Page 14 of Sinful Memory

“Ms. Penny is finished working for the day,” he reasons, “which means Daddy is done too. For now.” He looks to Arch. “Until we get something else.”

“Yeah, let’s take a break.” Archer brings his gaze around to me, then pushing up to stand, he digs his hands into his pockets and rearranges his keys and phone until he finds comfort. “Switch it off, Mayet. Let’s get a meal and some downtime. Then we’ll figure out where we go next.”

It’s still early, considering we have a few hours of sunlight left, but Fletch is a full-time daddy now, what, with his co-parent absent, and his nanny entitled to finish at five p.m. like her contract stipulates. So I snatch up my phone and push off my chair so the frame squeaks beneath my weight. Ignoring the emails flickering for my attention, I turn off my computer screen.

“I could eat,” I admit quietly. “My blood sugar is feeling a little low.”

“Of course it is.” Archer wanders around to my side of the desk and sets his hand beneath my elbow, like he thinks I might collapse.

Not nearly the case. But I’ve learned, since marrying this man, that his love language is physical touch. Affection. Taking care of me. So if it makes him feel better to touch my elbow and support my weight after a long day at a job that rarely feels rewarding, then that’s what I’ll let him do.

“Did you have lunch, Mayet?”

“Yes.” I slip my phone into my back pocket and escape Archer’s hold long enough to walk to the rack by the door and switch out my white coat for my a-little-too-thin, a-little-old-and-ratty, outside coat.

After slipping my arms through the sleeves, I fix the collar so it sits comfortably, flick my hair out from underneath, then stroll back to my desk and pick up my brown leather briefcase.

Bag? Satchel?

I’m not entirely sure what it should be classified as, since it resembles a briefcase, but comes with handles that make me thinkbag, and a strap that enables me to sling it across my body like a purse.

Whatever it is, it’s sleek and sexy, so as I stuff files inside, including resumés for a prospective lab tech, I don’t really care about its category. Because above all else, it’s practical and perfect.

“I had protein,” I assure my helicopter husband, “and a whole glass of water after my coffee.”

“A whole glass?” he rolls his eyes. “I’m overwhelmed with pride.”

“Her order of priorities is not her fault, really.” Aubree stands from the couch, her purple high-top sneakers squeaking on my tile floor. “The new coffee machine is bitchin’. Brews better than the stuff we buy from the local coffee shop, and we got it for almost free.”

“Almostfree?” Fletch swings his daughter up and tickles her ribs when she squeals. “Who’d you ‘hang out’with to get that, Aubs?”

“Uh, excuse me?” She wrinkles her nose and strides through my office door to her desk, which sits directly outside. It’s an eyesore in an otherwise sleek and ordered space.

But, like Cato, I guess she finds comfort in being near.

“I don’thang outwith anyone these days. Or ever.” She collects her phone and keys, and shuts down her computer while Archer leads me through the door.

“I’m done with men,” she rants. “I’m done with ‘hanging out’. I’m done with all the drama that comes with wanting to mash yours and someone else’s lives together. I’m especially done pining for emotionally unavailable men.”

The elevator dings twenty feet away, the doors opening as Fletch wanders from my office with Mia in tow. Fifi steps out, all of Charlie Fletcher’s sex dreams crammed into one person. But while his eyes zoom in on the button of her blouse, which fights against Newton’s law of push and pull—or whatever that physics lesson I didn’t pay attention to called it—and his jaw clenches with the effort of trapping whatever retort he was going to fire off at Aubree, my attention moves firmly to who Fifi is escorting: the beautiful and somewhat eccentric Doctor Raquel, and an unfamiliar man.

Unlike Fifi’s stiletto heels or Raquel’s ass-kicking combat boots, the newcomer wears sensible and shined dress shoes. His feet are long, and his thighs are thick. Muscular. Gym-familiar. I can tell this even through the black slacks he wears. Just like his white button-up shirt does nothing to hide the fact that his waist is trim, and his chest broad.

“Oh, I’m glad I caught you before you left.” Raquel bounces to a stop in front of me and extends her hand to the man. “Xavier Campbell. Our newest tox lab tech.” Then she gestures my way. “Chief Medical Examiner, and your new boss, Minka Mayet.”

“Chief.” Confident, and handsome—even a married woman can see that—Xavier closes the gap between us and grabs my hand, despite the fact I wasn’t quite ready to offer. Or touch. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He pumps once. Twice. “I’m thrilled to begin work here at the George Stanley. Your reputation precedes you, and Doctor Raquel speaks highly of you.”

“Um…” I’m brutally aware of Archer’s hand on the small of my back—and worse, the savage stare he points toward the handsome Xavier. “Likewise.” I look to Raquel and narrow my eyes. “You’ve hired someone? I thought we were interviewing this week?”

“We were interviewing today,” she grins. “You did not attend the scheduled meets, so I made my decision, confident you would support it.”

“I’m looking forward to your leadership,” Xavier inserts. “So young,” he presses. “And you already run your own facility. Your close-rate is second to none, and your ability to work under pressure is popping up in the medical journals already.”

“My…” I look back up to his dark brown stare. “What?”

“Journals.” He peers to Aubree, who pushes closer, not so ‘done with men’ now. “I read an article only weeks ago that focused on your work on the Opulus Killer case. You saved several lives, Chief, despite that not being your job.”

“Hm.” Archer grabs my hip and yanks me back, before taking Xavier’s hand and squeezing it. “Detective Malone. Your chief was just heading out, so—”

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