Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Eamon
The McCabe house ran on noise and obligation. By Sunday evening, I'd stopped pretending I could predict either.
Two days since the kiss. His mouth on mine replaying at the worst moments—checking locks, scanning rooms, trying to maintain distance while my body remembered exactly how he'd tasted.
Coffee and something sweeter. The way he'd made that sound, soft and surprised, like he hadn't expected his own want.
The kitchen smelled like onions and coffee burned down to tar. Miles chopped celery at the sink with surgical precision while Michael coordinated something on his phone that apparently required a spreadsheet. Ma moved between them, issuing contradictory instructions.
"Eamon." She thrust a cutting board at me. "Bread. Thinner than yesterday—this isn't lumber."
The knife was old, well-maintained, and sharp enough to respect. I started slicing while my brain cataloged vulnerabilities: the storm door's squeak, the basement latch that didn't set flush, the dining room window that—
"You're thinking too loud." Miles didn't look up from the celery. "I can hear the tactical assessment from here."
"Occupational hazard."
"So's therapy, but I try not to psychoanalyze people at family dinners." He paused. "Anymore."
Mac appeared in the doorway, hair damp, wearing a Mariners hoodie that had seen better decades. Our eyes met. Held.
Two days of this. Living in the same house, circling each other, pretending the kiss hadn't changed the geometry of every room we shared.
"Ma, what can I—"
"Stay out of the way. Too many bodies already."
But she smiled when she said it, and Mac smiled back—the real one. He grabbed a beer and leaned against the counter near Michael, and within seconds, they were arguing about basketball with the comfortable rhythm of people who'd been having the same argument for years.
I focused on the bread. Clean cuts. Even slices.
The house filled. Matthew and Dorian arrived with something in a casserole dish. Marcus and Alex came last, apologizing for the traffic. By the time we sat down, the table groaned under the weight of mismatched dishes and too much food.
I ended up at the far end, between Miles and the wall. Could see both exits, the kitchen door, and Mac's profile three seats down.
Close enough to read. Too far to reach.
Ma said grace—brief, practical, asking God to keep everyone safe because she had enough to worry about. Then chaos: plates passing, conversations overlapping, laughter building and breaking like waves.
Ma kept dragging me in.
"Eamon, you'll want the roast."
"It looks fine, Ma."
"I'm just saying, don't judge the presentation."
Mac caught my eye and almost smiled. Welcome to Sundays.
I watched him navigate the chaos. Reading the room not for threats but for openings—anticipating what Ma needed before she asked, delivering punchlines that made everyone laugh.
But there were moments. Minor fractures in the performance.
His shoulders dropped. His laugh came out unfiltered.
When Marcus asked about spring training, Mac answered with actual uncertainty.
"I don't know yet. Depends on a few things."
The table absorbed it and moved on.
This was Mac without armor.
The realization hit harder than it should have.
Miles reached across me for the butter. "So, Eamon. How does one become a professional bodyguard? Is there a test? Do you have to practice brooding in a mirror?"
Laughter rolled around the table.
"Certification process," I said evenly. "Background check, training—"
"But the jawline." Miles kept his expression deadpan. "Standard issue, or did you bring your own?"
Matthew choked on his water. Heat climbed my neck.
"The intimidation factor is optional."
"I bet it helps with client retention." Miles grinned, then seemed to register he'd made the entire table uncomfortable. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."
Conversation shifted, but Mac had gone quiet. Not withdrawn. Shuttered. His fingers turned his water glass in small increments.
I wanted to fix it. Had no idea how.
Claire's eyes found mine across the table. She didn't smile. Didn't frown. Just looked at me with that particular stillness that meant she was seeing more than I wanted seen.
Then she reached across the table—slow, deliberate—and adjusted the water glass in front of me. Turned it slightly, so the handle faced the right way. Such a small gesture. Japanese precision. Everything in its correct place.
"There," she said softly. "Better."
But she was looking at Mac when she said it.
We both understood: she hadn't corrected the glass. She'd corrected the situation. Had given her approval in the only language she spoke fluently—through small, perfect adjustments that made things right.
She'd just told Mac, in front of everyone and no one, that this—us—was positioned correctly.
That we fit.
Mac's face did something complicated.
Then his phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the noise like a gunshot. Every McCabe at the table registered it—years of emergency calls and bad news delivered via ringtone. Mac pulled his phone out and glanced at the screen.
His face went blank.
"Mac?" Michael's voice sharpened.
"Unknown number." Mac's thumb hovered over the screen. "Could be spam, could be—"
"Don't answer it." My voice came out harder than intended. "Not here. Not now."
But Mac was already standing, moving toward the kitchen. "I need to know."
I followed.
He answered on speaker. "Hello?"
Silence. Then breathing. Deliberate. Controlled.
A woman's voice: "You looked happy tonight.
All those people who love you. But they can't keep you safe, Mac.
They don't understand what you need. I do.
I've been documenting your deterioration for eighteen months, and the restoration protocol is nearly complete.
The cabin is ready. Everything you need—"
I ended the call. Took the phone from Mac's hand before he could process what he'd heard.
"When did she start calling?" My brain was already running scenarios. Cell number meant escalation. Voice meant confidence. The timing—during family dinner—meant she was watching. Now.
"First call." Mac's voice was steady, but his hands weren't. "She's never—"
"She knows we're here. All of us." I was already moving toward the window, checking sightlines. "Which means she's close."
From the dining room, the noise had stopped. Michael appeared in the doorway.
"What happened?"
"She called." I kept my voice level. "During dinner. She's watching the house."
Michael pulled out his own phone. "I'm calling it in."
"No." Mac's voice cracked. "Not yet. I'm not bringing that into Ma's house. Not tonight. Please." He looked at me. "One more hour. Let them finish dinner. Then we'll figure it out."
Every instinct screamed to lock the house down, call it in, and treat this like the escalation it was.
But Mac was looking at me like I was the only thing standing between his family and the threat he'd been trying to protect them from.
"One hour," I said. "Then we talk strategy. And you don't leave my sight."
He nodded. Breathed. Seemed to pull the armor back on piece by piece.
When we returned to the table, Ma's eyes were sharp with questions she wouldn't ask. Michael gave me a look that said, We're talking about this later. Claire's stillness suggested she'd already figured out more than Mac wanted her to know.
But they all pretended nothing had happened.
They closed ranks. Protected their own.
Even from threats they couldn't see.
After dinner, Ma shooed everyone out of the kitchen except me and Alex.
We worked in silence for a few minutes—me rinsing, him drying. The rhythm was meditative. Almost enough to quiet the tactical assessment running on loop: She's escalating. Voice contact means confidence. She's watching. How close?
"You know," Alex said casually, "he looks at you differently."
I kept my focus on the plate. "He looks at everyone."
"Sure. But not like you're the only solid thing in the room." He took the plate, dried it with economical motions. "Michael says you work alone. That you've built your whole practice around not needing backup."
"That's accurate."
"Must be strange, then. Being here. With all of us. With him."
From the living room came the sound of Ma directing someone about the cat. Ordinary chaos. Increasingly fragile.
"Don't give him a reason to retreat," Alex said quietly. "He's good at building walls and calling them boundaries. You've gotten past a few. Don't make him rebuild them."
I shut off the water. Looked at him directly. "I'm not sure that's my choice."
Alex's smile was small. Knowing. "That's what makes it real." He paused. "He deserves someone who isn't afraid of him."
"I'm not afraid of him."
"I didn't say you were." His eyes were too perceptive. "But maybe think about what you are afraid of."
Hours later, the house exhaled into stillness.
Rain drummed the windows in sheets—that particular Pacific Northwest rain that sounded like static and felt like November refusing to let go. The family had dispersed. Ma was in bed, her TV a faint murmur through the ceiling.
I did my nightly sweep—front door: locked, deadbolt engaged. Back door secure. Kitchen windows latched. The basement window still loose, still vulnerable.
Passing the small den, I caught the blue glow of a screen.
Mac sat in the old recliner, laptop balanced on his thighs, wearing the Mariners hoodie and flannel pants that had seen better winters. Spanish-language announcers provided quiet commentary to winter league footage from the Dominican Republic.
He glanced up. "Can't sleep?"
"Checking locks."
"The house is locked." But he gestured to the chair arm beside him. "Come here. Look at this."
Professional distance said no.
I crossed to him instead.
"See the shortstop?" Mac pointed at the screen. "Watch where he cheats on the pitch."
The shortstop edged toward second base, weight shifting before the ball left the pitcher's hand.