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“More than maybe. More like definitely.”
“If it makes her feel better.”
I grunted. “It would. I’d have liked to shout at you a few times during Da’s funeral.”
Her swallow was audible. “I’m sorry, Conor.”
For the first time, I felt like she actually meant it. Maybe not because of what she’d done, but because it had affected me.
“Thank you, Star,” I said, accepting the apology and not dismissing it. “Call your grandfather and ask to use his jet. I’m still technically on the NSA’s leash.”
She didn’t call him but sent an email and received confirmation of the flight by the time we parked in the garage at my building.
I was used to having an in with people, what with Da’s ties to the head of the FBI—even if that link had been no help with my NSA situation—but I had to admit that Kuznetsov was on a whole other level.
His fingers dipped into Interpol? Shady NATO operations? Homeland Security?
He was seriously becoming my favorite person after Star.
When we made it home, I started toward our office, but in the doorway, she grabbed my hand and tugged me to a halt.
I stared down at her with an arched brow.
“What am I to you?”
That had me frowning. “Aside from a pain in my ass?”
Her lips quirked. “You know I can put you on that pained ass in less than two moves, don’t you?”
“I like to live dangerously,” was my retort.
“Evidently.” A spark had come to life in her eyes though. “You know what I mean.”
“I guess,” I drawled. “But it isn’t what you are to me; it’s what you think you are to me.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you’re my penguin.”
“We’re not back to penguins, are we? I keep expecting Benedict Cumberbatch to start narrating our lives whenever you bring them up.”
I grinned. “I could probably arrange for that to happen.”
“You’re rich, but are you that rich?”
“Everyone has a price.”
“Benedict Cumberbatch doesn’t,” she mocked.
“Anyway, of course, we’re back to penguins. That’s what it boils down to, isn’t it?” My lips twitched. “Though I guess in that phrase, you should be glad I don’t call you ‘my lobster.’”
Her eyeroll was borderline painful. “So, on official documents, you’d put Star Sullivan down as ‘your penguin?’”
“Not sure the government is that forward-thinking yet. But between you and me? Sure. If you want to make things more simple by calling me your boyfriend or your fiancé, then that’s boring, but I’ll accept those adjectives.”
“They’re labels, not adjectives. And I’m a boring person.”
“You are when it comes to labels.” My grin deepened. “What am I to you, then?”
