Code Name Sentinel (Jameson Force Security 2)

I don’t argue because, frankly, the only reason I stay at work so late is I get lost in what I’m doing. I’ll lose hours of time to my research and work without realizing how late it’s gotten.

So now, Cruce calls every evening around six to tell me to pack up and head out. I do as I’m told, because I don’t want the guys watching me to suffer, and head to my house where Cruce has dinner waiting.

And we talk some more.

Over the last few days, I’ve learned a lot about him. He comes from a law enforcement family—his dad, brother, and sister are cops with the Chicago Police Department near where he grew up. He has another sister, too, but she—gasp—decided to become an interior designer.

Every day at breakfast and dinner, he regales me with stories about his family or his work in the Secret Service. He took the job with Jameson because he’s in search of the next big career adventure, and he seems to love Pittsburgh.

Through some subtle digging, which probably wasn’t subtle at all, I also learned he’s not married, nor has he ever been in a committed relationship. That’s something he and I have in common. Our distinct lack of relationships come from being too committed to our work.

I’d like to say I regaled him with interesting tales in return, but, sadly, my life is so boring I was able to summarize it while he poached my eggs yesterday.

After I’d gone through my educational accomplishments, which I’d reached at an incredibly early age, he asked, “But what do you do for fun?”

I had to really think about it, but I’d been too embarrassed to admit sex was my go-to “fun activity”. Not dating. Not vacations. Not parties with other friends. If I got an itch, I scratched it physically.

Nothing sordid, of course. I usually maintained a friends-with-benefits relationship with someone likeminded whose main focus was also school and performing at an elevated level. It had always been mutually beneficial to use sex as an outlet.

Oh… I’d once smoked weed, but I hadn’t liked it because it made me feel so out of control and paranoid.

I kept that bit from Cruce, too. I didn’t think it made me seem cool or exciting. Instead, it felt a little pathetic.

My shower is quick, and I manage to nick myself just above my ankle while shaving. I slap a piece of toilet paper over it, then work on my hair and makeup. There’s a knock on the bathroom door. Cruce’s warning of, “Five minutes, Barrett,” kicks me into high gear. Silently, I pray I don’t come out resembling a clown.

After liberally spraying my roots with dry shampoo, I brush out my tangled hair. It ends up not looking bad at all, the various layers sticking out at oddly fashionable angles.

Except my bangs.

They’re still crimped in the middle, and I can’t get them to lay straight.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, rummaging in a drawer to find a jeweled barrette. I sweep my bangs back, shove the barrette in, and don’t give myself a second look.

It’s time to get dressed and I have no one I’m trying to impress.

I slide on a pair of nude lace panties before pulling the peach concoction over my head. The dress floats over my body. It’s a little tight in the chest since it was designed to maximize cleavage and keep the fabric securely in place. Perching on the edge of the bed, I slip my heels on.

When Cruce knocks on my door, I call, “It’s open.”

Rising from my bed, I turn toward my full-length mirror in the corner of my room to make sure all my bits are tucked in the right places.

“Not bad,” I murmur as I take myself in. Cruce’s reflection shows him standing behind me, his hands clasped in front of himself.

In the mirror, I catch him running his eyes down the length of me. When I turn to face him, his eyes flash with appreciation, although they linger just a moment too long on the barrette in my hair.

Flustered, I start to reach up to touch it, but he says, “Don’t. It looks perfect.”

I blush, feeling the heat climbing up my chest to my cheeks, then clumsily move to my closet to grab a matching clutch.

“What’s that?” Cruce asks, and I follow his gaze downward. “Above your ankle?”

Kicking my leg out to the side to see, I blush even harder when I see the piece of toilet paper stuck to the small cut on my leg. “Shit,” I mutter as I squat to grab it. “Just cut myself in the shower.”

Ignoring Cruce’s snort of amusement, I rise and nab my purse. When I’m finally ready, he’s holding his arm out. “Shall we?”

I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, shamelessly gripping onto the hard muscle there. If I have to spend an evening at a horribly boring State dinner, at least I’ll have a handsome, engaging man by my side.