27. Don’t Call Me Sweetheart
Chapter twenty-seven
Don’t Call Me Sweetheart
Melina
The knock sends a jolt through me. Even knowing who it is, my body still braces for the worst. Some things are just ingrained.
I shake it off and start for the door. Brooks opens it before I get there.
“Morning, Mel,” he says, holding it wide.
Mercer saunters in like he owns the place, sunglasses sliding up onto his head. His ice-blue eyes sweep the house in one practiced pass.
I swallow and force my voice steady. “Brooks.” I nod to him, then turn to the man in my entryway. “And you must be my daytime babysitter.
He smirks, resting a hand on the railing like he’s settling in. “Don’t sound too excited, sweetheart.”
My jaw tightens. “Don’t call me sweetheart.”
Brooks rubs the bridge of his nose. “Christ, it’s too early for this.”
Mercer laughs, unbothered. “Fine. What should I call you then?”
“Melina works,” I say flat.
“Noted.” His gaze lingers longer than necessary—reading, testing. I hold it, unflinching. I can handle a smartass with a tactical edge and a chiseled jawline.
Matt lost his shit when he found out Mercer got assigned this detail. According to him, he’s arrogant, reckless, and disregards protocol. He also openly flirted with me at the gala. I don’t know what angers Matt more.
I shouldn't trust him, but my intuition says otherwise. He moves differently, watches me differently—not possessive, purposeful. Grounded. Strangely present. It unnerves me how quickly I notice.
“One mistake and I’ll have your ass,” Brooks says, glancing at Mercer. Then he looks at me. “So will she.”
“Damn, Brooks, you wound me.”
Brooks doesn’t blink. “This woman has been through hell and back. Her kids think she’s bulletproof. You fuck this up, you’re not just shaming yourself—you’re disrespecting her.”
Mercer’s smirk fades, and for a brief second, his eyes meet mine. In that moment, something shifts. The bravado drops. The performance clears. What’s left is quiet. Real.
“Understood,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.
“Alright,” Brooks says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m out—try not to break anything.”
He’s gone a moment later, the door clicking shut behind him.
Mercer slouches against the banister, all lazy confidence. “You’ve got that don’t-test-me look.” His grin sharpens, eyes catching the light. “Perfect. I love a challenge.”
“Are you always this cocky with women?” I ask, arms folded across my chest.
“Only the ones who glare at me like I just keyed their car,” he answers, not missing a beat.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You kind of are.”
“Well…” I let the word hang between us before adding, “You’ve got a reputation. Matt wasn’t exactly thrilled about your being here.”
He shrugs. “I’m aware.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“I don’t give a damn what Mason thinks.”
No defense. No explanation. Arrogance, yes—but also confidence, control, and something quiet I can’t name. It’s more disarming than any apology could be.
He’s still a wildcard. But for now, he’s my security. Like it or not, we’re stuck with each other.
***
Day 3 — Without Matt
It doesn’t take long to realize Mercer has an ego the size of Texas.
Half the time he’s sprawled out on the couch, feet on the coffee table, flipping through tactical manuals or scrolling his phone. The other half, he’s wearing that signature smirk, like he’s waiting for me to fall for it.
I’m not.
He’s good at his job—sharp, hyperaware. But there’s an edge to him, an air that says he thinks he’s untouchable. Maybe that works in the field. Here? In my house? No.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him lounge—entirely too relaxed for someone on a protection detail.
“You know,” I say, “for a guy trying to prove he’s not a liability, you sure act like you own the place.”
Mercer doesn’t look up. “Relaxation, sweetheart. You should try it sometime.”
“I told you not to call me that,” I snap.
He finally looks at me, his smile lazy. “Right. Melina,” he drawls.
I shove off the counter and move toward him. “I mean it, Mercer. You push boundaries, and you’re cocky as hell. Maybe that works with the guys, but I don’t have to put up with it.”
He tilts his head, studying me. The smirk is still there, but behind it something flickers—thoughtfulness, curiosity.
“You don’t like confidence?” he asks.
“I don’t like arrogance,” I shoot back, planting myself on the armrest. “Big difference.”
He watches me for a beat, then lets out a short breath. “Fair enough,” he remarks, surprisingly even.
The shift is subtle but real—less bravado, more awareness. I cross my arms. “Can I ask you something?”
He groans. “God, here we go.”
“I’m serious.”
“Fine,” he says, sounding more amused than annoyed. “Shoot.”
“What’s your issue with Matt?”
That gets a reaction. He exhales sharply and drags a hand down his face. “I don’t have an issue with Mason.”
I raise a brow. “Really.”
He holds my gaze a second too long, then sighs. “Okay,” he admits, “maybe I did at first. He’s the golden boy. I’m the screw-up. He took my spot on Alpha. It was easier to be pissed than own my part.”
Self-awareness slips through the armor and it surprises me.
“But I get it now,” he continues. “He’s good at what he does. He earned it. I didn’t.”
His tone softens, the sharp edges dulling. I study him, unsure what to make of this new side of him.
“If you’re over it,” I say, “then why do you keep riling him up?”
“Because he makes it easy,” he says, grinning. “Being a pain in his ass is my default setting. Maybe part of me still wants to beat him at something, even if it’s just getting under his skin.” He pauses, shrugs, more honest now. “I’m working on it. But I’m not exactly wired for zen.”
A huff escapes me—somewhat annoyed, somewhat amused. There’s a lull, then I say it. “I’m sorry you got suspended because of me.”
That wipes the grin off his face.
He sits forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice low but steady. “No. Don’t do that. I fucked up. I deserved the suspension. I was bitter and pissed off—acting like a jackass. I wasn’t giving a hundred percent, and I put you at risk.”
The smirk is gone, the swagger draining from him. For a beat, he stares at his hands, like they might hold the answers he’s been dodging. Then he exhales, his words stripped bare.
“Truth is, I’m lucky Aegis didn’t cut me loose. Demoted and suspended—if I were Callahan, I wouldn’t have kept me around. I blew a call on a mission and almost got my men killed. Good men.”
His voice tightens, grief edging it. “I’ve lost guys before.
It’s tough, but you learn to cope. If that had happened, and it was my fault?
I don’t think I would’ve come back from it.
I still haven’t forgiven myself. Maybe that’s why I’ve been such a dick.
It’s easier to be angry, to shift blame—anything but face what I did. ”
I’m quiet for a moment, then I move closer, sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. My voice is soft, steady.
“I’m going to tell you the same thing I tell my kids when they screw up,” I start. “You’re human. Mistakes happen, but you have to own them. Learn from them. That’s how you earn forgiveness—from others and from yourself.”
His eyes lift to mine, and I offer a small, tired smile.
“Sounds like you’re doing that now, or at least starting to. Maybe it’s time to give yourself a little grace.”
He watches me for a beat, unsure what to say. Then his voice softens, rough around the edges but real.
“Most people write me off or look the other way,” he says quietly. “You didn’t do either. You saw the worst version of me, and you’re still here.”
He exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That means more than you probably realize.”
For the first time, I see the man under the ego. Maybe Mercer isn’t just a reckless asshole after all.
***
Day 6 — Without Matt
Mercer’s on the couch, flipping through channels—the rapid flicker of images across the TV is the only movement in the room.
“You gonna pick something, or is this some kind of seizure test?” I ask, crossing my arms.
He smirks, but doesn’t look away from the screen. “Patience, sweetheart. The art of selection takes time.”
I roll my eyes. “Or you could admit you have no idea what you want.”
His expression darkens, his voice quiet. “Oh, I know exactly what I want.”
The words are cocky, but there’s an edge to his tone. Teasing, but not entirely unserious. I huff a laugh. “Yeah? And what’s that?”
He finally looks over, lazy confidence in place. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
His chuckle is soft, almost real, and the air between us shifts.
“You know,” I say, more thoughtful now, “I don’t think I even know your first name.”
He pauses, like I’ve surprised him. “Ouch. Guess I didn’t make an impression at the gala. You certainly made one on me.”
Heat climbs my neck. My cheeks flush before I can stop them.
He leans back, offering a small half-smile, before answering, “It’s Jackson.”
I blink, caught off guard. “My brother was a Jack.”
His smile falters. The remote slides into his lap, his gaze dropping with it. And then it hits—that I said was . That my brother isn’t here anymore. For one unguarded second, his facade shatters, and I see him. Truly see him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, tone low. No arrogance, no act.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Silence stretches between us—not awkward, just heavy.
“I lost my brother, too,” he says after a moment. “When I was nineteen.”
The words hit harder than I expect. My fingers reach out before I think, wrapping gently around his forearm. He tenses, but doesn’t pull away.
“He was my best friend,” he starts, distant. “It was just him, my mom, and me. She was never the same after he died.”
“Mine either,” I murmur. “Me either, for that matter.”
He nods, jaw tight. I see the heaviness of it—all the years of grief and blame he’s carried like a second skin.