Page 28 of Burning Caine

Lucy shifted her attention to some paperwork on her desk, at an angle which allowed her to see us out of the corner of her eye. She’d stopped moving, so either she was focusing or her music wasn’t on anymore. My money was on the latter.

“I heard! And it must be awfully hard because I’ve been down here at least three times a week to say hello!” He hit me teasingly on the arm. Matt was Roger’s—the president of Foster Mutual Insurance—son. It was a legacy company and every generation worked there. Matt was a senior underwriter, and he was right, we never ran into each other. It had taken a lot of work on my part some days.

“I’m just heading out.” I grabbed my backpack and started filling it up, desperate to get away from him. But I needed to find a case first. He’d know where they were. But then I’d have to talk to him. It had been six years. I should be over this already. We’d been friends and confidants once. Until he’d betrayed me.

“Do you have a few minutes?”

I threw the last items into my backpack and stood, hefting it onto my shoulder. “I need a transport case for a small painting. A two-by-two case would work. You know where those are?”

“Storage room downstairs. I’ll show you.”

“I can find it myself.”

“Sam…” He scratched absently at his perfectly styled stubble.

My icy reception was making him uncomfortable. Good. I unclenched my jaw and sighed. I was being a jerk. “Yeah, okay.”

He smiled, his perpetually concerned-looking eyes working overtime to calm my irritation.

We traveled the cubicle hallway and hit the stairs. We were quiet as we walked, but once in the privacy of the stairwell, he started.

“I heard Cass is sick.” She’d always liked him. In fact, she’d been more torn up about our divorce than I’d been.

“Yeah. Couple months now. She got lucky. Her doctor pulled some strings to rush her diagnosis. They’re thinking six rounds of chemo—she had her first early July—mastectomy, radiation, then reconstruction.” I shifted the backpack, which was getting heavier by the second. “If all goes well, she’ll be done by the end of March.”

“March,” he echoed. “Long time.”

“It’s pretty serious.”

“Prognosis?”

“Good, but—” A lump formed in my throat. She would be alright. She had to be.

“Still scary?” He put a hand on the door at the bottom of the stairs before opening it, staring at me for a long moment.

I nodded, reaching for the door myself, to get out of the moment and put an end to the conversation.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

My hand dropped from the door. Who was he talking about? Had he heard something? The guys from the dating site? Oh my god. Did he hear something about Antonio Ferraro? Was Lucy talking?

He laughed suddenly. “Not that kind of seeing anyone.” He shook his head and opened the door, ushering me ahead of him. “I meant like a therapist or anything.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Oh right. Hardly the Samantha Caine way, is it? Talking to actual people and stuff.” He nudged my backpack.

“Exactly.”

“And how are you actually doing?” he asked, coming even with me again.

“Perfect, as always.”

He cast a doubtful look at me. “Sam, you were always a terrible liar.”

I let out a pained sigh. “At least one of us was.” He frowned at the cheap shot.

“I thought we were past this, but you’ve been here over a month and this is the first time I’ve seen you. I know you’re avoiding me.”