Page 27 of Spin Control

There have been whispers about me and Stas for years, so it wasn’t a surprise that Elizabeth Jacobs, with all of her competence and intelligence and skill, is familiar with the rumors and thinly veiled blind items about the wilder nights I’ve had. But no one has ever asked me point-blank if I love him.

It was a sucker punch of a question. But considering her job and what exactly I was asking, she needs to know if my feelings for Stas are clouding my judgment. So I told her the truth—I’m not and have never been in love with Stas. But after that, I wanted to tell her the rest of it. The whole of it. I wanted to place it at her feet like an offering and pray that she accepted it.

But that was disorienting, too. I’ve been conditioned to believe that feeling out of control is unacceptable and must be rectified immediately. Everything in me was screaming that I wrest back control of the situation, my emotions, my thoughts, myself. The only way I could think to do it while simultaneously following my instinct to confide in her was to give her the information in the most shocking way possible. So I twisted her valid question in a way I’m sure she hated and then handed her a very juicy confirmation to try and break through her unflappable exterior and get a real reaction out of her—all so I could feel a modicum of control.

I’ve never told anyone who wasn’t a woman Stas and I were propositioning that the two of us have engaged in outrageously hot threesomes. But I told Elizabeth Jacobs. And I didn’t stick around to see her reaction.

She really might eviscerate me. It would be easy for her to do it. With one message, she could tip off a journalist who would tell the whole world that the delusional “Grantbinsky” shippers aren’t so delusional after all and I wouldn’t even have time to brace for impact. My career would definitely feel the consequences of my off-track actions then.

But when she says, “Are you here to bother me or to ask me a question,” in her usual tone, never looking up from her screen or pausing her typing, I know that we’re good.

“Nice to see you, too, Jacobs.” She’s wearing all black, and her hair is pulled back, as usual. But she’s added a new addition today: glasses. The dark frames have an oversized cat-eye shape that accentuate the delicate curves of her face. They’re sexy as hell. “What are you listening to?”

“My feminine rage playlist.”

I let out a low whistle. “Are you feeling particularly feminine and ragey today?”

She stops typing and meets my eye over the top of her laptop screen. “Feminine rage is my constant state of being.”

Well, damn. Whatever this kink is—disapproving librarian, maybe?—I’m extremely into it.

Elizabeth studies me. “Why do you ask?”

I grin. “I’m in the market for some new music.”

“I might have heard something about that,” she says, straight-faced. “Albrecht mentioned it.”

“Albrecht sent me offensively patriotic polka,” I say, pleased when Elizabeth’s mouth twitches in amusement. “As it turns out, feminine rage might be more in line with what I’m looking for.”

The song changes. The beat is slower, the mood darker. This time, a woman is screaming the lyrics, guttural and low. It’s a song that demands you pay attention to it. It makes me feel like I could go out on a battlefield alone and defeat an entire army with my bare hands.

The song ends in a blaze of guitars and a sustained scream. Elizabeth tilts her head, regarding me thoughtfully. “I’ll send you the link.”

“You will?” I ask, shocked.

She nods.

And then she turns her attention back to her laptop.

I figure that’s my cue to leave.

“Wes?” I stop and turn immediately. Elizabeth’s gaze is softer than I’m used to. “I made those calls.”

I figured we’d never bring up the Bugatti again, so I suck in a surprised breath. “And?”

“It’s on ice.”

On ice. Paused—not killed. I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. “Thank you.”

I expect Elizabeth to turn back to her work, but her eyes stay locked on mine. It isn’t uncomfortable though—instead, it feels as if we’re, for once, on equal footing. As if we both want to remain here for a little bit longer before throwing ourselves off balance.

A high-pitched notification pierces the air. “Well. Duty calls.”

“See you around, Jacobs.”

“Bye, Grant.”

Hours later, when I’m stretching in my hotel room before heading to bed, my phone buzzes—and I almost laugh in disbelief when I see the name “Elizabeth Jacobs” on my screen.