Page 23 of Protection (Mobsters + Billionaires 2)
“I can’t stay away, C. Sometimes being in the public eye can come with nuisances. I didn't want to bother you with those, but the issue seems to have been resolved, and you’ll be seeing a lot more of me.”
She gives me a shrewd look, seeming to grasp my meaning. “Well, I hope those nuisances stay away from here. You're one of my favorite customers.”
“Is it because I give you a big tip every time I see you?”
She shakes her head. “Rand gives me double, and he’s not my favorite.”
“Motherfucker. This shall not stand,” I say, slapping down a hundred-dollar bill.
“You are so easy.” She winks, sliding the bill off the counter.
“Just make me my drink.”
“Which one? The one that'll make your trainer happy, or the one that’ll make you happy?”
I look outside. The sun is shining and the sliver of sky visible between the tall buildings is blue. “Fuck it. Give me the one that makes me happy.”
“One caramel quadruple shot sugar bomb on its way.”
I do a little happy dance and grab a water, taking a seat in my favorite booth. Pulling up my phone as I wait, I start to go through each email, knocking out five before the big-as-my-head mug of decadent espresso goodness is placed in front of me.
“You are an angel. Don’t let anyone tell you any different,” I say, blowing Cat a kiss.
“Remember that around Christmastime,” she says, rubbing imaginary cash between her fingers.
I snort and take a sip of the hot beverage, catching a flash of navy out of the corner of my eye. I take another sip before it registers. Fuck. My hand trembles as I place the mug back on the table, losing a few drops.
Don't freak out, Mads. It's a guy in a navy blazer. What did Anthony say to do if I saw him again? Don't look at him directly. Use your peripheral vision.
Another flash of navy, this time across the street. I take a sip of my sugar bomb, and my stomach clenches. Navy blazer, a shock of white hair, collar popped so I can't see his face.
The caramel smell wafting from my indulgent coffee—usually my favorite part—nauseates me. I pull out my phone, cursing myself when I drop it to the floor. A woman passing by picks it up and hands it to me. Recognition flashes through her eyes, but thankfully, she doesn't attempt to engage me in conversation.
I try to type out a message, but my fingers won’t cooperate. Fuck it. I hit the number before holding the phone to my ear.
His crisp “Go for Edgerton” is a relief.
“Anthony?” I croak out. “He’s back.”
