Chapter 4
Nolan
“Any traction on another posting?” I ask into the speakerphone, cutting straight to the chase. I lean against the brick wall where all the household employees apparently loiter on break.
My boss, Jones, emits a long groan that tells me I’m pushing it. He’s sick of these weekly calls from me, begging for news. Any news. “Fuck’s sake, Crosby. I told you last week, I’m working on it, but it might take longer than we hoped. Maybe six months.”
“I can’t do six months,” I tell him straight up. The thought of enduring a gray, miserably frigid Ottawa winter makes me want to walk into oncoming traffic. If I have to freeze my nuts off, I at least want it to be somewhere interesting, like…Siberia. At least the vodka is strong there.
“You really are an impatient bastard, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
He pauses. “I don’t want to pry, but shouldn’t another posting be the least of your concerns right now? Don’t you want to stick around for a bit?”
“My mom has a spot in a specialized facility come September. Way better care than I can give her,” I remind him, tamping down the frustration. “Once she’s settled, I’ve got no reason to stay here.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Don’t your sister and her young kids live in Ottawa, man?”
“Well, yeah. But—”
“Crosby, you should really consider some family time. A slower pace of life might be nice for you.”
I roll my eyes. It’s been great seeing Emma and the kids, but I’m not cut out for suburban uncle life. The mere thought of accepting her constant invitations to various apple orchards and petting zoo farms gives me hives. “A slower pace of life? What am I, ninety?”
Jones chuckles. “Nothing wrong with a little sedate, geriatric activity. Knitting improves hand-eye coordination.”
“Yeah. I’ll see if I can find the time in between fucking bingo and shuffleboard.
If I don’t die of a boredom-induced heart attack before then,” I add darkly.
I’m fully aware I’m acting like a self-indulgent child right now.
And I feel like shit about it. I like Jones.
I respect the hell out of him. He’s a retired special forces guy who started his own private security firm, where he contracts out internationally.
In the two and a half years I’ve worked for him, he’s been great at keeping the postings flowing. Until now.
“See, that sunshiny personality is exactly why I hired you.”
I promptly ignore his sarcasm. “And like I said, I’ll go anywhere you want to send me. Antarctica, Nebraska, even Gary, Indiana—”
“Gary, Indiana? Jesus. You really are a desperate man.” He sighs, like he’s dealing with a young, highly stubborn child.
“Look, I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.
You won’t believe how hard it is to find someone who actually wants to go to Ottawa and replace you.
” It’s a running joke that no one in their right mind would want a close protection posting in Ottawa, mostly because it’s known to be a snoozefest. It’s also viewed like a punishment.
Somewhere you’re sent when you really fucked up on assignment.
Jones literally did the running man when I told him I needed to take the Ottawa posting, however temporary.
“Oh, trust me, I believe it.” I snort, covering my mouth when Eric, of all people, peeks his head around the corner. I did not expect Eric—the PM of Canada—to be lurking around the employees’ break area. But I’m learning quickly that Eric is not your average PM. I hang up the phone immediately.
“There you are! I have someone I want you to meet,” Eric says, ushering me to follow him to his office.
He makes random conversation about the next hockey game as we head down the long, narrow corridors of his residence. The route to the main bedroom is complicated. I know, because I spent days studying the floor plan of this place.
I hover outside the doorway for a moment, assuming he’s officially introducing me to his kids or something.
Only, it’s not his kids. He steps aside, revealing a woman.
It hits me instantly. The slight upturn of her nose. The fullness of her lips.
It’s Andi. The woman I ghosted three years ago on the tail end of one of the worst weeks of my life.
I’ve thought about her a fair bit (a fucking lot) since that night. Lying in her bed eating cheesecake, talking about her writing, and harshly judging names. It was the most fun I’d had in a long time, and a welcome distraction from reality.
She eventually fell asleep mid-conversation, so I left. Part of me has always regretted not leaving my number at the bottom of the note I left her. But I wasn’t looking to be tied down. That still hasn’t changed.
When she spots me, she makes a gah sound reminiscent of an ailing walrus, and her eyes go from curious to horrified.
Her mouth is curled into an accusatory frown as she clutches her chest, conducting a slow inspection, starting at my feet.
When she reaches my face, her eyes widen in recognition. At least, I think so.
“Um…” For a second, I think she’s going to acknowledge that we know each other. But she doesn’t.
“Hi,” I finally manage, my voice cracking like I’m twelve years old again as I take her in. She looks the same as she did that night. Hair in a bun, tweed skirt, black tights, and an oversized sweater. The hot librarian look has never really done it for me. Until now.
She slow-blinks, her expression uncomfortably vacant, lips pressed into a thin line. Her posture goes rigid and guarded, fingers interlaced in front of her, tense as fuck. Just like it was that night in the bar.
The silence stretches and my stomach plummets. Either she doesn’t remember me at all, or she does and absolutely hates my guts. I wouldn’t blame her. It was a classic dick move to leave without notice, even if I did build her desk.
“I’m Nolan Crosby,” I add in a rather pathetic attempt to extract a morsel of recognition out of her.
A bead of sweat drips down my temple, and I have half a mind to turn around and run.
What is wrong with me? Why can’t I read her?
In all my years of service, I’ve never been this fucking nervous. I’m officially malfunctioning.
“Nolan,” she repeats, slow and assessing, gaze still focused on some point in the middle distance. “I’m Andi.”
Thankfully, Eric cuts in. “Andi Zeigler is Gretchen’s personal assistant. She’s the best,” he explains. “And Nolan is from Hexcorp. Former special forces.”
Andi slow-nods, seemingly unimpressed. Not that I blame her. “Welcome to the team.”
I scratch the back of my head, trying to suppress the urge to ask if she remembers me. I’m not sure I can handle the embarrassment if she doesn’t. Or worse, the possibility that she actually did hear my confession that night and has decided I’m an awful person, which, fair.
“Andi, can we talk?” Eric asks, snapping me out of spiraling completely. Putting the job first comes naturally to me. It’s what I’ve always done, because distractions can be deadly.
I dip my chin and say “Thank you” before stepping out to give them some privacy.
I don’t run into her again until the next day in the staff kitchen. She’s bent over the sink, scrubbing her forehead. I spend far too much time debating whether to keep walking or say something, finally landing on a weak “Hi, again” over the running water.
I think my surprise appearance startles her, because she pops up from the sink, her eyes wide in a mild state of panic. When she turns to me, I see it instantly. There’s half a Deadpool tattoo directly in the middle of her forehead. “Hi.”
I bite back a laugh, failing to keep a straight face. “I didn’t peg you for a tattoo kind of girl.”
“Josie and Jason decided I should have one. For the sake of my street cred,” she informs, referring to the Nichols children.
“Ah, right, your street cred.”
“Any chance you know how to remove a semipermanent tattoo?” she asks.
“Dish soap and a lot of scrubbing would probably do it.” I step forward and grab a square of paper towel from the counter, pouring some soap and warm water over it. “May I?”
She nods, and I gently lift her chin, careful not to make weird, prolonged eye contact as I move the paper towel in small circles over the tattoo, removing it little by little. She tenses a bit where my skin brushes against hers. It’s not my imagination that her breathing quickens as I work.
When her gaze flickers to mine and darts away, everything goes quiet. Her skin is as smooth as I remember beneath my fingertips. Thankfully, most of the tattoo comes off quickly, aside from some stubborn red and blue residue…which I suspect will stick around for longer than she wants it to.
“How do I look now?” she asks hopefully when I step back to assess the damage.
“Less prison pod boss. Now you look like someone who would politely ask for my commissary,” I tease.
She emits a sigh of relief, running her index finger over the red area where the tattoo was. “Exactly the vibe I was going for. Thanks for helping, Nolan.”
“Ah, you remember my name?” I ask, shamefully fishing.
“You told me yesterday. Besides, Nolan’s not a very common name. But Nolans strike me as kind,” she says, finally meeting my eyes for longer than a millisecond.
“Kind?”
“Kind enough to carry a woman’s groceries for many blocks in the dead of winter and eat cheesecake with her until she falls asleep.” She flashes me a brief, crooked smile and my entire body instantly relaxes. Well, shit. She does remember me. And she doesn’t hate me.
“So you do remember me.”
“I’m surprised you remember me,” she counters, eyeing me as I lean my weight against the counter.
“You’re hard to forget, Andi.” And I mean that.
She runs a hand over her smooth bun contemplatively. “So you’re the new bodyguard?”
“I prefer close protection officer,” I inform, tamping the corners of my lips down in an effort not to grin like a maniac.
“Same difference, no?”
“Absolutely not.” I clutch my chest, feigning offense.
“Bodyguards are massive, beefy dudes in dark sunglasses whose job is to look lethal and intimidating. A CPO’s job is to blend into the background and prevent issues before they arise,” I explain, repositioning my lean as her curious gaze trails back over me.
I don’t think it’s my imagination that it lingers a little.
“Fair. But for the record, you don’t look discreet. I think you could kill someone with your bare hands.”
So I’ve been told. “Noted. I’ll work on looking less murderous going forward.”
She cracks a slight smile, and I take it as a victory. “You know, I always thought you were a hockey player, or some sort of pro athlete.”
“Really? Sorry to disappoint.”
She shakes her head. “No—I just never would have guessed…even though you did tell me to get a new lock on my patio door. I always regretted not asking you more about yourself that night. But I was trying to keep things—”
“Casual,” I finish. “And to be fair, I wasn’t a CPO back then.”
“No?” She eyes me curiously.
“I was in the military at the time. Left a couple months after and went private. Trying something different,” I say, which is the line I’ve been telling all my colleagues. I refuse to be that guy unloading all my personal baggage. “Are you still writing?”
Her brows draw together, but before she can respond, a sharp ding interrupts us. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and practically darts for the door in a panic. “Sorry, I need to pick up the flower order ASAP.”
“No worries,” I say quickly before she disappears around the corner. “But we should talk sometime.”
She pauses in the doorway. “About what?”
“The fact that we know each other.” I lower my voice when I say it, just in case anyone is in earshot.
“We do know each other,” she agrees. “And now we work…in the same place. Do you think that’s a problem? A conflict of interest?”
I shrug. “No. I mean, nothing happened between us. Aside from my lip injury and your head injury.”
“You can say it,” she says, mouth curling into a smirk. “It was a horrible hookup. I know.”
I don’t have an opportunity to deny that statement, because her phone dings again and she vanishes down the hall.