Concealed Hearts (Hometown Jasper #4) - Nicky James Page 0,9

felt out of reach. Again, I was compelled to force myself to take a path I knew would lead to no good.

“Sure. That would be nice. Um…” I found my wallet and pulled out a business card. I had a pen in a side pocket of my bag and used it to jot my personal cell number on the back before handing it to Jenya. “My number. Call me, and we’ll work something out.”

“Excellent. I look forward to it.”

I wished I could say the same. In less than five seconds, the weight of my decision was too heavy on my shoulders, and I wanted to tear the card from Jenya’s hands and tell her to forget it.

“Me too.”

We parted ways, and I drove home, the ever-present pressure of my future and my secrets playing havoc with my head. I’d made this mess, and I didn’t know how to break free. It sounded so easy in theory—and I was all about practicality—but no matter how many times I debated the pros and cons, the answer was always the same.

My apartment was small but functional, neurotically tidy with charts and time tables, and lists all over that ensured I kept to a steady routine. My office was the only cluttered room in the house. It represented the chaos that lived inside my head. Numbers, formulas, theories, and textbooks were scattered on every surface or pinned haphazardly to the walls.

The rest of the apartment was spotless, orderly, irrationally clean. The two parts of who I was collided in this apartment. Most of the world had no idea the stuff that went on inside my head. The push and pull of chaos and control I fought every day.

It was why I gave myself permission to have a locked space where I could let it all go without worry.

I left my bag on the couch and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich for dinner, cleaning up the crumbs and washing the knife before retiring to the sofa. Again, I pulled up the email I’d written on my laptop and stared at it while I ate.

Should I send it or delete it?

My rational brain told me to delete it, reminding me of the numerous debates we’d had about the realistic possibility of having a relationship while living as a closeted man. I’d tried and failed enough times, the data spoke for itself.

The lonely, more compassionate part of my brain that was not run by logic and algorithms told me I had nothing to lose.

That wasn’t true. If Windsor found out the truth, I could very well lose a lot.

My sandwich was long gone, the hours ticked by, and I remained on the couch, unsure what to do. It was long past two in the morning. I’d woken my computer up more times than I could count, unwilling to allow it to go to sleep when I had yet to make a decision.

My email had lost all meaning.

Perhaps it was my sleep-addled brain or the fact that the words no longer made sense, but I leaned forward and hit send before slamming my laptop closed and heading to bed.

That was it, no taking it back now.

Chapter Three

Windsor

“…also, Boris from Dyna Lynn’s claims the kids were in his dumpster again and made a mess, and Leslie from Mayor Croucher’s office called and said the same red Pontiac was parked in the No Parking zone overnight again. She asked if we could send someone by since the notes they’ve left on the person’s windshield haven’t done any good.”

Matthew had stopped me the minute I’d walked through the door that morning, rhyming off the half a dozen calls he’d already taken before eight a.m. The kid looked more put together than anyone had a right to be this early in the morning.

“Boris probably has a bloody ’coon.”

“Yeah, I said that, but he doesn’t think so. He’s convinced it’s the high school kids. Although, why they’d dumpster dive and rip open garbage bags and scatter it around, I have no idea.”

Boris was one of those residents who like to hear himself bitch so he felt important. We heard from him regularly about one thing or another. He was no better than the handful of local drunks who warmed his barstools every evening. Most of the time, the man was half in the bag by ten a.m. “Is that everything?”

Matthew rechecked his pad of paper, his lips drawing to the side as he scanned. “Yup. Seems like. Oh, no. One