Page 15 of Recovering Ivy

“That you’re finally getting your head out of your ass.” He chuckled. “I assume she’s the reason you’ve been walking around here today like a bear with a thorn in his ass.”

“Not now, asshole.”

“Zane,” Ivy abolished. “Are you always this much of an ass?”

“Only to the people he likes,” Garrett muttered.

“How does he talk to people he doesn’t?” she asked.

“He doesn’t. He just shoots them,” my brother helpfully added.

“What?” Her hand spasmed in mine.

“He’s joking.” I gave my brother the finger and hoped he’d caught the death glare I was throwing his way.

Unfortunately, he was slow and continued to engage. “Am I?”

“I’m taking Ivy home,” I announced.

My brother, being the ass he is, couldn’t keep his mouth shut and once again I was considering firing him.

“What’s the rush, big brother? You’re not going to introduce her to the team?”

“Serious as shit right now. Ivy’s had a long day. She’s tired, she needs to rest, and I’m taking her home. You want a meet and greet, be here tomorrow, oh-nine-hundred, we’ll brief then.”

“And here I thought one of these days we’d need to surgically remove your head from your ass.”

“You trying to piss me off?”

I didn’t have the time nor the disposition to argue with Linc. I needed to get Ivy something to eat and into bed. I was going to have a war on my hands when she found out what bed she was getting into. The thought made my dick stir and my gut tighten. Why was the notion of battling it out with her so damn exciting?

“Nope.” He popped the p and turned to Ivy. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I won’t be here. I have to be in the office,” she argued.

“You quit. Garrett, please send Ivy’s letter of resignation to Techwatch. Effective immediately.”

“What? You can’t do that. I need that job. I have to pay my bills.” She turned to Garrett, her eyes pleading. “Please don’t send it.”

“You’re not going near that man again. He’s dangerous.”

“Zane!” she exclaimed and to further drive her point home she stomped her foot.

“Did you stomp your foot?” I asked unnecessarily.

“I can’t afford to pay you for your help. Leave it alone. I was doing fine on my own.” She ignored my question.

“You’re not paying me to help you.” I was affronted she’d assumed I would bill her to take a douchebag off the streets. Eighty percent of the work we did with local law enforcement and private citizens who truly needed our help was done pro bono. I made more than enough money from government contracts.

“I still can’t afford you,” she whispered.

I didn’t want to ask, but I had to. “What does that mean?”

“No man is going to help a woman without expecting something in return. No one does something for free.”

Three very angry growls echoed in the room.

“The fuck?”