Trust was highly overrated.
It wasn’t long before Brigham Stanton himself walked out of his bedroom, fiddling with his phone before sliding it into the breast pocket of his sport coat. His eyes lifted, and I was caught there, pinned by his gaze, realizing that the pictures on the internet did not do the man justice. For starters, his eyes weren’t as simple a blue as those images led me to believe. They were a darker, more complex color, like the sea before a storm. His skin was burnished ivory, and his smile wasn’t fake and perfect the way it was in every photo I’d seen. It lit his face, curled his beautiful mouth, and even from where I stood, across the room from him, the effect was dazzling. The man was breathtaking, and there was no way he didn’t know it. I realized that I appreciated looking at him the same way I would a piece of art. But flawless perfection wasn’t what, as a rule, turned my head or made me stare.
“Croy!” Brigham announced as though he was thrilled to see me, his long legs eating up the space between us. He slipped between his friends and charged up to me, leaning in and opening his arms.
I had to reciprocate; it would have looked weird otherwise.
He gathered me close, clutching me to his chest, and I heard him exhale as though he felt better, calmer. And that made sense. I was there to protect him, after all.
He pushed me out to arm’s length, his gaze mapping my frame before lifting to meet mine. The bemused look I found there was odd.
“I’m so glad you made it,” he said softly, stepping in beside me, arm around my shoulders. “Did you meet everyone?”
“I did,” I answered, leaning out of his hold. “Where shall I put my things?”
“You’re in the room with me,” Chase told me, pointing at the same time. “It’s just through there. My stuff is already on the bed next to the bathroom.”
I gave him a slight smile and then retreated to the room, needing to lay hands on my Glock 17, which Jared confirmed had been delivered to the suite before my arrival. It’s no wonder I’d had a little crush on him when he first hired me. The man got shit done.
The room was enormous, the king-size beds on opposite sides of a large open space, his closer to the bathroom, mine next to the windows and, more importantly, the door. If I’d been there first, I would have picked the exact spot I was in. I located the small shipping container with my unassembled gun inside, and took it with me to the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I got to work piecing it together. Once I was done, I tucked it behind my back, under my suit jacket, and returned to the bedroom to dig my ankle holster out of my duffel. It was a pain, which is why I seldom ever wore the damn thing. I preferred the shoulder holster, but I was supposed to be undercover, so I’d packed the inconspicuous one.
“Croy.”
As I turned, Glock in hand, Brigham pulled up fast, startled for a second, but the grin was there fast, blinding.
“I apologize, Mr. Stanton,” I rushed out, bending over to slide the gun into the holster.
“No,” he said quickly, closing the space between us until he was only a few feet away. “It’s a comfort to see that you’re prepared.”
“I—”
“But you’ve got to ditch that whole Mr. Stanton thing, like, right now. That is really not going to work.”
“No, of course not,” I agreed, straightening up. “Brigham, then?”
“Oh dear God, no,” he said, looking horrified as he gave a quick headshake. “I haven’t been Brigham in…well…ever. I’ve always been Brig. Even people who only know me in passing call me Brig, so you certainly should.”
“Absolutely.”
He took hold of my shoulder to drive his point home. “Anything else is too horrible to contemplate.”
I nodded. “It must be a family name.”
“Sadly, yes,” he said with a groan. “Firstborn sons get saddled with it. My father, being second born, never understood the horror.”
“Yes,” I agreed, bored already with the topic, hoping it didn’t show on my face. I would have tried smiling, but I had been told, on many occasions, that my forced smiles made me look as though I was wincing in pain.
He took a quick breath before a hint of concern crossed his face. “You didn’t already call me Brigham in front of any of my friends, did you?”
“I did,” I confessed, squinting. “I’m trying to think if I used it when I was speaking to Astor—I honestly don’t recall. But I definitely used it with Chase.”
“That’s fine,” he scoffed dismissively. “He probably didn’t even notice. He’s been miserable since we left Bridgeport this morning, and I’m about done trying to figure out what the hell’s the matter with him.”