Lift You Up (Rivers Brothers 1)

He could, too.

It wasn't just desperation that sent me in his direction, just familiarity, just proximity.

Kingston was someone fully capable of helping me navigate a potentially dangerous situation. Because that was what King did for a living.

Security.

Well, that was what he did now.

In the past, he made a life and living undermining security in a much less than legal way.

But now, now he was retired from that.

Now he was someone who had the know-how, the connections to help me make sense of this, to tell me what to do, to make sure I didn't end up in a vat of acid or with cement shoes on or whatever other ways criminals disposed of pesky loose ends like me.

"You're shivering," he added, his fingers massaging at the tension in the back of my neck. "Come on. Let's get you something dry to put on. And something warm to drink. Then we can talk about it, okay?" he asked as the sobs settled, as complete and utter embarrassment replaced the fear that had been there just moments before.

I pulled back - and doing so, thinking how, well, unthinkable it was that I would actually pull away from him once I felt his arms around me - swiping at the wetness on my cheeks, letting out a completely attractive sniffling noise as I attempted to keep my nose from running.

"Yeah," I agreed, a bit distracted by the way his white tee was a bit translucent now wet from my body before reminding myself that there were more important things to be thinking about, dragging my gaze from him and at his apartment.

I'd been in the parking lot of his business before, had watched my friend - and his sort-of relative - Peyton go into his apartment from afar, but had never seen it myself.

It had once, clearly, been the storage space to the building out front. The floors were still cold concrete, but had been painted a more warm cream color.

The edge of my shoe was touching an oversized brown and white carpet for the living space with a long brown material sectional, oversized coffee table, two armchairs, and a puffy round dog bed.

The inhabitant was fast asleep on it.

"He's quite the guard dog, huh?" King asked, lips curved up, creating little crinkles beside his warm eyes.

"Oh, leave Padfoot alone. He has plenty of other good qualities."

I'd named him.

Padfoot.

King had an adoption fair volunteer practically thrust the little black ball of fluff and cuteness at him, completely unprepared. He'd brought him into the shop to stock up on food and beds and about fifty different toys and treats. And asked me to help him name it.

A bit tired of Marleys and Charlies and Maxes and Coopers, I had suggested Padfoot, something that had made him smile because he had been the one to take his Harry Potter obsessed sister to the midnight releases and - therefore - had intimate knowledge of the characters.

"He is a good squeaker extractor," King agreed, his hand again touching my hip, trying to steer me with him.

Luckily, the slight shiver could be attributed to my wet and coldness as he led me past an L-shaped kitchen with warm honey-toned cabinets, swirling counters, brown and tan backsplash, and stainless steel appliances, and down a small hall with a full bath and single bedroom.

His hand dropped to go to his dresser, rummaging around for clothes for me - and likely a shirt replacement for himself, as my eyes roamed over his king-sized bed with tousled white sheets and brown comforter, picturing him there when I had pounded on his door, the pillows making his usually neat dark hair muss slightly, endearingly.

"Come on," Kingston invited, moving toward the doorway to lead me back to the bathroom where I found more warm neutral, brown and cream colors and an oversized all glass shower enclosure. "Take a shower if you want," he invited, producing a towel. "Warm up," he added, piling the clothes on top of the towel. "Come out when you're done," he added, casting an odd, concerned look as he backed out of the door, closing it behind him.

Alone, I took a steadying breath, inwardly wondering how it was possible that my brain was more focused on King's apartment - and the man himself - than the events of the night.

Maybe it was shock?

They always threw that word around on TV shows without actually explaining what it was. So maybe my reaction was that. Maybe my brain didn't want to think about what had just happened, and was choosing happier thoughts instead.

And Kingston Rivers, well, he had always been a very, very happy thought.TWOKingstonWork never stops when you are trying to build a business, trying to get it to the point where you don't have to work seventeen-hour days most days of the week.