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He snorts. “Call the cops. File a report. And Nic?”
“Yeah?”
“Hire a bodyguard.”
I sit up straight.
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. I’d offer to come myself, but I’m playing SME in court this week.” As a private investigator, Rand gets called to testify a lot.
“I know you’ve got money. Better still, call your old man. I bet he can recommend a security firm. Tell them to send somebody big and scary to follow you around until this gets settled.”
I know Rand’s not even joking, and what’s more, he’s probably right. But there’s not a chance in hell I’m calling Dad with this. Of all the people in the world I don’t want to know my business, that man makes the top of the list. Out and proud works great for some, but my private life is mine, and no blackmailing bastard is going to take that away from me.
“Real question is, what were they looking for?” I say instead.
“Money, probably. Which means whoever you hire needs to scope out where you live.”
An idea appears.
It’s probably nuts. He’ll say no. He’s probably busy. You don’t just randomly ask somebody if they’ll play bodyguard, especially if that person isn’t a professional and doesn’t seem to have a steady job.
Which means he might be glad for the work. And there’s a better chance this whole thing will stay off the record.
And he already knows where I live.
“I’ll get it done,” I say to Rand. I promise to update him as soon as I’ve hired protection and end the call.
The thought of Natalie in the office alone on Friday afternoon makes me want to destroy something. Had the vandal waited until she left for the day? Or did we just get lucky this time?
By the time I report the break-in—no money missing, because Natalie keeps the petty cash, and her desk is untouched—and the police let me lock up, it’s dark outside. On the drive home, I turn the idea over in my mind, testing for holes.
It’s sound. It makes sense. And if it means I can keep a closer eye on him with Natalie, then it’s a good thing Finn Hale is easy to look at.
7
NATALIE
Iused to be terrified of this place.
Half a block down, just across the street from my apartment, it was convenient, sure. But like every danged gym in the city, it has those ridiculous floor-to-ceiling glass windows instead of, oh, I don’t know, walls. I’ve never yet figured out if the point is to see inside or to be seen from the outside.
They put the treadmills right next to the glass, too, cranking my self-consciousness up to eleven. The first time I set foot in here, I only lasted five excruciating minutes in front of that window before fleeing to the relative privacy of the weight room toward the back, even though I had absolutely no idea what to do when I got there.
It turned out to be the best move I ever made. The weights were more challenging and more interesting. Which meant the time went by faster, and bonus, nobody could see me from the street. That weight room turned into a refuge, and it kept me coming back until I wasn’t self-conscious anymore.
“So what’s his name?” Moira asks while pressing buttons on her treadmill display right next to mine. She doesn’t care for the weights, so our Sunday workouts are mostly walking and talking.
“Finn.”
“Weird.” She makes a face. I laugh.
“It is not,” I say, smacking her arm. “Short for Finnegan. His last name is Hale, so I’m going to take a wild shot in the dark and guess his family’s Irish.”
“Hot,” she says, nodding in approval. “You’re seeing him tonight.”
“We’re getting coffee this afternoon, yeah.”
