Page 55 of Broken Boss

“Not really. Rough day. Any chance I can stop by?”

“Not here,” he sighs. “I just put the baby down and Gen is sleeping. She needs it. How about O’Reilly’s?”

Minutes later, I’m out the front door, still barefoot and still in a haze of confusion and pain.

The diner door chimes quietly as I walk in, hoping no one notices the lack of shoes. The tile floor is cool on my feet. A shiver runs through me; in my haste to leave the house, I didn’t throw on a jacket, either.

Pajama pants and a T-shirt it is.

Nate is sitting in a booth on the other side of the room. His face screws up in judgment as he watches me power walk toward him, hair a mess and wild-eyed.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“I could ask the same.”

It’s a low blow. Nate looks tired, but not too bad. After all, he went through all this before with Eva when she was a baby—with his first wife. But I doubt he thought he’d be doing it all over again after falling for his private chef.

“Sorry. Like I said, rough day.”

Nate sighs as I settle into the booth. Already the familiarity of the place is calming, draining away the adrenaline of the day. Nate and I used to come here to this little hole-in-the-wall before we made it big. Back then, we’d scrounge around in our pockets for loose change to pay the bill. Now, we make a point to tip handsomely, which is why the seasoned waitress gives us a big grin.

“Your usual, Mr. Sharpe?”

“Chris, please, Dottie. And yeah. Can I add on a peanut butter milkshake?”

“Whipped cream?”

“Of course.”

Nate’s eyes narrow. He knows if I’m getting a milkshake, it must be bad. Dot leaves to put in my order—Nate’s is already in, I’m assuming—and I prepare myself to unravel this crazy story all over again. Taking a deep breath, I dive in.

Ten minutes later, he’s letting it all sink in with wide eyes as I decimate the milkshake. There’s also a basket of perfectly crisp fries, the smell making my stomach rumble, and a pastrami sandwich. Nate’s order mirrors my own, sans milkshake, and with onion rings instead of fries.

“So you definitely recognized the guy. You’re sure.”

“Mmm. Yeah. I never forget a face, especially when it’s someone I had a hand in putting away.”

Guilt flashes through me. Back then, I was heavily considering moving from prosecutor to defense attorney, but I needed to seal the deal with my reputation…win a few more cases. What if…

“Okay, so who is he?”

“Stephen Cooper.” I squint, looking past Nate as I try to put the pieces together. Some of them have already clicked into place. Others, I’m ignoring. Until I know for sure. “The judge decided on a ten-year sentence for manslaughter. A young woman was killed in an alley, out back after a bar fight. Throat slit and the knife left in her ribs. It was his knife.”

I can still remember it like it was yesterday, even though it was twelve years ago. Storming into the courtroom. Stephen Cooper, relatively young back then—he definitely didn’t look like a criminal. But they don’t always. And the cops were so sure. I was, too.

“What if I was wrong?”

It comes out as a mutter, but Nate catches the question and leans in.

“Are you only asking yourself that because of this girl?”

Woman, I want to correct him. Nate has no idea just what kind of woman Autumn is. An enigma. Not just a capable, hard fighter, but a sultry, soft lover. An image of her curled up on the couch with Frank comes to mind—floral-patterned pajama pants and an oversized T-shirt. Her face pink from a shower, painted toes peeking out.

I shake my head, both to rid myself of the memory and in answer to his question.

“I just can’t figure out why she was visiting him.”

Nathan shrugs and picks at the onion rings. “Who knows, maybe he’s an old flame.”

---