Chapter 49
Julian's POV
The temporary government building in Cold Creek looked nothing like it had two weeks ago. The crumbling exterior had been reinforced with fresh concrete and steel beams. Through the newly installed windows, I could see workers moving efficiently inside, hanging drywall and running electrical conduit.
I stood at the window of what had been transformed into my temporary office, holding the latest progress report on the town's water remediation project. The numbers were good. Eighty percent of residents now had access to clean water. The makeshift medical station we'd set up was treating patients daily. Housing construction had broken ground last week.
By any objective measure, this was a success. The kind of achievement that would look excellent in my next briefing to headquarters.
So why did I feel so fucking empty?
My fingers tightened on the report until the paper crumpled slightly at the edges. I forced myself to loosen my grip, to breathe normally. But standing here in this half-renovated office, watching the town rebuild itself through the window, all I could think about was her.
Nora.
Behind me, the door opened. I didn't turn around, already knowing from the measured footsteps that it was Ethan.
"Sir," he said quietly. "The county commissioner is waiting in the conference room whenever you're ready."
"You go in my place. You know how to handle it." I paused. "I have other matters to attend to."
Ethan left the office after receiving his orders.
---
By seven PM, dressed in a simple black turtleneck and dark gray slacks, I drove the SUV myself down the winding road that led to the outskirts of Cold Creek. The private club sat on a wooded hillside, discreet and exclusive—the kind of place that didn't advertise and didn't need to.
I pushed open the door to the suite I'd reserved. The smell of alcohol immediately hit me—rich and heavy. At the far end of the room, a man stood with his back to me.
He didn't turn around when I entered. "Julian," he said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "You're quite early."
The man finally turned around. Zachary Nelson looked exactly as he had two months ago—plaid flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, faded jeans, and that perpetual lazy grin that made him look more like a college dropout than a man worth several hundred million dollars. He gestured toward the coffee table where a bottle of Macallan 18 sat next to two crystal tumblers, the amber liquid catching the firelight from the hearth.
"Julian, that Lincoln of yours is getting old. Engine's starting to knock," Zachary said, not looking up from the whiskey he was pouring.
I closed the door behind me with more force than necessary. "I didn't drive an hour to hear your automotive opinions."
"No?" Zachary turned, extending a glass toward me with that trademark smirk. "Then you came to let me critique that charming expression you're wearing. Sit down before you burn a hole in my carpet."
I took the whiskey and dropped onto the leather sofa, letting my head fall back against the cushions. Every muscle in my body felt tight, coiled like a spring wound too far. "Let's talk about the project first."
Zachary shrugged and settled into the armchair across from me, propping his boots on the coffee table. "Business first, pleasure never—classic Julian Sterling. But I'm warning you, if you keep up that 'Federal Iceberg' routine all night, I'm throwing you out to feed the bears."
I didn't dignify that with a response, just took a long pull of the whiskey and let it burn down my throat. Despite the alcohol and the fire crackling in the hearth, the tension in my shoulders refused to ease.
Zachary pulled a folder from his briefcase and spread aerial photographs across the table—newly paved roads cutting through Cold Creek, the repaired town center, construction scaffolding around what would become the medical station and transitional housing. "Nelson Construction's already on the ground. We've repaved the main thoroughfare, replaced the water system, and those housing units will hold a hundred twenty families by April."
I studied the images, my fingers unconsciously rotating the tumbler. "Transportation infrastructure?"
"Nelson Logistics opened two bus lines last week. Three daily runs to Blackwood, two to Silverton. I'm negotiating with the state to get them added to the public transit subsidy program." Zachary leaned forward, his lazy demeanor sharpening into something more focused. "Julian. the project's moving forward steadily, and the budget's under control. Federal funding plus state matching grants have us covered through Phase One. So why do you look like you just buried someone you actually gave a damn about?"
My eyes snapped to his. "Zach."
"Don't 'Zach' me." He didn't even blink. "We've known each other almost ten years. I can smell when something's eating at you from across a room. Either the Feds are giving you hell, or Blackwood's local snakes are making trouble, or—" His grin widened. "—it's a woman."
I said nothing, just looked down at the whiskey in my hand as if it might provide some kind of answer.
Zachary laughed, a short bark of triumph, and fell back into his chair. "A woman. Holy shit. I knew it. So which unlucky lady managed to get under the skin of the great Federal Inspector General?"
The silence stretched between us. I could feel Zachary's gaze on me, patient and relentless in the way only a true friend's could be.
"A DSW social worker," I finally said, the words coming out rougher than I intended. "Blackwood branch. She blocked my number."
Zachary froze for exactly two seconds before he burst out laughing, nearly spilling his drink. "You're fucking with me. The Federal Inspector General got blocked by a little social worker? Julian, this is the best thing I've heard all year."
"I don't joke about things like this."
"No, you really don't." Zachary's laughter faded, replaced by something more serious. He refilled both our glasses and settled back, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes. "So your fated mate is human? Are you really into her?"