilling out.

“Stephen is my brother. My older brother. He’s been in prison for twelve years.”

Chris barely nods at this part, and I wonder just how much he remembers about Stephen’s trial—about being the prosecutor.

“You were the one who opposed him in court. You were the one who got him sentenced.”

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