"Well, I think he'd be good at this. One of those glares of his will scare away any of the stalkers and overzealous fans or whoever else you guys are hired to keep away."
"That's what I told him," Kingston agreed, lips twitching. "So, I was thinking Chinese for dinner. I know they have veg..." His voice trailed off to the ringing on the main desk.
"Get it. It might be important," I added, watching as he struggled with himself for a second before moving across the room, catching the phone on what must have been the final ring.
"Rivers Securit... okay. Alright. Take a breath. Are you sure it was him? Okay. Yeah. Do you see him now? No. It's okay. I will swing by, keep an eye for a while. Make sure it wasn't him. Or if it was, that he doesn't come back. Okay? Alright. I will be there in ten."
"I'll be fine," I told him as soon as he placed the phone back into the cradle. "Seriously. Go. Padfoot and I will be safe here."
"No."
"Well, Nixon is busy. And Rush is probably at work now. I can call and see if maybe Peyton can ask Sugar if I can hang out at the bike compound?" I suggested. "I would be safe as can be there." The place literally had a safe full of guns and more than a dozen people trained how to use them. Plus, the rumor was that the leader of the MC had a tank. An actual tank.
"No," he said again, tone a little clipped as he turned, stalked back into his office. There was a crashing sound, a muffled curse, then the door opening again, bringing out Kingston with a hat in his hand. "You'll come with me," he told me.
I won't lie. There was a little belly shiver at the alpha edge to his voice.
Which he then softened when he pressed the hat into his hand as his arms raised, going to my shoulders, swiping my hair back.
I, stupidly, wistfully, thought he was going to kiss me again, the idea making my chin lift, my eyes seek his.
His met mine, something there, something deep, but also wholly unreadable, gone before I could even try to interpret it as his hands then gathered my hair, gently twisting it in his hands, then pinning it to the top and back of my head, reaching for the hat, pressing it down to trap the hair, the visor pulled down low enough to obstruct some of my vision.
"And put this on," he instructed, moving away only to come back a moment later with one of his zipper-up hoodies in an Army green color, this time handing it to me instead of putting it on himself. In fact, he moved several feet away. Like he needed space. Like, maybe, he needed control. Not to rip my clothes off instead of letting me pile them on.
But that, I suspected, was pure wishful thinking on my part.
"Are we bringing Paddy too?" I asked as he sat down beside me, head angled up, watching me expectantly.
"Yeah. He's a pretty decent stakeout buddy. We're going to have to postpone dinner for a while," he told me as we moved toward the door, tone apologetic
Ignoring the grumbling feeling in my belly, I shrugged it off, following him to his car.
The ten-minute drive was full of an excruciating silence, only occasionally broken by Padfoot's whine because I had strapped him into his harness so he could wear his seatbelt - something I had insisted Kingston buy when he brought Paddy in the store the first time, giving him perhaps too much detail about what could - and often did - happen to a dog who was in a car without a harness and seatbelt. It kind of gave me a warm, gooey sensation when I opened the door to put Paddy in and saw it there, all ready for use.
"Just another minute, buddy," I told him as the SUV drove up over the bridge that would lead to the beach, the sun setting on it, basking it in beautiful pinks and purples. Every bit of me itched to get out, walk it, feel those first kisses of warm weather. But Kingston kept driving, only turning in near the wall with the private access points, going down into a small neighborhood lined with houses I would never earn enough money to live in, parking near the end of the road.
"Your client lives here?" I asked, needing to hear something else other than Paddy's panting and the scratch of his nails on the seat.
"She lives in the townhouses across the street," he said, pointing to the brand new upscale homes that I still would never be able to afford, the kind of house that allowed you to walk down your back steps and directly onto the sand. "But there is nowhere to park there without looking suspicious. Even in the off-season, the cops around here are ridiculous."