Page 333 of Lodestar

I whistled under my breath. “That’s fast.”

“That’s the Four Horsemen for you. They look after their people. Reggie just told me she was asked to stand down. That the Four will be watching over her from now on.” She heaved a sigh. “I want to attend.”

“Then we’ll attend,” I replied, even as I tried to catalog what I knew of the Four Horsemen.

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?”

“Probably, but you want to see her off, don’t you? Say goodbye?

“We don’t have to stand at the front, Star. We can be at the back. It’s not about making waves but saying goodbye to a person who supported you when you were in trouble.”

“Minnie won’t see it that way.”

“Then she won’t see it that way. She’ll curse at you and shout, and maybe that’s what she needs to feel better. I think you can handle an argument.”

She snorted. “Maybe.”

“More than maybe. More like definitely.”

“If it makes her feel better.”

I grunted. “It would. I’d have liked to shout at you a few times during Da’s funeral.”

Her swallow was audible. “I’m sorry, Conor.”

For the first time, I felt like she actually meant it. Maybe not because of what she’d done, but because it had affected me.

“Thank you, Star,” I said, accepting the apology and not dismissing it. “Call your grandfather and ask to use his jet. I’m still technically on the NSA’s leash.”

She didn’t call him but sent an email and received confirmation of the flight by the time we parked in the garage at my building.

I was used to having an in with people, what with Da’s ties to the head of the FBI—even if that link had been no help with my NSA situation—but I had to admit that Kuznetsov was on a whole other level.

His fingers dipped into Interpol? Shady NATO operations? Homeland Security?

He was seriously becoming my favorite person after Star.

When we made it home, I started toward our office, but in the doorway, she grabbed my hand and tugged me to a halt.

I stared down at her with an arched brow.

“What am I to you?”

That had me frowning. “Aside from a pain in my ass?”

Her lips quirked. “You know I can put you on that pained ass in less than two moves, don’t you?”

“I like to live dangerously,” was my retort.

“Evidently.” A spark had come to life in her eyes though. “You know what I mean.”

“I guess,” I drawled. “But it isn’t what you are to me; it’s what you think you are to me.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you’re my penguin.”

“We’re not back to penguins, are we? I keep expecting Benedict Cumberbatch to start narrating our lives whenever you bring them up.”

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