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“Doeshehave to be here?”
I looked between the two of them. “Uh…yeah.”
Terry gritted his teeth. “I’m her security.”
“I thought it was just the one day.”
“He’s on my team,” I explained. “And it’s more than one day.”
Grace shook her head. “Keep him away from me.”
“Same old Bobcat. There are those claws I remember. Maybe you should leave and make us both happy,” Terry said. The name change from Kitty to Bobcat was ominous.
“No, Serena invited me,” Grace spat, tossing her red hair.
I held up my hands. “Stop. I don’t know what your problem is, but neither of you is leaving. Grace, I hired security for a problem I ran into, and Terry is a permanent part of the team. He stays.”
Her brows creased. “I still don’t get why you need a team.”
“I’ll explain later. Terry, Grace and I have some cooking to do. Go do some push-ups, reload your gun, or whatever.”
“You can practice firing it at your head,” Grace added. “It’s big enough that you won’t miss.”
With a huff, Terry stomped away. “Lucas, we have a problem,” he said into his phone as he went.
I pointed us toward the kitchen. “I thought you two were getting along better?”
Grace sighed. “He’s a douche.”
“I heard that, Kitty.” Terry’s voice carried from the other room.
She looked away and shook her head. “Make that super douche.”
I shrugged. “Then let’s get cooking.” I needed the therapy of it.
She nodded. “I brought extra chicken breasts in case we need a redo to get it right.”
I took her bag. “Good thing. We’re cooking for four. Duke will be back soon.”
“Do I have to cook for him?” She thumbed in Terry’s direction.
I shot her a look. This was totally unlike the thoughtful and kind Grace I knew.
“Okay,” she relented. “For you, girlfriend.”
We unpacked the ingredients she’d brought and got everything ready. We were attempting olive-and-feta-stuffed chicken tonight. After creating the pockets in the breasts and scooping feta into a bowl, Grace addressed the elephant in the room. “You didn’t mention why you needed security?”
The recipe suggested kalamata olives, but all I had were green castelvetrano ones. “Will these do?” I asked.
“If that’s all we have, sure. We need to double it to twelve chopped up.” She pulled the oregano from the spice rack. “You forgot about tonight, didn’t you?”
I shrugged and counted the olives out on a cutting board.
“What’s wrong?” she prodded.
I chopped the olives and added them to the feta. “I got run off the road a week ago Monday, and it wasn’t random.”
She gasped. “Is it?—”
