Page 156 of Lady and the Hitman
Trevor didn’t speak. He just waited.
“I fell in love with a man who has secrets. Deep ones. And I found out about them in the worst possible way. I saw something …” I trailed off, the memory of the flash drive twisting in my stomach. “Something that made me question everything.”
He handed the can back. “You don’t have to tell me the details. But you can, if you want.”
I took another sip, then passed it back, letting the silence stretch between us.
“And my parents are really going to lose everything,” I said finally. “Everything they’ve built their lives around.”
“I’m so sorry, Zara,” he said, his voice gentle.
I turned to look at him. His face was open, soft with concern. And something else.
“I’m not saying this to overstep,” he said quickly, “but you’re not the only one who cared about your parents. Or that place. I’d do anything to help. You know that, right?”
The tears that had been threatening all night spilled over.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whispered. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“You’re still you,” he said. “Still the woman who writes truth to power. Still the girl who used to stop and talk to every plant in the nursery like they were people.”
That made me laugh, even as I wiped my eyes.
“I miss her,” I said.
“She’s not gone,” he said softly. “She’s just … overwhelmed.”
I looked back out at the water.
The waves kept coming.
Just like the truth. Just like grief.
Trevor’s hand brushed mine, tentative. Warm.
I didn’t pull away.
Not yet.
His hand lingered beside mine. He didn’t say anything at first—just let the moment stretch, his fingers barely touching the edge of my skin. Then, softly, he said, “I’ve missed you, Zara.”
The words were quiet, but they landed like a wave crashing against rock. Familiar. Inevitable.
“I think about us more than I should,” he added, voice rough with restraint. “Some nights, I imagine what would’ve happened if we hadn’t let it fall apart.”
I turned to look at him, but he wasn’t watching me. His eyes were on the horizon, the wind brushing his hair back from his forehead. He looked older than he had the last time we were together—but in a good way. More grounded. Like time had worn down the sharp edges.
“What do you imagine?” I asked, my voice thin.
He glanced over then, and this time he held my gaze. “I’d have a key to your townhouse. Maybe we’d have a little garden out back. You’d wake up at four in the morning to write your column, and I’d bring you coffee and try to convince you to go back to bed.”
A soft, involuntary smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “You were never good at early mornings.”
“No,” he said, “but I was good at loving you.”
The quiet that followed was loud in my chest. It wrapped around my ribs and squeezed.
It would be so easy, wouldn’t it?
