Page 54 of Free to Judge
Leaving him sputtering, I turn around and continue to climb the stairs. After a few seconds, his footfalls pick up the pace behind me. In unison, we hit the landing, before I take the lead and head into the room I’ve made into my home office. Striding over to the cabinet that holds a tray of liquor, I’m curious about Declan’s opinion as he inspects the space. I smirk, as whisky splashes into two heavy crystal tumblers, hearing his occasional huff of laughter or a mutter of “impressive” depending on where he is in the room.
His sharp intake of breath tells me where his eyes just landed in the room.
Turning, I hand him the glass before I remark, “You’re treating it like it’s more important than the other items I hung up in my office.”
His head swivels in my direction, eyes bulging. “Maybe because it is?”
“I guess that’s a matter of perspective. Personally, I’m more impressed by the fact I still managed to graduate law school only a year behind since I needed to train.” I lift the scotch to my lips and relish the smoky caramel texture burning down my throat.
“I never expected to see anything like this up close.”
“It’s shiny, for sure,” I remark drolly.
He slugs back part of his own drink. “I mean, Jon talked about you being a runner.”
“I think the term you’re looking for is he bitched about it.” It’s clear to me Declan considers Jon a friend. Despite my previous irritation, I’m grateful he has that in the murky world he lives in, and Jon? Well, my cousin is buried in his own shades of gray despite our very blue-blood childhood. “Was it along the lines of me being obsessed?”
“That’s putting it mildly, but this?” Declan waves his glass at the medal, which showcases the pinnacle of my running career, carefully framed by Uncle Phil along with preserved flowers, all laid out on top of an American flag. “Kalie, you won a gold medal at the Olympic Games.”
I lift a foot and point to the infamous five rings on the foot that doesn’t have my amaryllis tattoo emblazoned on it. “Got some pretty ink afterward too.”
“Seriously? That’s all you have to say about it?”
I think about how to put this into perspective for him. “Declan, what is the most defining moment of your FBI career?”
He answers immediately, “When I finished Quantico. When I knew I was off my probationary period.”
“Not when you made Special Agent?”
“No,” he answers slowly.
“Do you know what mine is as a runner?”
“You wouldn’t say that?” He jerks his chin toward my medal.
I shake my head and move toward my desk. Picking up a photo, I hold it out to him. “It’s this.”
He takes it, looks down, and immediately bursts into laughter. I can’t prevent the grin that crosses my face as the rusty soundechoes in my office. He takes a drink and snickers before he exclaims, “The great Keene Marshall in a tutu?”
I step next to him. Resting my head against his shoulder, I glance down at the photo of my dad wearing the bright pink abomination right along with me, my mom, and my twin sisters in our first race. “He made a promise.”
“Was this your first race?” At my nod, he surmises, “That’s why this photo is more important than that medal?”
“Exactly. Just like when you finished training was more important than any other milestone.” I lift my glass to salute his excellent deductions.
He hands me my photo back. After placing it back on my desk, Declan’s agitated once again. I place my drink down and slide my hands up his forearms stilling his motion. “Talk. Tell me what happened.”
“You want the sprint or the marathon edition?”
“Whichever you need. Actually, do you have a dollar?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Give it to me,” I demand. While he fishes out his wallet, I spin around before yanking a piece of stationery closer and scribbling out a contract that permits Declan to disclose what he needs to, as per attorney-client privilege. When I’m done, I sign it before straightening. When I do, he’s crowding me—his front to my back. My heart leaps, not out of fear, but the sheer thrill of feeling his body press against mine so fully. Breathlessly, I hand him the pen and paper. “Fork over the money and sign this.”
Intrigued, he scans it before doing what I asked—first slapping money in my hand. Scrawling his signature on the bottom of thepage, he murmurs, “Okay, so maybe the most impressive item on your wall is that law degree.”
“If we were defined by a single moment in time, most of us wouldn’t exist.” His face turns thoughtful as he considers my words. “The world doesn’t revolve around one defining instance, but by the hard work that goes into who we are and what we do if things don’t work out the way we expect them to.”
