Page 2 of Spying Under the Mistletoe
Inside, I close the door behind me. “What’s up?” I ask Liam. My boss.
The owner of Quade Security and Investigations.
My former brother in arms.
Liam doesn’t call the team on a Sunday unless it’s super important. He’s a family man through and through—especially since his daughter was born over a year ago.
Cassie and his wife, Ava, are his world.
“I need you to come into the office this morning. I’m calling the entire team in.”
“I’d ask what this is about, but now’s not a good time for me to talk.” I have no idea if Blondie’s the curious type—if snooping gets her off. “As soon as I get some baggage out of my house, I’ll be there.”
Liam has been my friend for too long to miss the hidden meaning between the words. “You know, if you found a nice woman to settle down with, the overstaying-their-welcome baggage wouldn’t be a problem.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Your mom is a wise woman.”
We end the call, and I head downstairs. Blondie is still in the kitchen, in my hockey jersey, coffee mug in hand, in no particular rush to leave. Her eyelashes are no longer stuck together.
“I have to go to work now,” I tell her, hoping she gets the hint this time.
She frowns, her pout resembling that of a toddler denied a cookie more than it resembles the pout of a supermodel selling sexy lingerie. “Work? But it’s Sunday.”
I shrug because it is what it is.
“You never did tell me what you do for a living.” She sips on her coffee.
“I’m a janitor. The usual weekend guy called in sick.”
Rule #1 when it comes to hookups: Never tell them my real job.
Even if I don’t mention the off-the-website part of the job—the part involving secret government contracts—telling women I work for a security and investigation company leaves them with all kinds of alpha-hero fantasies.
It makes me, in their eyes, more desirable, more exciting, than someone who cleans an office building for a living.
The frown between Blondie’s eyebrows returns. “This is a really nice place for a janitor.”
I don’t dignify her comment with a reply.
Fortunately, she finally gets the hint, puts the mug on the counter, and heads upstairs to hopefully get changed. She returns a few minutes later in the dress she was wearing last night. Her hair is no longer messy.
“I had fun last night,” she says, batting her eyelashes at me. They miraculously don’t stick together this time. “I would love to see you again. Maybe we could catch a movie and dinner later this week?”
Her tone is not of someone hoping to be a booty call. It’s more along the lines of wanting something I can’t give—my heart.
Or what’s left of it.
No, a woman didn’t cheat on me or do me wrong. Just the opposite. My post-college girlfriend was the love of my life. I was positive she was it—the woman I would one day marry.
At least that had been my plan until she went out with friends. The next time I saw her, she was in a coma and on life support.
Her parents removed her from it a month later.
After that, I joined the military. And on more than one occasion witnessed a brother die—and each time, like with my girlfriend, I was unable to do anything about it.
“Sorry,” I tell Blondie, “but I told you last night it was a one-time-only deal. That hasn’t changed.”
