Page 36 of The Boss

The officer looked like he wanted to argue.

Zac took a step forward, a mountain of muscle ready to level anything before it. This was a man who wasn’t used to being told no, and even the policeman backed away a bit. “I promise you, Officer…” He glanced at the badge. “Jeffords. If you don’t hand over his belongings, I will have my lawyer on the phone so fast your fucking head will spin.”

The desk officer looked at the cop. The cop looked at Zac. There was a long, tense pause. Then, with visible reluctance, he reached into a plastic evidence bag and slid my phone and empty wallet across the counter toward Zac.

“Thank you,” Zac said coldly, picking them up. Then he turned to me, his anger softening just enough to let somethingelse slip through—something tight, something raw. “Come on.” His voice was quieter now. Not gentle, but steady. “I’m taking you home.”

He guided me out of the station with a hand on the back of my neck. I walked in a sort of trance, his touch searing my skin, the night air hitting me like a slap of reality. Cold asphalt, distant sirens, the glow of a streetlamp casting long shadows over the pavement. The real world, still moving, like nothing had happened.

Zac opened his car door for me and I slid into the passenger seat like someone else was in control of my body. The leather was smooth and cool beneath me, a familiar scent wrapping around me—cologne, the lingering bite of coffee, the faintest hint of something woodsy, like cedar.

A memory surfaced—my very first ride in this car. The rip in my pants, my bare butt on the leather, Queen playing on the stereo, Zac and I testing each other to see what kind of a man the other was. A stark contrast to now.

This ride was silent. No music. No playful jabs. Only the hum of the engine, the muted hiss of tires against wet pavement, and the sound of Zac’s tense breathing.

When he took a turn toward a different part of the city, I forced myself to talk.

“My apartment is the other way.”

“You’re staying at my place tonight,” he replied without taking his eyes off the road.

I stared at him. “But—”

“Chris.”

That was it. Just my name. But there was something in his voice that made my throat close up.

So I nodded and settled into the seat.

* * *

Zac’s penthouse condo in Waterplace Park was exactly what I should have expected—a spacious Art Deco symphony of elegance and luxury, with a private elevator entrance, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a massive wraparound terrace overlooking the river. It was all open-concept designs and modern aesthetics, but not in a sterile, minimalist kind of way some rich guys preferred. The place had warmth, a lived-in coziness that softened the expensive furniture and high ceilings.

Full-height bookshelves lined one wall, stacked with hardcovers, paperbacks, and coffee table books, their spines a riot of color. Vinyl records leaned in neat rows against a vintage turntable, and next to them, an entire shelf was packed with Blu-rays—more than I’d ever seen in one place outside a store. The walls were covered in framed artwork, some abstract, some detailed landscapes, others clearly souvenirs from places far beyond Providence. A bronze statue of a Hindu deity stood on a side table. A Venetian mask with intricate gold filigree hung near the windows. On a chest of drawers, a polished wooden stand held a pair of samurai swords gleaming under the soft light.

I didn’t pause to take it all in. I barely processed it. The moment we stepped inside, Zac shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of a sofa. I did the same with my jacket, taking off my shoes too, before I smeared his lush carpets with mud.

“You should eat something,” he said, heading toward the open kitchen.

I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.”

He turned, eyeing me. “You sure?”

I nodded, arms crossed tight over my chest. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving me cold and shaky. Food was the last thing on my mind.

Zac didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled a mug from the cabinet, filled it with water, and put it in the microwave. A minute later,he dropped a tea bag in, then set the mug on the counter in front of me.

“Drink,” he said.

I dithered but took the mug anyway. The heat seeped into my hands, grounding me. I inhaled the soothing scent of chamomile, steam curling up into my face.

Zac leaned against the counter, arms folded, the sleeves of his black sweater rolled up. To stop my mind from racing, I focused on his big, hairy forearms, the muscles knitting under tanned skin like vines of flesh. He was still quiet. I waited for him to start—to demand details, to lecture me, to tell me what a dumbass I was for walking through the park alone at night.

He didn’t.

He just watched me, eyes unreadable, then finally pushed off the counter. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”

I followed him down the hall. He stopped at a door and pushed it open, revealing a guest room that was as stylish and inviting as the rest of the place. A queen-sized bed, layered with plush pillows, stood between two nightstands with sleek, low-lit lamps. A dark wood dresser held a single decorative vase, its polished surface catching the dim light, while a round velvet ottoman sat in the corner. Thick gray curtains veiled the windows, muting the city skyline beyond.

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