The Ghost (Professionals Book 2)(2)

By: Jessica Gadziala

Lincoln had driven us - and since he was probably getting a butter-knife castration right about now - I turned, and started walking across town toward the office that had been my home for a few years.

It was a stability of sorts to someone who had never known much of it, had always had wings and no roots, a place to call home even if I sometimes chafed at the idea.

Quin had offered me the job after he’d handed me off a girl who was just a kid really who had needed to escape her abusive ex. He’d tried to stash her himself, but she kept getting tracked down.

After a few months had passed and we’d learned the ex had finally given up, he had come to me, and told me about the firm he was opening, that he needed a man like me on the team.

And, well, in my line of work, there was never such a thing as a steady paycheck. I worked when a job came my way, but otherwise, I had to pull other odd jobs to make ends meet. He offered an end to that uncertainty.

In doing so, he had brought me into his little family.

He gave me roots I never wanted but maybe needed.

At least between jobs anyway.

I had a place in town.

Granted, it wasn’t exactly what you could call ‘decorated,’ but my shit lived there between jobs. It wasn’t anything impressive, but it was mine. I had a small yard to take care of, a garage where I could work on my truck if I needed to. A nice sized living room to fit my TV. A kitchen where I made coffee and stored take-away.

And, most importantly, it was mine.


I owned it outright.

I wasn’t a man who needed a lot of material shit, but the shit I did have, no one could take away from me.

I jogged up the front steps to the building, pulling open the door, and stepping in.

“The fuck is all this?” I asked, waving a hand around the reception area that used to be open and streamlined, but was currently fucking packed with luggage. Matching luggage. All light pink with gold accents. Garment bags. A briefcase. Even a goddamn trunk. All of it, every last piece… matching.

“Your client’s belongings,” Jules supplied from behind her desk, her head ducked, making her high ponytail full of deep red hair fall forward to frame the sides of her face. “Quin is waiting for you,” she added pointedly when I just stood there looking at the baggage. There had to be twelve pieces. At least.

“Got a file?”

“Not yet.”

With that, knowing I wouldn’t get anything else out of her, I moved along, taking a minute to grab a coffee, wanting to cover up the beer on my breath. Even if I only had one. It was never a good thing to meet a new client with booze on your breath. Even if it was after ten on a Saturday night. And I had to be called in to deal with her.

Going for Quin’s door without knocking, I heard voices inside - Quin’s low, steady one, distinctive even if it was muffled. And the woman? Higher, of course, talking fast, sounding a bit agitated.

Sighing out my breath, I pushed the door open, figuring that whoever I was gonna be stuck with, I was gonna be stuck with. Even if she was in a mood. Might as well get the introductions over with.

“There he is now,” Quin said to the woman standing at the other side of his desk.

It had taken me a good fifteen minutes to walk across town. She had likely been there a good twenty before I even got a call. And she was still standing?

Back to me, all I really got to see was a neat blonde ponytail, a tall, thin body clad in gray slacks, and a light pink top that was a little see-through on the sleeves. Oh, and goddamn skyscrapers on her feet. A purse was sitting on the chair behind her, pink like all her luggage, but with a faint white pattern on it. Flowers or some shit.

The first word that came to mind was money.

She looked like money.

She dressed like money.

She packed like money.

Hell, she even smelled like money. A hint of something that was in the air, but softly, intriguingly, making you want to get closer and take a deep breath.

At Quin’s words, my client’s head turned.

And fuck.



That was the only way to describe the impact I physically felt when she looked at me.


It wasn’t a word I tossed around easily, usually finding other ones that suited women better. But, in this case, it was fitting.

Her face was all delicate. Soft lines. High cheekbones. A gently pointed chin. Small nose. And these unique as fuck honey-brown eyes.

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