“Yep.”

“Of course it is.” He groaned. “Of all the things I worried about, Cole Masten’s risk to townsfolk was never one of them.”

“The sheriff’s not as worried about our townsfolk’s safety as…” I shifted against the counter and found a new position.

“As what?” His hand closed around the tea glass, and I mentally urged him on.

“Well.” I shrugged. “This is a carry state. We value our personal safety. I think he’s a little concerned your Californian Golden Boy is going to get himself shot.”

The glass of tea froze halfway to his lips. He coughed out a laugh, then smiled cautiously. “You’re kidding.”

“I am definitely not kidding.”

“You can’t shoot Cole Masten. No one is shooting Cole Masten.” He stood as if he was going to defend Cole himself, the base of the tea glass hitting the table, a splash of it coming out. Well damn.

“Well, sure. As long as he isn’t running around hurting people. But you might want to have a chat with him. Let him know these country bumpkins are armed.”

“Nobody just ‘has a chat’ with Cole. He has layers of people to go through for that.”

“Well, then.” I waved my hand. “Tell all those people.”

Ben stared at me for a long moment, a twitch in his jaw jumping.

“You want dinner?” I finally asked. “I’m making fried catfish.”

“Yes.” The word was out of his lips before I even named the meal. I turned back to the fridge, the furious tempo of his fingers against keys resuming. The poor man. I swore, at the way he scrambled for food, I didn’t think, prior to Quincy, he’d ever been properly fed.

CHAPTER 14

When you spend half a decade of your life with someone, the ending should occur in a personal fashion. Face to face, hand in hand. Words spoken out of lips kissed, tears shed on seen cheeks. It shouldn’t be easy; it should be painful and honest; it should take hours instead of minutes; it should involve yells and cries and discussions, but it should be substantial. A moment thought over and worked out. Not the casual and simple act of a stranger handing over a legal envelope.

Cole was in the downstairs gym when it came, on his back, his arms straining upward, his third set almost done when the door opened. He stared at the ceiling, and worked through the remaining reps, his breath huffing out on each upward press, his mind thinking through what he would say, and how he would say it. The apology, that was what he was stuck on. Was an apology required when he injured someone who she was fucking? It wasn’t just the fucking that was the problem. Fucking wasn’t allowed, but it was understandable, the animalistic need of one body to couple with another, a million years of survival instincts pushing through veins eager to procreate. The issue was that this hadn’t been just fucking. This had been a relationship, an affair. Cole had heard her tell that prick that she loved him. That was the problem. And a hundred sets weren’t fixing the problem. He racked the barbell and sat up. Looked right, his bare chest heaving, he was surprised to see a man in the doorway. Not Nadia after all. All that deliberation over what to say, for nothing.

“What?” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the big space.

“I’m with Benford, Casters, and Sunnerberg, Mr. Masten.” Way too many names stacked in one short sentence. Cole wiped his forehead warily and saw his assistant standing behind the man, his face tight.

“And?”

“I’m just dropping this off.” He held out a crisp white folder¸ COLE MASTEN stamped on the front as if born that way, the folder thick enough to contain a hundred headaches. A lawsuit. Probably from that prick director. He was surprised it had taken this long. It’d been almost four days since that night. He nodded to Justin, and his assistant sprang forward.

“I’ll take it.”

“We’ll just need your signature of acceptance, Mr. Masten,” the stranger said.

Cole held out a hand and accepted the clipboard and pen, his hand damp when it gripped the instrument, his signature sloppy across the bottom of the receipt. He held it out, ignoring the man’s words of thanks. Leaning back on the bench, his hands wrapping around the iron, his palms bit into the grip.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Justin spoke from the doorway.

He didn’t lift his head, didn’t look away from the ceiling. “Let Tony handle it. Settle with the prick.”

“It’s from Nadia.”

That caused his head to lift, and he ducked out from under the bar, his eyes meeting Justin’s. “The package?” Reality didn’t come in a sudden burst of understanding; it was a slow dawn. Not a lawsuit. If not a lawsuit then… “No.” He shook his head. “No.”

“I haven’t opened it, but…”

“She’s just mad. Embarrassed. Hell, I don’t know how cheating wives feel. But she wouldn’t have…” He pushed to his feet, grabbing the envelope out of Justin’s hands, his fingers ripping at the seal, pulling out the thick stack of documents, stapled together at the top, the court’s stamp already present, crooked in its imprint, as if this life changing document hadn’t been worth a straight stamp. Jesus, the paps would have it by now, the news, his agent… he flipped the first page over. “Has Owen called yet?” Owen Phiss, his publicist. Also Nadia’s publicist. Christ, how intertwined could two lives be? He thrust the papers at Justin and stepped away, his hands clenching into fists, his mind trying to sort through too many emotions at once, the wave of them competing for the narrow channel that was his sanity.