The Negotiator (Professionals 7)

“And the only way for me to do that was with a man?” I challenged, just on principle. As a whole, I didn’t think anyone would accuse Bellamy of being sexist or backward. He was a progressive guy.

“I think sometimes we learn lessons faster when we are with the opposite sex. Something to do with our caveman instincts or some shit. But it speeds up the changing process. How long did it take you to realize that you weren’t as fulfilled in your life as you thought you were?”

The truth was not easy to admit. But I did it regardless. “Not long.”

“How long, after your inevitable resistance, did it take for you to start to imagine a whole different life for yourself?”

“Again, not long.”

“I didn’t know you’d fall in love with him, Mills. I thought maybe you would get some warm feelings, and start to think of things like slowing down, settling down, and finding a steady man?”

“I learned how to cook,” I admitted.

“In this world of all-night delivery, why on Earth would you want to know how to cook?”

“It’s relaxing. And it feels nice to serve people something you put time and effort and thought into. What?” I asked when his lips twitched.

“I am just thinking of all the aprons I can buy you for your birthday. In pink. With frills. I bet they even make matching, oh what are they called, the things you put on your hands so you don’t burn them…”

“Oven mitts,” I supplied.

“Look at you with the lingo,” he told me, patting my thigh. “You gonna cook for me sometime?”

“You’d have to stay in the same place for more than a couple hours.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Have you ever had a home-cooked meal, Bells?”

“The cooks growing up cooked at home all the time.”

“You know what I mean. A meal cooked with love and you in mind.”

“Then never,” he admitted.

“Have you ever stopped to think how sad that is?”

“No.”

“Are you considering it now?”

“Why? So I can get real depressed?”

“You want me to face up to these harsh realities, but you don’t want to do it yourself?”

“I thought we covered this,” he said, slapping a hand on my knee to use it to haul himself to his feet. “You’re amazing.”

“You are pretty amazing too, Bells,” I told him, even if I was still a little mad at him.

“You might not want to be too nice to me,” he told me, going to the door.

“Why not?” I asked, watching as he grabbed the vest off the floor.

“Because I hooked you up with Christopher because I lost a bet to Fenway,” he told me, scooting out, closing the door, knowing I wasn’t supposed to follow.

I was getting uncomfortably accustomed to being on a lockdown. Though, I had to admit, being locked down in Greece was preferable to Navesink Bank.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my town.

But if I looked out the window, I saw a mix of storefronts and apartment buildings.

At least in Greece, I had an epic view from my prison.

And, you know, Christopher.

Here, I had my friends.

Each of them had dropped by. Finn had cleaned, brought me some things from my house, including items that I knew had seen in the laundry bin, which meant he had been to my house as well, doing his usual deep clean.

Jules, the glue that held our whole business together, stocked the fridge and cabinets, made sure I had a care package full of bathroom essentials.

Quin, Smith, Gunner, and Lincoln all dropped in periodically to give me updates on their search for Chernov. Which had been frustratingly slow, producing next to nothing.

Even Nia, our resident hacker and obsessive researcher, had hit dead end after dead end. I was sure the distance wasn’t helping. I couldn’t help but wonder if Christopher and his team were having better luck.

All I knew was, I missed my home.

I missed my bed.

I missed fresh air.

For God’s sake, I missed exercising.

Which was saying something.

I’d been trying to keep myself distracted. I watched movies. I messed around on my phone, pinning recipes I wanted to try out. I spent some time cooking with the items I found in the fridge and cabinets.

But I suddenly had a lot more sympathy for the clients we stuck up in this space for weeks and weeks at a time. I had always rolled my eyes at their complaints, since they were safe, and had a lovely room and every TV show and movie available, and food delivered to the door. It was a forced vacation of sorts. Nothing to bitch about.

Yet, I was at the bitching stage.

Quin had left a few hours before because he was sick of me whining about wanting to go home.

“Do I want to know why Bellamy had a bulletproof vest?” Smith asked, standing in the doorway.

“It’s Bellamy,” I told him, shrugging. “Someone pretty much always wants to put a bullet in him.”