ALEX
“Can’t I sit up front?” I ask Eric as he opens the rear door.
He’s right, and The Company makes my father sit in back, too. So I slide into my seat. But still, I feel the need to resist Eric’s little game. “I don’t like being guarded. It’s infantilizing.”
“Uh huh.” He snickers. “Does the quarterback feel infantilized by the offensive line?”
I guess the man has a point. “How long are you going to play at bodyguard?”
“As long as it takes,” he says before shutting the door.
“As long as it takes, for what?”
“To prove my point.”
“But—”
Before I can continue this exchange, Eric begins speaking to dispatch. “ETA is twenty-five minutes,” he says, pulling out of the underground garage. “I’m taking the FDR.”
I can’t hear the other side of their conversation, though, because it’s in his earpiece.
So I settle back in the seat and watch New York City go by. The Upper East Side is decorated for the holidays, with pine boughs, red bows, and fairy lights.
Last Christmas I had no idea what was coming my way. I hadn’t yet complicated my friendship with Nate. I hadn’t hooked up with Jared Tatum. And the Butler was still a big idea in development.
I took on too much this year. And now I’m paying the price.
Though next Christmas could be amazing. My baby might already be walking or saying her first words. I’ll be shopping for age-appropriate toys and board books. I’ll be worrying about bedtimes and solid foods and the transition to sippy cups.
But first, I have to save my product launch, shore up my career, and give birth.
And, seriously, what does a girl have to do to buy ten thousand motherboards? An hour ago I had a signed contract. Now I’ve got cold Chinese food delivered to my apartment building and a date with a manufacturer who’s trying to back out of a job that I need badly.
“Stay where you are, please,” Eric says when we pull up in front of the bistro.
“Yessir.”
Pieter materializes beside the car, tapping once on the glass. Eric gets out, hands off the keys and then opens my door.
“Two guards for a restaurant visit?” I ask. “Isn’t that overkill?”
“Probably,” Eric admits, taking my arm and walking me toward the entrance. He glances up and down the street then holds the door open for me. “Do you see him?”
“No,” I say, scanning the tables.
“Good evening. Do you have a reservation?” asks a tall man behind the podium.
“I do not,” I say. “There will be three of us.”
“I’m afraid there’s a bit of a wait. Perhaps forty minutes.”
“Forty minutes!” I gasp as the scent of rack of lamb with homemade frites washes over me. “On a Tuesday at nine p.m.? This is why people move out of New York.”
The host looks unapologetic. It’s literally his job to turn hungry people away all evening. “It’s a bit crowded at the bar. Perhaps you could stand over—”
I shed my coat quickly, revealing my big, pregnant belly.
“Uh…” He falters. “Let me find you a table. Excuse me one moment.” He hurries off.
“That’s handy,” Eric says under his breath.
“He knows I might chew his arm off,” I point out. “It happens.”
Eric puts a protective arm around me as he scans the busy room, ever vigilant. “Isn’t there a quieter restaurant where you could meet this guy?”
“Probably. But it was his choice.”
“Miss? I can seat you right here by the windows.” The host puts a third chair at a tiny table, but size doesn’t matter, not in this case, anyway. It’s a table, and it’s all mine.
I’ve already darted over to seat myself when I catch Eric’s frown. “Window seats aren’t very secure.”
“Look on the bright side. They have food here. And I’ll be able to spot Mr. Khun on his way in.”
Eric sits down with a sigh. “There are postage stamps larger than this table.”
“As long as the steak fits right here,” I frame out a space in front of me. “And we’ll need a bread basket, of course.”
“And soon.” He stops looking worried long enough to smile at me. “Wouldn’t want you to chew anyone’s limbs off.”
His gaze warms me, and his smile hits me low in my belly. Or maybe that’s just the hunger pains. I turn my attention out onto Sullivan Street. I love the low brick buildings of Soho. It’s been dark for hours, but the streetlights and storefronts light the sidewalk.
That’s how I spot Mr. Khun approaching from half a block away. He’s striding down the sidewalk, glancing around in much the same way that Eric did as we left the car. I see him turn to look over his shoulder.
Then he breaks into a dead run.
“Eric—” The word barely leaves my mouth before I hear a loud bang.
Someone screams, but not me. I am already airborne, Eric’s arms clamped around me. The lights of the restaurant blur as he sweeps me deeper into the room, away from the window.
Bang. Bang.
Breaking glass. More screams. And they don’t stop.
“Get down,” Eric says as my feet touch the floor again.
My knees give way, and I sink below a counter, my back against a dark wooden panel. Wainscoting, my brain offers up, trying to make sense of something. Anything.
“Taking cover,” Eric says to dispatch. “Total of three shots fired.”
We’re so close together that I can hear the reply from his earbud. “Standby for instructions. One man on the ground. Emergency services notified and responding. Pieter is in pursuit of the shooter.”
“Eric!” I gasp. “We should help that man. Is it Mr. Khun? Did they—” I gulp.
“We’re staying put,” he says.
“Just tell me. Did they hurt him?”
The chaos of the restaurant has evolved from the high pitch of terror to the low murmurs of shock. Eric rises, putting a hand on my head as a reminder not to move. He stands there for a long moment, not saying anything.
“What do you see?” I squeak.
“Don’t look,” is all he says. “Do not look.”
Later, I’ll barely remember the ride home. Pieter drove. Eric sat in back, where I pasted myself to his body, still unable to understand what just happened.
Mr. Khun invites me to dinner to explain why he’s going to break our signed contract, but on his way down the block, someone shoots him.
Eric and I left by the back door, but I heard Pieter say under his breath, “…brains all over the sidewalk.”
Why? No matter that Max’s grand theory looks more true by the minute. What prize could possibly be worth a gunned-down tech manufacturer?
I have never shied away from a challenge. I never expected my job to be easy. But this? I did not sign up for this.
And I’m terrified that I’m to blame. What if I hadn’t chosen him? Or what if I’d told Mr. Khun that it was late, and I didn’t want to come to Soho?
I spend the rest of the trip literally trying to rewrite the last two hours. It’s illogical to the extreme. But I do it anyway, answering his call again, telling him that tonight isn’t a good night to meet. Suggesting an alternate date…
We arrive at my building without incident.
When we reach the penthouse floor, I don’t wait outside the apartment while Pieter and Eric check the rooms. I just march inside and head straight for my bathroom, where I close and lock the door.
I turn on the cold water and pour myself a large glass, and then drink it all.
It takes a while until I can pull myself together. I change into a tent-shaped nightie and waddle out to my bed, getting in. But I don’t turn out the lights. I’m not ready to plunge into darkness with my thoughts.
Eric arrives a couple of minutes later, carrying a tray.
No, my stomach says immediately. It’s the first time I haven’t been hungry in…
Okay, I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t hungry.
Since my lap is gone, Eric puts the tray over my knees. I look down and see a bowl of egg drop soup that I ordered a lifetime ago. Eric has heated it to steaming hot.
“I know you’re upset,” he says quietly. “But you should eat this.”
I pick up the spoon and find that my body knows what to do. Before long, I’m scraping an empty dish and Eric is trading the bowl for a small plate of rice and chicken.
That’s all I can handle, though. After I eat a little, I slide off the bed and carry the tray into the kitchen by myself, abandoning it on the counter.
Eric sits on a kitchen stool, texting madly, an untouched beer in front of him.
“I’m not on the job,” he says when he sees me looking at it. “Pieter and Duff are outside.”
“Drink all you want,” I say in a deadened voice. “I’d join you if I could. Being careful doesn’t seem to help very much, does it?” And now tears are threatening.
“Hey,” he says, gathering me up. “You’re okay.”
“I know,” I rasp. But I don’t, really. Nothing is okay tonight.
“Come on,” he says, steering me out of the kitchen. “Lie down, okay?”
“I have to b-brush my teeth,” I stutter, discovering that those same teeth are now chattering.
“All right.” Eric actually follows me into the bathroom and leans against the counter while I hastily clean up. Then he watches me get into bed, sitting down on the edge afterward. He shuts off the lamp, and then runs a hand down my hair. “Sleep now,” he says.
“Okay.”
“You’re safe here. You know, that right?”
“I d-do.” My teeth click. I’m shivering. “D-don’t go.”
“Okay.” He pets my hair.
But it isn’t close enough. “P-please come over here with me.”
“Careful, Engels,” he whispers. “You might accidentally convince yourself that you like having me around.”
“I’ve always liked having you around,” I say, and then shiver again. “I like it way too much.”
He stands up and unbuttons his pants, kicking them off. Then his shirt, too. I feel the covers shift as he climbs in. He moves over until he can wrap an arm around my great girth.
But it’s not even enough. I shift back into the warmth of his body. I force myself to take a deep, slow breath, and then let it out again. If Eric Bayer’s strong body pressed against mine isn’t enough to make me stop shivering? Then nothing is.
Roughened fingers move slowly up and down my forearm. “Shh,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
He does. His lips find the place where my neck meets my shoulder. And I get a series of soft kisses.
I breathe deeply a few more times. And finally I stop shaking. “Will you stay the night?”
“Anytime, honey,” he says. “Anytime.”