The kid eagerly pulls out his phone and hands it to me. I program in my number and give it back to him.
“Call me this weekend, and we’ll set up a time. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Aiden, sir. Aiden Walt.” He hesitates, then decides to be brave. “And you are?”
“Peter Garin,” I say and resume running, leaving the teen standing by the bench.
15
Sara
As has been his habit all week, Peter picks me up after work, only instead of us going home or to the clinic, we drive to the bar where my band is performing tonight.
“Thank you so much for this,” I say between bites of the chicken pasta he brought for me to eat in the car. “Seriously, this is delicious.”
“You’re welcome.” His silver gaze is warm as he glances at me before turning his attention back to the road. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I can’t believe you had time to cook today. Weren’t the movers supposed to come?”
He grins. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? They came—and tonight we’re going to sleep at the new place.”
“What?” I almost choke on my pasta. “Are you serious?”
He nods. “I hired four guys, and they packed and moved everything in record time. I’ve already unpacked all the necessities, including everything for the kitchen and the bedroom, so it’s just a matter of dealing with a few more boxes over the weekend. And buying some new things, of course—but I figured we could do that together.”
“You are amazing,” I say, and I mean every word. His relentless, obsessive drive—that nearly superhuman ability to overcome insurmountable odds in pursuit of his goal—used to terrify me, but now that I’m no longer fighting to escape him, I see it for the asset that it is.
The same formidable force of will that Peter used to make me fall in love with him is now smoothing all the minor bumps in our peaceful suburban life—a life that’s possible only because Peter has performed a virtual miracle and gotten himself off the Most Wanted lists.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think him a wizard, bending fate and reality to his will.
“So, I’ve decided to open a training studio,” he says casually as I resume eating. “I’ll start scoping out a place next week.”
I pause mid-bite, staring at him in disbelief. “Really?”
“Yeah. I met this kid in the park today, and he begged me for some fighting lessons. So that gave me the idea, and the more I think about it, the more I like it. I’m thinking self-defense classes for women and teens, boot camp programs for hardcore athletes, weapons training for bodyguards, and so on. I have some experience with training others, having done it with my guys when I was first putting together the team, so it might be fun.”
“That is an excellent idea.” I can’t hide the excitement in my voice. “That will be such a perfect thing for you to do.”
He shoots me a wry glance. “Better than assassinations?”
I laugh because he’s read my mind. “Yes, much better.” I’ve been worried about what he’d do here, whether he’d miss his adrenaline-filled former profession, and this settles my mind quite a bit.
With the training studio to occupy his days and provide a new challenge, my assassin husband might actually adjust to our calm, civilian life.
Feeling lighter than I have since Monica’s visit, I finish my pasta just as we pull up to the bar where I’m performing tonight.
The light feeling evaporates as soon as we step inside. The bar is huge, loud, and crowded, with most of the patrons already drunk, and I can feel Peter’s growing tension as we make our way to the backstage area, where the other band members are getting ready.
“Hey, there they are, the newlyweds! So glad you could make it.” Phil pulls me into a big hug, and my husband’s face turns to stone, his hand starting to curl into a fist.
Shit. I’ve forgotten about Peter’s extreme possessiveness.
I push my bandmate away and swiftly grab Peter’s arm. The steely muscle flexes under my fingers, and I know I was right to worry.
My grenade was about to explode.
“Where are Simon and Rory?” I ask, rubbing my hands over Peter’s bicep, like I’m just enjoying touching all that lethal muscle—which I would be, if I weren’t so concerned for Phil. “Are they ready to go?”
“They’re changing over there.” Phil jerks his head to the right. “You should go change, too. We’ve got your outfit prepped. And don’t worry, I’ll give him back to you when you’re done.” He grins at Peter, who still looks like he wants to hammer nails into him. Slowly.
“Okay. I’ll be quick.” I give Peter’s bicep a warning squeeze and reluctantly head into the changing area.
Our guitarist better be unharmed when I return.
16
Peter
“So,” Phil says, his good-natured expression evaporating as soon as Sara is out of sight. “Jealous bastard, aren’t you?”