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I let her go first, and as the little bell above the door jingles, the girl standing behind the counter gives us both curious eyes. I’m still wearing my all-black, custom-made suit, and Paxton is wearing her combat boots and big shirt under her black leather jacket. She looks edible to say the least, but I haven’t eaten in almost thirty hours after catching a cargo flight out of Afghanistan, and I’m fucking starving. The young girl guides us to the last booth far from the other costumers and we both make a move to sit on the right side with our eyes to the door.
“It’s all yours,” I tell Paxton, and watch her perky ass sway in her tight jeans when she takes a seat.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the girl asks. I nod, opening the button of my jacket, careful not to flash her the four guns I’ve got hidden under my suit. A little excessive, but I travel in style, what can I say.
“A coffee,” Paxton and I say at the same.
“I’ll be right back with those, and here are your menus for you to look over.” She smiles, looking between us and scurrying away when she sees the murderous look in Paxton’s eyes.
“So you wanted to talk,” she says after the girl brings us our coffee and takes our order. “So talk.”
“I did,” I begin. I can’t believe I’m sitting in a fucking diner with her across from me.
“Why, out of all the girls in New Orleans, did you pick me?”
“What do you mean?”
She taps her black painted fingernails on the table before taking a sip from her coffee. “You know what I mean. Do I have to spell it out for you? I’m average, there are Instagram models with more cleavage and thinner waists than me. Judging by your custom-made suit, money isn’t a problem.”
Doesn’t she know she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on? Those other chicks don’t hold a candle to her. I stretch my legs out under the table and rest my arms on the leather of the booth. I need to settle for something safe. “You bumped into me on Bourbon Street when I was on leave.”
“Leave?”
We both thank the kid when she brings us Paxton’s scrambled eggs with toast and my stack of pancakes. I smother them in maple syrup and Paxton flashes me those curious eyes again. “I’ve got a sweet tooth, what can I say?” I smirk, taking a big bite.
She gives me a small smile. “Iggy orders the same when we go to a diner.”
When I hear his name, I cringe. My son, I have a fucking son. I want to know everything about him but first I have to tell her my story. I owe her that much.
“Tell me about your life,” she challenges. “Although sitting here across from you freaks me the fuck out, I need to hear it.”
Taking a deep breath, I know I can’t bullshit her. “I grew up in Vatican City. My father was a priest.”
“A priest?” she asks curiously.
“My mother met him when she went to confession. And they fell in love. I don’t know the particulars but she died when I was two, and I went to live with him at the Vatican,” I tell her with my mouth full of pancakes.
She raises her fork in the air. “Hold up, you mean the Vatican, Vatican?” Her eyes grow big.
I nod, taking a sip from the coffee.
“He didn’t know how to take care of me, so the nuns raised me instead, and he visited me on Sundays. We walked around the city, and I watched people stop and talk to him, but I knew I was nothing but a nuisance to him because he wanted to move up in the ranks. After I got in a fight with a boy and almost beat him to a pulp, he arranged for me to live and train with the Swiss guard. They taught me every move in the book, and I loved it. They honed my skills, and it didn’t matter I didn’t feel a single thing.”
“You didn’t?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.
“Not until you, babe.”
She doesn’t cringe at my words like I thought she would but stares at me and closes her eyes for a second, like she’s finally getting used to the fact that I’m hers, and she’s going to be mine.
We finish our food, and I leave the girl a hefty tip before we head outside and walk to a small lake. I lean against the railing, and we watch the sun change colors on the water.
She is quiet for a while before she asks, “How did you end up with the CIA before you went rogue?”
I chuckle, not bothering to correct her. I’ve always been rogue. “It wasn’t hard, they needed a skillset and I happened to possess them.”
“What?” she whispers, grabbing the wooden railing.
“You know what I can do to others, you’ve probably read my file. I bet it’s a big one.” Waggling my brows.
