Page 45 of Protecting the Nerd

“You no longer think so?”

“You’re being paid to hang out with me. That makes things complicated.”

He wasn’t wrong, yet it stung. “I’d hang out with you even if it wasn’t my job.”

“We wouldn’t have met if it wasn’t for your job,” York said, as literal as ever.

“What I’m saying is that if the threat against you ended tomorrow and you no longer needed a bodyguard, I’d still want to hang out with you.”

He frowned. “Why?”

He was killing me, and he didn’t realize it. “I like you. You’re a fascinating man, York, and I’ve enjoyed getting to know you.”

His eyes probed me as if to test if I was telling the truth, but then he relaxed again. “You’re not nearly as annoying as I thought you would be.”

“Be still my beating heart.” I clapped my hand over my chest, though I took it for what it was: the first layer of truth.

York winced. “I didn’t mean that?—”

“I know what you meant, and I didn’t take offense.”

“Why is it you never get upset with me when I say things like that?”

“Because I understand what you’re saying.”

“But why?”

I shrugged. “You’re not that hard to understand, honestly. You tend to take things literally, and your first reaction is often only the most superficial layer. Given the opportunity, you’ll dig deeper after that. But you’re methodical, so you start at the beginning. In this case, you had expected me to be a nuisance, and it turns out I’m not as bad as you had feared. I can see that for the compliment it is.”

He stared at me for a long time, but I let him, allowing him to process our conversation. “It’s almost eerie how well you’ve come to know me in such a short time. Other than Fir, no one has ever made the effort.”

“As I said, I like you and find you fascinating. When you like someone, you take the time to figure them out and understand how they’re wired.”

York sighed. “I wanna get drunk. Can I do that? Absolutely drunk off my ass.”

“You’re a grown-ass man. You can do whatever the hell you want.”

“You’re not gonna stop me?”

“Nope.”

York rose. “Pretty sure Tomás left a bottle of superb whisky behind. The man is a whisky snob. If I’m gonna get drunk, it might as well be on the good stuff.”

When he came back, he was holding a bottle and a glass. “Found it. Eighteen-year-old Macallan double cask, whatever the fuck that means. It looks expensive. I assume you don’t want any.”

“Correct.”

He unscrewed the bottle and poured himself a generous amount. After a sniff, he took a sip. “Oh, this’ll do just fine.”

It took him two glasses to get tipsy and five to get dead drunk. After the sixth, I grabbed the bottle.

“Hey!” York tripped over his feet when he tried to stop me. I held on to his arm to prevent him from face-planting.

“You’ve had enough,” I said calmly.

“You said I could do whatever the fuck I wanted.”

“I draw the line at alcohol poisoning, sorry.”

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