Page 110 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“He’s devastated.”

“I’ll figure it out,” she assures me. “Tell him not to worry. I know exactly how to deal with the Gallos.”

Inwardly, I cringe. She touches my arm lightly. Or, I should say—the fabric of my sleeve. “Talk soon?”

I nod and keep walking.

32

CHRISTIAN

He’s late, which shouldn’t get to me the way it does, but it does. I’m currently extremely sick ofwaitingfor Gibson to show up where he’s supposed to be.

I’ve already sorted his emails, fixed the double-booked disaster he made of his schedule, and brewed a second pot of coffee because I mainlined the first one.

He finally comes into his home office around one, dressed in a hoodie with a pocket across the front—unexpected—and pajama pants. Shocking. His hair is a disaster, and he hasn’t shaved.

“I’m hungover,” he says. “Don’t give me shit.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You did earlier.”

I roll my eyes and get back to the spreadsheet I’m trying to make sorting all his employees, properties, and relevant contacts. I’m not great at spreadsheets, but messing with this one gives me something to do when I’m having trouble focusing. “I’m a little hungover, too,” I mumble.

He collapses onto his seat behind the desk and taps his mouse to light up his desktop screen.

“How’s your friend?” I ask after a few minutes.

“A little fucked up.”

“Were you able to help?”

“I will be, I think. I hope.”

“How old’s his kid?”

Gibson drops his hand on the desk and gives me a flat stare. “What are we doing today, Christian? Are we working, or are we taking the day off?”

“You’re not dressed for work.” I sincerely wish I could keep my mouth shut sometimes. “Is there some reason we can’t work and have a conversation at the same time?”

He sighs. “No.”

“I was just curious.”

“He’s six. Vaughn is six.”

I nod. “Cool. I hope everything works out.”

“Thank you,” he says curtly.

I get back to my spreadsheet, and he starts clicking away. After about half an hour, he leaves the office and comes back with a bottle of water and a fresh mug of coffee. He’s chugging the water by the time he sits down, and I get caught up watching his throat for a few seconds too long. I’m tempted to offer to get him something to take for his hangover, but I remain quiet.

I’ve begun to wonder whether I fucked up at the door this morning. I’d been shitty, and he obviously had a rough night. Mine wasn’t as bad as I told him it was. I did sleep for more than an hour. Not much more, but technically, sleep happened. I got a lot of writing done, too. It’s actually not that hard to make blue balls poetic. Desire, it turns out, is more fun to write about than regret or grief. And blue balls marry the themes nicely.

At some point in the afternoon, he strips off his sweatshirt, leaving an old Pearl Jam concert t-shirt he must have gotten when he was a little smaller because it’s snug. His clothes have me confused—compartment-wise. He’s way too approachable-hot instead of corporate-hot. Neither is resistible, but this oneisn’t my boss. He’s more like a friend who had a rough night, and I missed.

I set my laptop aside. “Can we talk for a minute?”

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