I swatted his hand away, my fist clenching as I did. “I said fuck off.”
“From where I was standing,” he continued, “it looked a lot like a man taking averyproactive approach to keeping tabs on a certain green-eyed coffee shop owner.”
“You done?”
“I’ve barely started. I mean, you practically teleported across her café when?—”
“I don’t like bigger men intimidating women.”
That shut him up.
Unfortunately, it also triggered a memory of broad shoulders.
Of whiskey on a man’s breath.
Balled fists. Raised high.
I flexed my fingers and rolled my neck. “Her smile wasn’t about to make him leave.”
Tristan grabbed the screwdriver from the floor and placed it on the only real piece of furniture their company owned so far—a long table covered in blueprints and tools. His easy grin faded. “I get it.”
He didn’t. Not all of it.
We all had our skeletons. Maybe he’d figured mine out, but I didn’t talk about it when I was sober, and I didn’t drink, so I’d never spilled the details.
The door creaked open, and Arthur strolled in, tossing a clipboard onto the table. He moved with the same authority he’d carried in the field, except now he wore it with designer jeans instead of tactical gear. He gave me a curt nod, then said to Tristan, “The painters were supposed to wrap up today.”
Tristan, clearly relieved for the interruption, tapped on the blueprints. “Because you changed the layout after the framers were done and made them rip out a wall.”
“Someone has to ensure this place is built properly.” Arthur smirked without bothering to glance at what Tristan highlighted. His gaze flicked around the space, taking in the state of disarray. “The boardroom needed to be bigger, if we’re going to impress people.”
“Details.” Tristan waved a dismissive hand. “Our actions will be what impresses them.”
“Speaking of which…” Arthur’s lips twitched. “Did Tris talk to you about what we’re doing here?”
“Close personal security,” I said, twirling a finger in the air at the spiel. “Executive protection, protecting people, not objects.”
“Both,” Arthur corrected. “We’ve protected both before, and we’ll do it again. But this time,I’mthe bureaucratic bullshit.”
“Music to my ears.” Tristan turned from the blueprints. “No more armchair generals. No more middle-of-the-night orders from Pentagon desk jockeys.”
While we were on the Teams, orders had come from on high, but we’d had some latitude on the how, if not the when or where. When we’d been contractors for the Agency—via Pendragon Security—someone else had still run the show. “No more Merlin calling the shots?”
Arthur and Tristan glanced at each other.
Fuck. “He’s in, isn’t he?”
“It’s not his company, but yes.”
“Who else?”
“Lance is in, obviously.” Arthur began counting them off. “Gawain’s hemming and hawing, but he’ll come around.”
That wasn’t like him. Gawain normally jumped in before anyone said it was time to go.
“Merlin’s wrapping up a contract, but yes, he’ll be here. And Morganna...” Arthur shrugged. “She’s buried in OSINT at White Spring, but Merlin thinks he can convince her to leave them.”
“You’re getting the band back together?” I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “Percival?”
