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Hearing the strength in her voice makes my chest inflate, and not in defense. I look down on this woman who is staring me down like I’m not one of the most notorious gangsters in the country. I realize with an uncomfortable insight that it’s respect I feel growing in my chest.
She takes another step forward, crowding into my personal space so she has to tilt her head back to keep her blazing gaze on mine. “And if you lay your hands on me one more time without my permission, I don’t care what it takes, I will get rid of you. Entiendes?”
I trace my molars with my tongue as I continue to survey her. Unwavering, she stands up to my wordless scrutiny. Small beads of sweat that I can only see at this distance dot the bridge of her nose. I don’t know if it’s her demand that I can’t touch her or something else that makes me want to feel her cheek with the back of my hand. I bet it burns like the rest of her.
Instead, I swallow down the urge and rake my teeth over my lip. “Got it.”
She looks almost surprised for a second, but then it’s gone and her confidence shining again, walls coming down. “Good.”
“I won’t touch you unless it’s for your safety.”
Her walls shoot back up. “No.”
“Yes.”
Her brows screw together. “No.”
I relax into this familiar banter, sliding my hands into my pockets and tilting my head to the side. “Yes.”
“Fine!” She throws her hands in the air like she’s writing this conversation off as pointless from the start. Which in a way, it is. I’ll do anything to protect her, whether she likes it or not. For the job.
“Can you clear the fucking hall or whatever it is you freaked out about so we can go?” She lets out an exasperated sigh, and I try to ignore the pestering poke of shame her mention of my “freak out” causes.
We manage to make it to The Fox’s Den without killing each other, the drive much less tense than I expected. The Den is an Irish pub, but also serves as our family’s headquarters. We head inside, and I take us straight to the back office where Finn is already waiting for us.
He’s taping up a large styrofoam cooler with a big warning that reads: TIME-SENSITIVE. REFRIGERATE IMMEDIATELY. Not one for small talk, he gets straight to it. “I lined the inside with dry ice so it’s cold to the touch and then filled the rest with bags of flour. I inserted a tracking device into the styrofoam, so unless this guy stomps it to pieces, he won’t find it.”
“Good. Thanks, Finn.” I pick the hefty box up from the desk, checking to make sure the mock mailing address is correct. I nod to Reggie, who has been standing behind me wordlessly for the entire interaction, that it’s time to go.
She steps aside to let me open the office door first. Maybe this reluctant partnership can work after all.
Chapter 11
The Stake Out
Reggie
The FedEx looks like it hasn’t been updated since the eighties. Everything is beige and gray, and the wall of brass PO boxes has seen shinier days. The electric chime above the door dings as Roan and I walk in, and the woman behind the checkout lazily raises her head from a book. When she sees Roan, her face transforms with alertness. He doesn’t notice, but I do. He’s probably so used to commanding a room with his mere presence that he doesn’t notice the way people snap to attention around him anymore.
But it’s not just the way his black t-shirt stretches over his broad muscles or the tattoos that snake up his neck. It’s the energy that he carries with him, something dark and chilling, like his eyes. People see him and fear him. As they should.
It’s that same darkness, though, that makes the reddish hues in his hair seem brighter, fierier in comparison, that makes the clench of his jaw feel seismic. And that same darkness is the reason I don’t fear him because I recognize it for what it is: a cloak he wraps himself in to hide whatever ghosts haunt his soul.
I wear a matching one.
He sets the styrofoam cooler on the counter in front of the woman and, like he did at dinner with Matt, he turns on a warm and soothing charm that instantly has the cashier relaxing. “This was accidentally delivered to my house—must have mixed up street number with box number.” He leans against the counter casually and lets out the perfect disarming chuckle. “Anyway, I saw these warnings and figured I should bring it here rather than return to sender. You know how long that takes.” He fixes his handsome blue eyes on her like they’re in on the same joke.
“Yeah, sure do.” She barks a laugh as if he’s the funniest person alive. It wasn’t even a fucking joke. I cringe for her and stroll over to the rows of mailboxes so I don’t have to acknowledge the weird way my gut twists watching Roan flirt.
“Do you know who owns this box? Might want to give them a call.” I look over and see him pat the warning label. “Time-sensitive and all.”
“Yeah, great idea.” She grabs the store phone and I turn back around, listening to her keyboard clacking.
I locate the box number that was listed as the sender of the tongue at the same time Roan calls out, “Right, ready, babe?”
I spin around, both annoyed he wants to leave right when I find it and flabbergasted at babe. I shoot him a glare, and he meets me with a cocky grin, tongue prodding at his cheek. I know there’s no real information I can gain just from looking at the box, so I snap a quick picture and head his way.
I follow him to the car parked across the street with a clear line of sight to the store and slide into the passenger seat. Even though we aren’t going anywhere, his hand instinctively curls around the gear shift. The veins and flex of his knuckles make the rose-thorned rosary tattoo look almost 3D, tactile. Just seeing it around the gear shift, I can easily imagine the haunting yet illicit way it would look around someone’s neck.
