The Negotiator (Professionals 7)

“The doctor will handle your ankle. And I think your man can handle your ass,” he added.

My man.

I liked that.

A lot more than I ever could have imagined a few weeks before.

Quin moved away, into the living room, and I could hear him on the phone. Likely with Smith, who would call the rest of the guys and girls to fill them in on the events of the night.

Footsteps made their way in our direction a few moments after that, making me cock my head back to see Finn standing there in the doorway, gaze moving around.

“TV is ruined,” he declared calmly. Then promptly walked right back out of the room.

“Where is he going?” Christopher asked, brows pinched.

“Knowing Finn, to get me a new TV. He cleans scenes, but he also replaces things. I’ll even get some new sheets out of the deal,” I told him, noticing the edge of the one covering my naked body was tinged dark at one corner with Atanas’s blood. “And much better ones than the ones I have. It is all part of the package he offers.”

“I guess we are officially employing Quinton Baird & Associates,” he declared.

“Actually,” I said, “I believe I am employing them. Seeing as I was the one to do the shooting thing. Luckily,” I went on when he started to object, “in roughly five-to-seven business days, I will be a very, very rich woman,” I told him, meaning after he finally cut me the check he kept meaning to.

To that, his eyes went warm.

“Yes, yes, you will be.”

“And you will be much poorer,” I added, loving the way his eyes danced.

“Yes, quite destitute,” he agreed, even though we both knew the money he was paying me was a drop in his very deep bucket.

“You might even have to switch to normal legal pads instead of fancy leather binders,” I suggested.

“Clearly, the pain is starting to addle your brain,” he informed, me. “Let’s slip you into something so we can get you to the hospital. What are you going to tell them happened?” he asked as he slipped a t-shirt over my head, helping me slip my arms into the holes.

“That we were having sex and my leg got caught in the sheets as I fell out of the bed, of course. It also explains the rug burn,” I informed him as he carefully slipped shorts up my legs, helping lift my hips so he could settle them into place. “We will be the talk of the hospital,” I added, giving him a weak smile.

“You know we could just tell them you got it caught under the bed as you got up in the middle of the night,” he told me as he lifted me up into his arms.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” I asked as he walked me through my house.

“Sexual deviants it is then,” he agreed, tucking me into the car.

It was right that moment I knew for sure.

I’d been suspecting it for weeks.

But this was the moment I knew with one-hundred-percent clarity and certainty.

I was stupidly, madly, all-consumingly in love with this man.

There wasn’t a hint of hesitation in telling him, either, as soon as I realized it.

“Christopher?” I asked as he just barely missed the curb.

“Yes?” he asked, casting me a quick glance.

“I love you,” I told him, feeling the car jerk wildly. “Even if you can’t drive for shit,” I added, making a snort escape him as he completely ignored a stop sign.

“Careful, or I am going to tell your eventual physical therapist that you love doing stairs for rehab.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he told me, shooting me a devilish smirk. “And I love you back, kardia mou.”

My heart.

That was what that meant.

I was deliriously happy to be his heart.

And then, a couple pain pills and a cast later, I was simply delirious.

A few hours after that, Christopher was rubbing coconut oil on the rug burns on my ass in a luxury suite Jules had reserved for us, a cart loaded down with half-eaten room service parked beside the bed.

It was an epically amazing night, invasion and murder aside.

Christopher – 1 year

She never got used to the stairs.

It didn’t matter how many times she climbed them, she grumbled and cursed them every step of the way. And me, at times, for deciding to live at the very top of all of them.

She was still huffing and swiping sweat off her brow as she came in the front door, dropping the grocery bags on the floor with a huff.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, watching as she lifted her hair, fanning some air on her neck.

“The damn tourists,” she declared.

Yep.

She was officially a local if she was bitching about them. Even if we technically split our time between Santorini, Zagori, and New Jersey. With some vacation spots mixed in. It still meant we spent at least a third of the year here in this house. Where it all technically started. Much to my delight. And Alexander’s. And let’s not forget, Cora’s.