Page 45 of Sworn to Protect

That shouldn’t sting. I haven’t been around long enough to count. But still.

I school my expression, keeping my voice light. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”

She shrugs, not looking convinced.

“Maybe you’re worrying for nothing. Surely, Jordan will listen to you. I mean, a dirtbike is an expensive gift.”

“Good point. I probably am worrying for nothing.”

“I doubt your brother goes to the effort.”

“You’ve never mentioned having any annoying siblings. Any brothers or sisters that you hate to claim?”

“No. I was an only child.”

“Sometimes I wish I were, but as annoying as Jordan can be, I wouldn’t trade him for anything. But I have to deal with him, you know?”

“I used to want a brother, but I was glad I never had one after I got older. My dad. . .” I hesitate, not knowing how much to disclose. “He isn’t the nicest of guys.” I certainly wouldn’t want anyone else exposed to his belittling ways. “I wasn’t good enough in his eyes.”

“Seriously? I can’t imagine you were a hellacious child. Were his expectations too high?”

“Something like that. One example, he wanted a brawny jock. I was more into academia. I liked learning about cellular biology more than chasing a ball. Most kids readSports Illustrated. I was the weird one readingNational Geographic.”

She eyes my biceps and broad shoulders. “Were you scrawny as a kid? Because you’re all brawn now.”

My chuckle is as light as I try to keep the conversation. “I was normal, and before you ask, I was decent at sports. But they never held my attention.” Maybe because the prick wanted me to be the best. If I played football, he pushed for me to be the quarterback. If I played baseball, he wanted me to be a pitcher. I had to dominate on the field. To be nothing but the best.

“Do you want to return to your San Francisco roots?”

My jaw hardens to keep from cringing. Why the fuck did I say I was from there? The worst part is that too much time has passed to correct the lie. If I admit I’m originally from San Diego, she’ll question everything I’ve said. I can’t risk that, but I give her a slice of truth.

“I don’t have roots. Guess I haven’t found a place I’d want to put them down.” I especially don’t want to return to where my old man resides.

Her gaze lingers as if searching for something. “Yeah, I get that.”

She hesitates and then, almost like she’s testing the waters, adds, “Besides, my dad is in jail. Did I tell you that?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“He’s a conman.”

That’s something we have in common.

Before I can respond, a voice cuts in.

“Mackenzie Gillman, is that you?”

We both turn to an eager-looking woman a few years to Mackenzie’s senior.

Mackenzie pastes on a polite smile. “Linda. How have you been?”

Linda barely acknowledges her before shifting her focus to me. “And is thistheNate Dixon? I’ve heard all about you.”

Her gaze ping-pongs between Mackenzie and me, but her pause isn’t long enough for neither one of us to jump in.

“And you’re here having drinks . . .together. Isn’t that nice?”

I’m at a loss for words. Any answer feels like stepping into a trap.

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