49. Handcuffs Delivered
handcuffs delivered
Strider
Mirren’s orders have come in. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. There are no orders since she’s running her own op. But the terrorists to whom she’s given some ridiculous name are set on their timeline, meaning my woman is on the clock and coordinating.
Her mom is looped in. I’m aware of everything, even if I’m unable to wrap my brain around what all of this means. She’s reached out to a man named Fitz who will be with her. And he has people he can bring in depending on how her op builds or if it falls apart.
She leaves tomorrow morning. My anxiety is off the charts as she prepares and acts as if I should be a-okay with this. As if it’s normal. She’s mine and mine to protect and the idea of her on this op is doing bad things to my blood pressure… and every other part of me.
Everything in me wants to cuff her to the bed, remind her of why she should stay. My cock likes the idea. Hell, it’s rising to the occasion just thinking of restraining her.
But the thinking part of me—the one who knows Mirren beyond physically—knows I’ll lose her if I try. She’d play along until she realized it meant I’d clipped her wings. I trust her.
Regardless of how capable she is, I feel impotent at the mere idea of her putting herself in harm’s way. We’re not talking about a walk in a dark alley. That’s enough to make me seethe. We’re talking about her inserting herself into an insurgency plan that aims to annihilate national security.
Am I supposed to be okay with this? Am I supposed to deal with this long term? After we’re married? After kids? Am I made for a life at the side of a woman that strong?
Yes. No matter how many times I ask myself, the answer is always a resounding yes.
No other man will ever be at her side. I wasn’t lying when I said I would do whatever’s needed to give her the life she desires. But I never considered the sacrifice that would take on my part to be that man.
“Freckles?” I holler as I walk down the hall to our bedroom. I can’t sit still any longer. “Let’s get out of here.”
She looks up from an old backpack that she’s stuffing with clothes and toiletries… something about looking the part when she arrives. “Now?”
I nod to the bag. “You almost done?”
“Give or take five minutes, yeah.”
“Can I take you to dinner?”
Her face beams. “I’d like that.” She looks down at herself. “I need another five minutes.”
I scan her to make a point. “No, you don’t. You’re perfect.”
“I’ll be more perfect in ten.” She winks and returns to her bag.
I mosey back to the living room and pace, working like hell to get the buzzing energy out of me before it zaps my nervous system into oblivion.
While I fidget, I stack and reposition the last few things she needs to pack—an old tablet that has deeply encrypted data behind a gaming app that shows she’s on level eight hundred and forty-two, a burner phone with one hundred fake contacts and three real ones, the three people who know what’s going on, and a broken-in paperback romance novel with a cartoon hockey player on the cover.
She noted pointedly that rugby romances are a no-go for her. When she said it, her face went sour and her whole body cringed… Something about it being too close to home.
There’s also something I hadn’t seen before, a map, circled in places where there are substations. “To keep up the farce,” she’d said.
On second thought, how fast can I get handcuffs delivered to the apartment?
My phone dings. My sister’s fiancé isn’t chatty so if Liam is messaging, he found something.
Liam
Man… Something’s not right
Understatement… at work at least. Everything is damn near perfect under this roof.
Does that mean you found something?
I know I have something because I got cock blocked by NSA.
What the hell? Whatever is going on is big.
I already know that since Mirren’s employer is involved.
So nothing?
Nothing worth getting picked up by the feds.
Sariah was thwarted at every turn too. We’re working but sad to say we have nothing to report.
I can’t thank you enough. I already felt that way with you saving my sister, but this is above and beyond.
Don’t mention it.
And he means it. I’m staring at my phone as if I can see through it to the puzzle pieces that won’t quite fit together when the bedroom door opens.
“Do you mind helping the new tenants check into the big house when I’m gone?” She walks down the hall, fidgeting with the back of an earring, and stunning me speechless. Freckles is always beautiful. She’s cute too.
But standing before me is a stunning woman, in a black onesie pantsuit. It hugs every curve, hints at what’s below while only teasing me with the what-if, and makes me want to fall to my knees and crawl to her. That’s when I see the strappy, very high heels that still won’t bring her to my chin.
“Those stay on tonight,” I growl, before thinking better of it.
She flips one up. “So long as you’re okay with them digging into your back.” Mischief overtakes her expression. “Or your shoulder blades.”
“I’m not hungry anymore and neither are you,” I start, only to be cut off by my stomach rumbling. Loudly.
“Come on, honey. The sooner we eat, the sooner we can get home and get naked.” She loops her hand through my elbow and turns us for the door.
Mirren
Why in the world is everyone in town at Fat Bottom Grill on a Wednesday night?
I wanted comfort food, and Strider was bemoaning he’d only been here twice.
Queenie is that good, so it was an easy yes.
Until the entirety of Fairhope decided to dine in and make the wait ridiculous, except for one high-top in the corner of the bar area.
So that’s where we are, being served by Tom, and eating delicious Creole cuisine at the hands of a master.
“Think I can learn to make this?” Strider uses his spoon to point to a bowl of dark seafood gumbo.
“I bet if you asked, Queenie would show you. But if you set up a food truck, she’ll make your stellar body the next thing on the menu. And get a Michelin star doing it.”
His eyes bug out.
“She’s Southern. No, she’s a Louisianan.
You do not mess with women raised in the south, especially those south of Lake Pontchartrain.
Even SEALs aren’t trained for that level of feisty.
” I pat his hand resting on the black leather tablecloth.
“Trust me, honey. An Illinois man would be at a loss from the jump.”
“So, no food truck then? Got it.” He shakes his head like he’s trying to dispel the thoughts running through them.
I pop a forkful of savory crab and shrimp bread pudding and fight yet another moan when the flavors hit my tongue. I extend a bite to Strider while I’m still chewing.
He looks at the fork and back to me. “You just Fried Green Tomatoes me and you want to feed me in the next breath?”
“That’s a no then?” I begin to retract my utensil when his palm wraps my wrist pulling me to him.
He holds my gaze as he takes the bite off my fork, his look saying he’ll take my dare—or dares… as many as I’m willing to throw down. It’s obvious his hunger isn’t solely for food.
I’m sure the look on my face betrays the lust I have for the man.
This whole scene is too intimate if anyone is watching.
I might as well be eye fucking him, and he’s undressing me with his eyes.
All the while, his thumb strokes the pulse point on my wrist, stoking the fire boiling under my skin, in my belly, and places further south that only he can.
The sound of a throat being cleared breaks me from my trance. Queenie stands behind Strider not concealing her humor. “Hey, Mirri. I wanted to come say hi. How is everything?” She gestures to the table.
“So good. So, so good. Queenie”—I gesture to Strider—“this is Strider Anderson. He’s been raving about your food. He wondered if you’d teach him how to make your gumbo.”
Strider’s eyes bug out of his head at me, but he turns and extends a hand to the chef whose white coat has not a single stain on it.
“Nice to meet you, Queenie. Mirren’s right.
Everything’s delicious.” He smiles at her but it’s not the lascivious one he reserves for me.
“And I’d love to learn how you make gumbo.
On a more reasonable scale.” He looks around the restaurant.
“Feeding this many people is too daunting for my blood.”
“No joke. It takes a team back there”—she hitches a thumb over her shoulder—“to make any of this work. I don’t recommend it unless you’re a glutton for punishment or have no other skills.”
“Fair enough. I’ll make you a deal. Show me your gumbo sometime and I’ll help you with electrical stuff when shit goes wonky.”
Queenie’s face lights up, and she takes two steps backward. “You’re on, Anderson. I’m gonna bail before you regret that decision.” Turning to me she adds, “Have a great night, Mirren. We need a girls’ night soon.”
“Absolutely. After the holidays?”
“Yes. I won’t come up for air until mid-January, but you’re on.” She lifts a hand and offers Tom a wave and a smile as she heads back to the kitchen, stopping at another table on her way.
Tom moseys up to us minutes later carrying an appetizer plate. “On the house,” he offers, refilling our wine glasses. Little French bread pistolettes hold fried green tomatoes and pink remoulade sauce. “Queenie said she heard you talking and couldn’t resist.”
Strider’s face is priceless.
My laughter is real.
This whole night feels so perfect… and too good to be true.