Page 148 of Muddy Messy Love

Do you know much about VPNs? I might need to leak something anonymously online.

His reply comes immediately.

Liam:

Sure do, little lady. Happy to help whenever you want.

Good to know.

The dignity and restraint I had last night that stopped me from Ubering to Cole’s house has dwindled to naught over the last 1,076 minutes, and I’m itching. Itching with a kaleidoscope of emotions, desperate to see him, but I have a business to run, and that’s in part what keeps me whole.

From behind my counter, I glare at Leo’s starburst clock, waiting for that pointy gold hand to click that last minute to thetop. Four p.m. That’s the deal I cut with myself, and that’s when Operation Find Cole will commence.

I hold my breath, jackhammering my knee up and down, until… Bingo. Then I grab my satchel, race out the front to collect my sign, and lock up the shop in time to make the first train.

Forty-three jittery minutes and two more letter reads later, I disembark the second, one block south of Cole’s new firm, and run. I run as fast as I can, turning heads as I tear through the sunny street, sidestepping prams and school kids, shoppers and dog walkers.

The cream brick terrace Google showed me soon appears, the number seventy-five standing proud on a glazed front door. There’s no other hint of the building’s purpose, but a sign greets me upon entry, promising legal help, with an arrow pointing up a flight of tan carpeted stairs. There’s no receptionist when I reach the top either, only an empty desk and acrylic sign asking clients to please knock twice on the red door, then take a seat.

I stare at that shiny red door, swiping my sweaty brow as my chest heaves. Cole’s name hangs printed on more plastic adjacent, which feels strange because in my mind, his name should be stamped into solid gold or at least circled by lights. I scan my shagadelic surroundings: the stripy beige wallpaper, the tan carpet that didn’t stop at the stairs, the splashes of retro orange and red, the old brown air conditioner wheezing away on the wall. This office is worlds away from the gold, glitz, and shiny terrazzo of Benedict Kane, but it’s cosy—relaxed—and I like it.

Willing courage, I step towards the door and knock twice. “Come in.” Cole’s reply is immediate, and those two tiny words are enough to make my racing heart trip over itself like a clumsy puppy, hysterical to hear its owner return.

God, that voice.

With trembling fingers, I open the door and step inside. The sight of Cole in the flesh after four long months steals my ability to breathe, but our eyes lock, exchanging a hundred words before a single one is uttered.

Cole stands from his chair. “Angel.”

God, that name.

I swallow. “Hi.” Then continue to stare, utterly Cole-struck. Despite rehearsing everything I intended to say, I’d forgotten what it’s like to be in this man’s presence—the magnetism that swirls between us and the power Cole effortlessly emits. The room smells like him too. That heady, woodsy, sophisticated scent that feels like home. It’s dizzying, but I manage to nudge myself lucid and clear my throat. “The letter…,” I say, choked by a level of emotion even I didn’t predict. “Tell me it’s all—” My voice trails off as I notice an elderly lady seated in front of Cole’s desk, her eyes and feathery smile sparkling with curious delight. She gives me the teensiest of nods as if to say, “Carry on. Don’t mind me.”

Cole steps out from behind his desk and strides towards me, but I startle and back away. Immediately, he halts, studying me with that signature WTF line pressed into his frown. “It’s okay,” he says, surrendering his hands in the air. He resumes his approach cautiously as if I might bolt, and he’s right to be wary, because for whatever reason, my flight instinct has kicked in full gear.

“Your letter,” I say, trying to override it. “Is it true? Everything you wrote?” I need to see it—honesty in the depths of his eyes—from where I stand in my flowery field on the very same level as him.

“Yes,” he grits out, his voice low and severe as he stops two metres away, and it’s there in abundance, the honesty. Clear as motherfucking day. Cole thuds his fist against his chest. “Every. Single. Word.” Pained but pretty eyes bore into mine.

His face is weary—devoid of the light it once had—and to know I had anything to do with that kills me. I never let him explain, and I refused to read his letter. When I consider what that must have been like for him, I feel sick to my bones. One strike and he was out.

I scan him from head to toe. Gone are the shiny shoes and designer suit he claims to hate. Gone is the manicured stubble and short, product-preened hair. In their place are well-worn jeans and trusty Chucks—a sea-green polo shirt that matches his eyes. More scruff, and longer locks. He’s wilder and softer, like the jungle that covers his sinewy arm. Like a regular man with feelings, who carries a past, and just wants to be loved like everyone else.

“Please don’t run,” he says. The desperation in his voice glues my feet to the floor. I shake my head, almost imperceptibly, but Cole relaxes his shoulders a smidge.

He glances back to the dear old lady who’s completely enthralled, watching us like she might a favourite daytime soap opera. “Mrs. Taylor, would you mind terribly if—”

With a sweet smile, she huddles to her feet and gathers up her Glomesh purse before he can finish. “I must be off now anyway. The girls are waiting for me at the club. We’re having shots before bingo.” Mrs. Taylor winks, and Cole mouths his thanks.

On her way to the door, she stops at his side, patting his arm with one brittle hand. “That’s her, isn’t it? Good luck, dear.” But her attempt to whisper fails from a foot below Cole’s ear, prompting his cheeks to flush.

Biting back a smile, I avert my gaze to the shaggy carpet, watching Mrs. Taylor in my peripheral vision as she hobbles out the door. Cole closes it behind her, pausing for a beat before turning to face me.

Once again, our eyes lock and speak a thousand silent words. The ocean of tenderness in his wraps me in a sunshine hug, but I also see fear, and Cole stays in front of that door.

“You talk about me to your clients?” I ask, rubbing tiny circles on the inside of my wrist with my thumb.

He shrugs with a half smile. “Mrs. Taylor isn’t exactly a client. She’s a…well… I guess you could say she’s my wise old friend.”

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