Page 98 of Best Laid Plans

I didn't think Agent Fancie saw anything except how annoying Anson was, which, for some reason, pleased the hell out of me. What also pleased me, and shouldn't, was how much I liked being protected by Anson. Where was this man seven years ago? Why did he break us the way he did? Dang it!

Agent Fancie set his coffee cup on my desk. He rose, pulling out a card from the inside of his suit pocket. He laid it on the desk. "Nova, I'd like for your attorney to get in touch with me so we can set up some time to talk to you."

Anson picked up his card.

"Anson, I gotta say this, I don't care what your last name is, but you're pissin' me off, and you don't want to be pissin' off a GBI agent."

"Noted," Anson said cockily, putting Agent Fancie's business card into the inside of his suit jacket.

Maybe it was a male thing—my suit has more pockets than yours?

Anson stood at the door as if making sure to see Agent Fancie left the building. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he turned to face me. "Don't be annoyed. I just—"

"I'm not annoyed." I let out a deep breath. "I'm glad you were here. I didn't know what to do."

"When in doubt, call your lawyer. Lemon charges Beau handsomely for every hour she works for you, so use her. Beau ain't gonna miss the money."

I considered what he said and realized that he knew a hell of a lot about the intricacies of Beau's equation with me.

"Beau came to see me," he explained.

Ah! There it was. Two rich, white men, shooting the shit about me.

Just like Anson Larue, Beau Bodine had a last name that allowed him to do whatever the fuck he felt like. Trevor didn't like it or use his last name in that manner, but he understood the privilege he had.

"And what did Beau tell you?"

"Just that he'd fuck me up if I hurt you ever again."

Now, I hadn't expected that. I mean, it was one thing for Katya to throw out a warning as she had at Fiddler's the other night, quite another for Beau to seek Anson out and tell him to watch himself.

"You afraid of Beau?" I teased.

"Fuck yeah." Anson smiled. "You okay, Sugar?"

"No," I confessed. "It's all a bit much."

"You wanna take tomorrow off with me?" he asked, surprising me.

"Huh?"

He chuckled. "Spend the day with me."

"You want me to play hooky and spend the day with you?"

"I'll pay hooky with you." He winked at me. "Give me a chance, Sugar. If nothing else, you need a break, and we used to always have fun together."

"And how do I know you won't get me thrown into jail again?" I demanded petulantly. I hated seeing the hurt in his eyes—but I was hurting too, and hurt people hurt people!

"I get it," he said somberly. "I fucked up a lot, and you have well-deserved resentment. I don't like it. It hurts like a motherfucker, but I know I've earned it."

He made me feel small with that. This wasn't who I was. I wasn't a rude badass. I was kind and professional. I was pleasant and well-intentioned. I didn't hurt people on purpose. I was kicking at him because he was, as he'd said, on his knees, begging me for a chance.

"I'll let Nina know I'm taking tomorrow off," I said softly.

His face lit up like he'd just found out that Santa Claus was real, and he'd been a good boy this past year.

"Yeah?"

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