“Ugh,” I groan, shifting on his lap. “My phone.”

“Leave it,” he urges, kissing the curve of my neck. “Stay here and fuck. We’ve only had sex once today. Are we losing the magic already?”

I chuckle and kiss his cheek with finality.

“As tempting as that is, it’s Cal’s ringtone.”

I haul myself to stand and rush toward the staircase and up the steps. I only told my boss that I needed a few days away and my team is more than capable of holding down the proverbial fort while I’m away. We’ve got a lot of off-season deals in the works, though. I can’t ghost completely on my clients. This could be something I should handle myself.

Or maybe Zo told him he’s leaving Bagley because I can’t, in his words, keep my legs closed. That would be a much more embarrassing scenario, but I’m prepared for either.

“Hey, Cal,” I reply, winded from racing to catch the call. “What’s up?”

“Where the hell are you?” he demands immediately, discarding social graces.

“I told you I was taking a little time off.” I pick up a pillow from the bed we’ve made love in so many times this week I’ve lost count . The pillow smells of Jared’s clean, addictive scent.

“Yeah, well it’s really bad timing since your biggest client is in the hospital while you’re off smelling the roses or whatever the hell you’re doing.”

I go stock still, the pillow pressed to my face and Jared’s scent still in my nose.

“What’d you say?” The question stumbles over my tongue and out of my mouth. “Which client? Who?”

“Zo. Who else would be your biggest client?”

“Zo?” I can barely breathe deeply enough to push out his name.

Jared appears at the door, leaning one shoulder against the frame with folded arms and a frown.

“Yes, Zo, Banner. Where the hell is your head?”

“What’s . . . what’s wrong? Where is he?”

“Like I said he’s in the hospital,” Cal replies, a touch of impatience evident in his answer. “Has been for three days.”

“Three days? In a hospital?” I shout, confusion, frustration, and anger infighting as I try to get answers. “Zo hates hospitals.”

Ever since he sat in that waiting room while all his family died one by one, he has avoided hospitals at all costs. The thought of him lying in a hospital alone for three days . . .

“What happened?” I demand.

“Apparently, he was up in Vancouver for some standard off-season stuff. They had him doing a stress test when he passed out.”

Zo has never passed out in the ten years I’ve known him, not even from the excruciating pain of his torn ACL.

“The team thought we should know, so they called the office,” Cal says.

“Why didn’t they call me immediately?” Frustration sharpens my tone. “They’re supposed to.”

“Zo told them not to.” Cal’s curiosity crackles across the line. “What the hell is going on, Banner? If you two are having some kind of lover’s quarrel, I don’t need to know, but if this shit is affecting business, you need to fix it.”

“I’ve got everything under control.”

My reply sounds certain despite the chaos my life is spinning into. Jared’s face is stone as he listens to my side of the conversation. Cal’s questions, demands, and thinly-veiled threats nip at me over the phone. And somewhere in a Vancouver hospital, my best friend has suffered alone in what he would consider his personal hell. Nothing is under my control, especially not my galloping heartbeat or the trepidation and anxiety roiling inside.

“You better,” Cal warns. “Get up there, figure out what the hell is going on, and report back.”

He hangs up, and I stare at the phone for a few seconds, immobilized by worry and shock.

“Zo’s in the hospital?” Jared asks softly from his spot at the door.

“Yes.” I swallow tears and choke back all the questions and fears fighting for a way out. Jared is not the person I should talk to about Zo. He can’t be. I walk over to the closet, drag my suitcase out, and start tossing clothes in, not even paying attention to what I’m packing.

“Hey.” Jared gathers my hands in his and forces me to stop long enough to look at him. “Tell me what’s going on, Ban.”

“He passed out.” I close my eyes and try to block all the worst-case scenarios. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, but they’ve been running tests for three days.”

Helpless tears fill my eyes, and I want to be weak for a moment, but there’s no time for weakness. Zo may have no time for my weakness. He’ll need me strong. The worst part is that I’ll have to convince him to let me help at all.

“So you’re leaving?” Jared asks, a muscle flexing along the sharp angle of his jaw.

“I have to.” I shake my hands loose to cup his face, staring into the concern and doubt in his eyes. “Zo hasn’t told them yet that he’s leaving. Cal didn’t know about any of it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t plan to fire you after all,” Jared murmurs, his full mouth in a humorless tilt. “I wouldn’t if I wanted you back.”

“This isn’t about him wanting me back.” I turn to the closet again and pull clothes off hangers and toss them carelessly, swiftly into my suitcase. “They haven’t been able to figure out what’s wrong, and he hates hospitals.”

“And you’re off to the rescue, of course,” Jared says. “I’m sure he has a spot at his bedside waiting for you.”

I pause long enough to glare at him.

“That’s not fair,” I snap. “Could you just be human enough to care about someone other than yourself for one damn second?”

At my harsh words, a guard drops over Jared’s face, like the visor of a helmet in battle, and he steps back, away from me.

“Jared, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s true, though, right?” His laugh is a mace swinging through the air, and I don’t bother ducking. “I’ve said it myself. I’m a selfish bastard, but I won’t pretend this doesn’t bother me.”

“I get that, but please believe what I told you last night.” I reach for him, frame his handsome face in my hands and let him look into my eyes so he can see that I mean what I’m about to say. “It’s just you.”

I can feel the tautly held muscles in his face relax under my touch. One arm scoops me in close and the other buries his fingers in the hair at my neck. I can’t say I’ve ever seen tenderness on Jared Foster’s face, but the way he’s looking at me now, it’s the closest I think he’s come.

“I didn’t mean to be an asshole.” He grimaces. “I mean, that is my naturally occurring state, but I know he’s in the hospital. He’s your client. He’s your friend. Of course, you’ll go make sure he’s okay.”

“I have to.”

“You have to,” he agrees, nodding and tightening his hands on me. “Just remember us, okay? That we have something . . .”

He grapples for a second, searching for the word that is already on the tip of my tongue.

“Special?” I offer quietly.

He nods and bends to kiss the spray of freckles across my nose.

“Yeah. We have something special.”

31

Banner

“Who the hell called you?”

Zo’s angry question is the first shot fired as soon as I enter the hospital room. I set aside any distress I feel at seeing him, big and vulnerable. Too big for the hospital bed, too vulnerable to be the strong man who has been my best friend for the last decade.

“I think the better question is,” I say, arranging my face into the implacable agent I need to be for him right now, “why didn’t you call me?”

“Do you really want me to tell all these nice people why you would be the last person I call?” he asks, still in English.

I meet the curious stares of several doctors crowding around Zo’s hospital bed. Ever since we started working together, Zo and I would retreat to Spanish when we needed to say things we didn’t want others to know. Maybe rude, but we didn’t care. We were a team. Clearly things have changed.

“I don’t care what you tell them,” I reply honestly because I’ll air all our dirty laundry in front of strangers if that’s what it takes. “But you’re contractually obligated to notify your agent of any invasive medical procedures, preferably before they occur and definitely within twenty-four hours.”

“Bullshit.” Zo spits the word out, his eyes bitter slits in the striking face.

“Yes, I thought you might need reminding.” I plop my Botega Veneta Cabat bag at the foot of the bed, extract a copy of his contract and extend the sheaf of papers to him. “Page forty-four.”

He accepts the contract, flipping to the page I marked with a tiny red flag sticky note.

“I don’t care what the contract says.” He tosses the contract back to me and it lands at my purse. “I don’t want you here.”

“Tough.” I plaster my negotiator’s face over the hurt his words cause. “My career is inextricably tied to yours as long as I’m your agent, so anything that happens to that body happens to me.”

“You’re not my agent.”

“According to this contract,” I say, holding it up, “I am, and unless you can produce legal documentation proving that you have formally dissolved our agent-client relationship, not only do I have the right to be here, but it is my responsibility.”

“Get out,” he says harshly.

“No.”

I cling to the calm façade and hide trembling hands in the pockets of my expertly-tailored, wide-legged pants. The silk blouse, stilettos, diamond stud earrings, expensive cologne, upswept hair . . . it’s all professional armor I’ve wrapped myself in for this confrontation. He doesn’t need a supportive girlfriend. He needs a fighter, and the flawless makeup I painstakingly applied is my war paint.