Chapter 8
VANGUARD
I wake up thinking about her.
This isn’t unusual. I’ve been thinking about Mia Baxter since she walked up to me at that London gala and called me a weapon to my face. Been dreaming about her too. Hence why I’ve been waking up with a raging hard-on.
What is unusual is that I’m looking forward to seeing her again, even with her incessant, prying questions. Looking forward to anything beyond the next rescue, the next press appearance, the next carefully managed moment of my carefully managed life.
It’s just a fucking milkshake, I remind myself as I pull on civilian clothes—dark jeans, a grey Henley. A costume of sorts that lets me forget my job for a moment and lets me pretend to be a regular guy. Except for that watch on my wrist, the lifeline to the city, the leash of responsibility.
Just a milkshake, just an interview, I go on. Just doing my job.
Except I’m the one who suggested it. No handlers. No conference room.
Just us.
Yeah…might have just made a huge fucking mistake. That’s what I get for thinking with my dick.
I can’t back out now, though. Danny’s waiting with the Meridian when I get to the rooftop, leaning against the driver’s side door with his usual easy grin. “Looking sharp, boss. Very regular guy.”
“That’s the goal.”
“Nailed it. You almost seem like a normal, albeit unfairly buff and handsome, New Yorker.” He slides into the driver’s seat as I take the back. “So. Brooklyn. Sal’s Diner? The place with the sticky menus and mobsters doing deals under the table?”
“The place with the best milkshakes in the city.”
“Sure, that too.” Danny pulls the Meridian up and away from the building with a low hum, Manhattan spreading out beneath us in the morning light.
“You know, when you said you wanted to do a follow-up interview somewhere casual, I figured you meant the Global Dynamix cafeteria. Maybe the break room with the fancy espresso machine.”
“Too many ears.”
“And a diner in Brooklyn has fewer?”
“Different ears.” I watch the city scroll past below us—the park, the river, the endless grid of streets and buildings. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but there’s something different about this girl. I can’t explain it.”
“Can’t explain it, huh? She hot?”
“She’s…well, she’s pretty attractive, I would say.”
He laughs. “I looked her up. She’s smoking hot and you know it. Those eyes? They take up like half her face. Imagine her batting them at you? And her lips?” He bites his fist.
“Danny, chill,” I tell him. “Concentrate on driving.”
“It’s self-driving, remember? Anyway. Seems she’s already getting under your skin, huh?”
I don’t say anything and look out the window.
Then, he doesn’t say anything, which is unusual enough to make me glance at the rearview mirror. He’s got that look on his face, the one that means he’s about to tell me something I probably don’t want to hear.
“Just be careful, yeah?” he says. “She’s a journalist. Her whole job is getting people to open up so she can put it online for strangers to read. I need to look out for ya.”
“You don’t need to look out for me.” I give him a steady look. “And I know what she is.”
“Do you?” The Meridian navigates around a delivery drone, banking smoothly. “Because the last time you got that look on your face about a woman, it ended up on Page Six, and Julia had a meltdown that lasted three days.”
“This is different,” I say quietly, though I can’t pinpoint why.
“Famous last words.”
I don’t have a response to that, so I just watch the city pass beneath us and try not to think about why I’m so eager to see her again.
We touch down outside her hotel, the Meridian settling onto the street with barely a whisper. I spot her immediately—leather jacket, dark hair loose around her shoulders, standing on the sidewalk with her arms crossed and an expression that’s half suspicious, half curious.
Now that I don’t have Global Dynamix watching me like a hawk, I can properly take her in.
She’s small, about a foot shorter than me, but there’s nothing small about those eyes Danny was harping on about—wide and dark, framed by side-swept bangs that make her look almost innocent.
Her lips are full, slightly parted as she stares at the hovering car, and I find my gaze lingering there longer than it should.
The leather jacket hugs her frame in a way that suggests curves underneath, a body that’s lean but soft in all the right places.
She’s the kind of pretty that sneaks up on you, making her cute one minute and devastatingly hot the next.
My kryptonite.
I open the door. “Ms. Baxter.”
“Mia,” she corrects automatically, her eyes still fixed on the car. “So, this is how the other half lives.”
“Meridian-Class hover car,” I tell her, almost proudly. “Global Dynamix prototype.”
“It’s floating.”
“That’s what hover cars do.”
She tears her gaze away from the vehicle long enough to give me a pointed look. “And this is how you travel everywhere? Just floating about like you’re above it all?”
“Only when I’m not flying myself, of course.”
“Of course.” She approaches the car slowly, like it might bite her. “Is it safe?”
“Safer than anything on the ground. No traffic, no collisions. Magnetic propulsion, gravitational stabilization—”
“You’re just saying science words now.”
I find myself giving her a genuine smile. “Get in. I promise it won’t bite.”
“What about you?” she asks without skipping a beat.
I nearly laugh. “Do I bite? That depends. Do you?”
“That depends too,” she says playfully.
She hesitates for another moment then squares her shoulders and climbs in.
I slide in beside her and close the door, unable to keep from breathing in her scent.
My sense of smell is preternatural, which means not only do I pick up on the smell of her coconut vanilla deodorant (and know exactly what brand), the honey-scent of her shampoo and conditioner, the fruity smell of her styling cream, and the various lotions she has on, I can also smell her.
Her skin. Her essence, both sweet and sultry, like sunshine on a beach.
It’s fucking heavenly, a straight shot to my cock.
Easy now, I tell myself as Danny lifts us smoothly off the ground. Inappropriate erections are the last thing she needs to write about.
Mia thankfully doesn’t notice. Her hand shoots out to grip the edge of her seat as the city drops away. Her knuckles go white, her jaw tight, and I watch her fight to control her reaction. She’s trying so hard not to show fear, it’s oddly endearing.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it,” I assure her.
“And if not, there are sick bags in the back of the seats,” Danny offers from the front seat. He grins at her in the rearview mirror. “Danny Cordero, by the way. I’m the eye candy and occasional babysitter.”
“Hi,” she says shakily. “Mia Baxter. I’m the journalist who’s going to expose all his secrets.”
“Good luck with that,” he says. “The man is boring as hell.”
As we climb higher, I watch Mia’s expression shift. The tension in her face eases slightly as she takes in the view—the Chrysler Building catching the morning sun, Central Park spreading out like a green carpet, the Hudson glittering in the distance. Slowly, the fear turns to a look of wonder.
“Alright,” she admits quietly. “This is something.”
“Wait until you see it at night.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “Is that an offer?”
“Just an observation.”
Fuck yeah, it’s an offer.
The flight to Brooklyn takes eight minutes.
I spend most of it watching her watch the city, taking in more detail than I should: the way she bites her bottom lip when she’s processing something, the way it drops open when she’s in awe.
The small scar near her left eyebrow. The grace of her movements, like she was a dancer in a past life.
Knock it off. She’s a journalist. She’s the last person you need to get complicated with.
And yet, part of me is welcoming the complication with open arms.
Sal’s is a hole-in-the-wall diner in Carroll Gardens, unchanged since before the Dark Decade: red vinyl booths, checkerboard floor, a jukebox in the corner that still plays actual records, even though they’re scratched to shit.
My security team cleared it an hour ago, making sure regular customers were compensated and relocated, staff briefed on discretion.
Danny takes up position by the door, close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to give us privacy.
At least I don’t have to worry about eavesdropping with him.
“This is cool,” Mia says as she slides into the booth across from me. Her eyes are already moving, taking in exits and sightlines. Journalist habit, maybe. Or something else. “Cozy little spot.”
“Best milkshakes in the city,” I say. “Trust me.”
“You keep saying that like repetition makes it true.”
“It is true.”
“And what if I’m lactose intolerant. What then?”
I study her face, unable to see if she’s joking or not. “Are you?”
She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a bottle of LactoEase, shaking it.
My eyes widen. “Why didn’t you tell me when I suggested it?”
“Because I like to live dangerously,” she says. “No, honestly, give me some water for the pill, and I’ll be fine. I’m not passing up the best milkshake in the world.”
“In the city.”
“We’ll see.”
I signal Katy—the same waitress who’s been here for thirty years, who doesn’t give a shit that I’m famous—and order waters, plus a chocolate milkshake and a strawberry one. They have more elaborate flavors, but simple is always best.
Through the windows, I can already see the crowd gathering. Phones out, faces pressed close. The price of being what I am.
“Does that bother you?” Mia asks, nodding toward them. “Living in a fishbowl?”
“Does it bother you that everything you write gets picked apart by strangers online?”