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We’re talking more than the stereotypical amount.
Latest proof?
This god-awful shirt my best friend walked into my hospital room and proudly presented like he had scoured each and every runway in Milan in order to find it rather than the new parent section of the giftshop.
Slater pauses outside his downtown penthouse apartment door and flashes me a wide grin again. “Come on, Angel Cake, it’s clever.”
“It’s notclever.”
“Then it’s witty.”
“It’s not that either.”
“Alright,” he removes his keycard from his back pocket, “then just plain ol’ funny.”
“You meanpunny? Because thenyes, this Pac-Mom shirt is very punny.”
“Which is what makes itfunny.”
“Yeah, in a Dad joke sort of way.”
“What I’m hearin’ is…you really do like it, and you just don’t want the world to know it.”
His deliciously cocky grin receives a sassy smirk. “What youshouldbe hearing is…between this shirt and the Russian hat you arenotto be trusted on clothing related missions.” Loud, lively chuckles bounce his entire frame prior to whirling warmly around me. “I’ll have to make a note of that in your file. Recommend you get some much-needed training in that department.”
“Yeah, I must’ve went totacticalinstead oftactilethat day.”
Giggles are attached to a gentle poke to his bicep. “Thatwas clever.”
“Thank you,” Slater chuckles at the same time he unholsters his weapon. “Now, protocol dictates I sweep an area before stationing the target into a new environment, so when we step inside, you need to wait by the front door until I announce that it’s clear. Understood?”
“Is this really necessary, Slater?” My head tilts to the side in obvious irritation. “It’syourapartment.”
“And you aremineto protect, Arley.” The shades of blue that rush toward me are bright. Bold. Unbending. “I’lldecide what’s necessary or unnecessary.”
“But-”
“I’m not askin’.”
“But-”
“And Idamn sureain’t arguin’.”
Irritation has me itching for a fight – a fight I know we’re going to have sooner or later – yet instead of allowing sooner to be now versus later, I slam my mouth shut.
Swallow my objections and lift my hands up in surrender.
I like that he wants to make sure I’m cared for, but I don’t like that he thinks that means I don’t get a say about it.
Slater swipes his keycard to grant us access inside and slowly opens the door, flashlight attached to his Glock, instantly lighting up the otherwise dark space.
The two finger “follow him” directive is taken without hesitation; however, holding in my snark regarding the situation isn’t. “Can I turn on the light when entering the roomBrash Bridgesor is that something I need to run up the chain of command before doing?”
“Funny,” he sarcastically states, blue lettering jagged. “You know…in a bein’ a twat to the man tryin’ to protect you sort of way.”
Shock sends my jaw to the recently polished floors. “Did you call me a fucking twat?”
“Negative,” my best friend swiftly insists while examining the kitchen space, “but I did refer to your shitty play on words in that aspect.” He positions his back to be flush with the outside wall and prepares to whip around the closest corner. “Do with that what you will.”
