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“The same day we were to be married last year. Because we’re embracing all our broken pieces,” I say.
“And making us whole again.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mia
My fairytale engagement weekend slams to a halt shortly after Grayson pulls the Porsche into the airport and parks. An SUV parks next to us, a vehicle I recognize as belonging to our security team from Walker Security. This leads me to the assumption that they’ve been following us. Of course, they have. They’re supposed to protect us and the façade of being here and beyond the reach of the hell waiting on us back at the city is just that: a façade. The Walker staff were discreet, but they’re watching us, they’re protecting us from the press and who knows who else. I mean, of course, we need protection. A man I knew well just held a gun to my head and is now dead. A pinched feeling in my chest has me reaching for my door and shoving away my thoughts.
Grayson catches my arm and when I turn to look at him, his expression is tender. He strokes my hair behind my ear, and despite how familiar this action has become, his touch that incredible mix of electricity and calm that defies reason. “You okay?” he asks, his gaze searching my face.
The question is proof of just how intuitive this man is with me, how connected we have always been. It’s why I was shocked when I thought he had cheated. It’s why I should have known better. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I’m good. I’m engaged to you again. How can I not be good?”
“Considering the circumstances,” he says, “easily. If you’re having second thoughts about going back, we can stay.”
“We can’t stay. You have a company to run and I have new staff to help welcome.”
“We can make it work,” he assures me.
“No,” I say firmly, taking his hand and kissing it. “As much as a part of me wants to stay, I want the bad behind us, all of the bad.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Let’s go home.”
“We are home, baby. We’re together.”
My heart swells with his words. “Yes. Yes, we are,” I agree. “But our lives we share—I want to reclaim our space.”
His eyes warm. This pleases him. “Then we’ll go back to the city and claim our lives.”
Relieved and somehow more apprehensive than ever—yes, I’m a mess right now, apparently—I reach for the door. Smith from Walker is immediately there, opening it for me. He offers me his hand but I wave him off with a murmured, “Thank you.”
He’s close, big, tall, and close, with sandy brown hair under a beanie. His fatigue pants and T-shirt are also black. “How very military you look this afternoon.”
“I’ll take that comment as better than looking tired or stupid, but only slightly.”
Considering he’s a quiet, formal guy, this reply surprises me and earns him a smile. “You look manly. How’s that?”
He laughs, another surprise from this man. “Better than girly, unless that’s what you’re shooting for of course, but I assure you I am not.”
Now, I laugh and Grayson appears by my side. “I think I owe you a thank you, Smith,” he says. “You made her laugh. She needs to laugh.”
“I’m sure she does,” Smith replies. “But this will all be over soon.”
Soon, I repeat in my head, stepping free of the car door and allowing Grayson to shut it. Not soon enough, I silently add as another tall man with wavy hair steps to Smith’s side. He’s also wearing all black. Good grief, what do they think is waiting on us in the city? War?
“This is Adrian,” Smith says. “He’s also quite military tonight in all black, and he tells bad jokes, just not as badly as our man Savage. Close, though.”
Grayson and I shake his hand. “How bad are the jokes?” Grayson asks.
“Depends on how bad the situation is,” Adrian replies, and we all laugh. “For now, though,” Adrian adds, “your chopper awaits, which spares you the very bad random tomato joke presently popping around in my head.”
“I think I might need to hear that one,” Grayson replies and then adds, “When we get to the city.”
“Tomato joke on the agenda, sir,” Adrian assures him.
“Grayson,” Grayson tells him. “Call me Grayson.”
Which doesn’t surprise me, and I know considering his exposure to Grayson, it can’t surprise Smith. Grayson is humble. He’s not an egomaniac who believes his money and power make him better than anyone else.
Adrian gives a nod, his eyes warming with surprise. At the same time, Grayson’s hand settles possessively on my lower back, a strong hand. A comforting hand that eases the nerves that seem to be battling some sort of world war in my belly. The four of us enter the small airport, the only guests present, and an attendant greets us, asking us to wait just a few moments before we’ll be invited to the runway to board. “We need to take this time to prep you both,” Smith says, huddling our little group in the center of pale blue cushioned waiting room chairs.
