Page 39 of Sweet Deal
The world suddenly, and frighteningly, tilted on its axis. One second Rachel was pleading with Michael from the safety of the room, the next she was swinging her legs out, settling beside him on that impossibly narrow fourth-story ledge. Jim’s breath hitched; his heart hammered against his bruised ribs with a force that made him wince, a pain completely separate from the terror gripping him. He’d told her two minutes. It hadn’t even been one.
He’d just reached the apartment doorway, Kathy and Lily safely on their way down with one of the officers who’d arrived, when he saw Rachel make her move. His instinct was to yell, to rush forward, but some deeper, horrified part of him knew any sudden action could send them both tumbling.
“What the hell is she doing?” one of the remaining officers muttered, his voice tight with a tension that mirrored Jim’s own. His hand hovered near his radio, his stance alert.
“We’ve got eyes on the subject, young male on the ledge, fourth floor. Child and mother are clear. Social worker is on the ledge with suspect.”
“Her name is Rachel Sweet. The boy is Michael Benson, seventeen, schizophrenic. He’s hearing voices.”
The officer nodded. As he repeated the information into the radio Jim stepped fully into the room, his gaze locked on Rachel and Michael. He had to trust her, trust her training, her connection with this kid. But damn, it was hard. He could hear her voice, incredibly calm, a low murmur against the sudden, awful silence that had fallen now that the sirens were cut. He couldn’t make out the words from here, but he could see the subtle shift in Michael’s posture as she spoke, the way his head tilted slightly towards her.
Transmission done, the officer started to inch past Jim, and he shot out an arm, barring the officer’s path. “Hold it. She said if you go near that window, you’ll spook him. Make it worse.”
The officer hesitated, his eyes flicking from Jim to the precarious scene on the ledge. “Sir, my priority is their safety.”
“So is hers,” Jim bit out, never taking his eyes off Rachel. “She’s an experienced social worker. This is what she does. Just… give her a chance.” He willed the man to understand, to see the quiet strength in Rachel, the almost hypnotic way she was engaging Michael.
On a sigh, the officer nodded, but like Jim, he seemed ready to pounce.
Every muscle in Jim’s body was coiled tight. He was useless here, a spectator to the most terrifying moment of his life. He could only watch, his own breathing shallow, as Rachel continued her quiet conversation. He saw her hand move, a slow, deliberate gesture, and then, unbelievably, Michael’s head turned slightly, his gaze seeming to focus on her.
Time warped, stretching and compressing. The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the faint sounds from the street below and the almost inaudible murmur of Rachel’s voice. Jim found himself cataloging every detail—the way the slight breeze ruffled Rachel’s hair, the rigid set of Michael’s shoulders, the sheer, terrifying drop beneath them.
Then, a movement. Michael shifted, his body angling infinitesimally back towards the window opening. Jim’s heart stuttered. Was this it? Was she getting through?
Slowly, agonizingly, Michael swung one leg back inside. Then the other. He was in, collapsing onto the floor, his shoulders shaking with sobs.
The officer moved in, another only steps behind him. With a quiet professionalism, they approached Michael, speaking to him in low, reassuring tones. Paramedics, who must have arrived with the police, were being ushered in.
Rachel remained on the ledge a moment longer, her face pale in the afternoon light. Jim darted across the room, past the officers, the paramedics, and the troubled youth who had set the terrifying scene in motion.
Arms outstretched, Jim grabbed hold of her wrist. With what looked like a monumental effort, one arm on the windowsill, the other still firmly in his grip, she maneuvered herself back through the window, her legs unsteady as she stepped onto the solid floor.
An overwhelming flood of relief threatened to buckle his own knees. He didn’t say anything, couldn’t. He just pulled her into his arms, holding her tight, feeling the tremors that now racked her body. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her, the scent of sunshine and unimaginable courage. The world narrowed to this single point, this woman in his arms, safe.
When he finally eased her back, his hands still gripping her shoulders as if afraid she might disappear, he searched her face. “Rachel…”
She looked up at him, a shaky smile touching her lips. He couldn’t stop himself. He leaned down and kissed her. It wasn’t for show, not for the town, not for family. This was for him, for her. A kiss that poured out every ounce of terror, relief, and a love so fierce it stole his breath. It was a promise, a claim, a desperate acknowledgment of everything she’d become to him in such a short, chaotic time.
Pulling back, resting his forehead against hers, he let out a ragged breath. “Please,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, “tell me this isn’t just another day at the office?”
Chapter Seventeen
The Sweet kitchen hummed with its usual evening chaos—a symphony of sizzling pans, clattering plates, and overlapping conversations. Hours had passed since the terrifying incident at the Benson apartment, hours filled with police reports, concerned check-ins with Kathy, and a quiet, almost numb drive back to the ranch with Jim. Now, Rachel stood at the counter slicing tomatoes, the familiar rhythms of dinner preparation a welcome anchor after the day she’d had.
“Pass the salt?” her mom called from the stove, barely looking up from the sauce she was stirring.
Jim, who had somehow been seamlessly absorbed into the family’s cooking routine, reached for the shaker and handed it over, his fingers brushing Rachel’s arm as he moved past her. The brief contact sent a warm flutter down her spine, a reaction that had nothing to do with the day’s adrenaline and everything to do with the man himself.
She’d given a brief, sanitized version of the day to her family—a difficult case, a teen in crisis, resolved safely—and left it at that. No one else in this busy kitchen knew what they’d experienced hours earlier—the terrifying moments on that ledge, the desperate relief of safety, the kiss that had changed everything.
Stepping aside, Jim leaned against the counter, not saying much, but every few minutes, his eyes would find hers across the busy kitchen, reminding her of his earlier unwavering support. Not just his physical presence at the Benson home, standing as a silent guard, but the absolute, unquestioning belief he’d shown in her ability to handle Michael—it had been a lifeline.
“Earth to Rachel.” Jillian nudged her with an elbow. “You’re butchering that poor tomato.”
Rachel glanced down, realizing she’d been mindlessly slicing the same spot. “Sorry.” She readjusted her grip on the knife, pretending not to notice the way Jim smiled at her sister calling her out on her distraction.
“Rachel, honey, can you grab another can of diced tomatoes from the pantry?” Her mother waved toward the far corner of the kitchen. “Maybe two.”
