Protecting Love (Looking For Love #11)

Prologue

“You’re joking, right?” Lorraine Wilcox said.

“Why are you pissed?” Fletcher asked. “I thought you’d be thrilled that I got promoted.”

He dragged a hand through his dark hair. Too long by his standards and overdue for a cut.

Anyone else would have called it fine. He liked it precise. Controlled.

It came with the job.

With the expectations.

With everything his wife used to say she admired about him.

Now it felt like ammunition.

“It means your promise to retire in two years is bullshit,” Lorraine said flatly. Seventeen years of marriage, and she still knew exactly where to hit.

“That’s not true,” he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. “More money doesn’t change my twenty-year plan. Why do you always jump to the worst conclusion?”

Her sharp and restless pacing was almost daring him to snap. To raise his voice. To lose control. Anything to give her an edge.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. At work or at home.

“Because for fifteen years we’ve done nothing but move,” she said. “Transfer after transfer with the FBI. So tell me, where are we going now?”

At the kitchen island, Ian looked up. His headphones were on, but no music played.

The kid had learned to fake it.

He noticed. And he hated that he saw these things in his son’s life so late.

“We’re not going anywhere,” he said. “I’m taking over the field office here. You loved New York when we got here.”

Her eyes stayed level on his. “Are you staying in organized crime?” she asked. “Or moving somewhere worse?”

He softened. He understood her fear, even if he was exhausted by it.

“I’m staying put. Less fieldwork and more oversight.” He stepped closer and pulled her into his arms. “If you’d let me finish a sentence before assuming the worst—”

She stiffened just like she’d been doing a lot lately. What else was he missing out on?

Too much, and all the more reason he put in for this position without telling her.

Hoping it’d be a good surprise and yet, once again, it seemed he couldn’t do anything right.

“So we’re not moving?” Ian asked. “Because I like it here. I finally fit in.”

Fletcher exhaled slowly. “No, buddy. We’re done moving. I promised your mom I’d retire after twenty years, and I meant it.”

“If not longer,” Lorraine said, shoving out of his embrace.

He looked up and counted to five. “It feels like you’re looking for reasons to fight lately.”

“You’re not wrong,” Ian muttered.

That—that right there—was why Fletcher wanted the promotion.

To be home more.

To actually see what was happening in his own house since it’d felt as if his wife was barely talking to him, let alone doing more than fight when she did.

“Go to your room,” Lorraine snapped, pointing. “Now.”

Ian glanced at Fletcher. “Do I have to?”

“Don’t test me,” she shouted, her finger still pointed at the doorway.

“Lower your voice,” he said evenly. “The whole floor doesn’t need to hear us.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “That’s what happens when you force us into a high-rise because you have to live ten minutes from work.”

As if they could even afford a house around here let alone the time for him to get in and out of the office.

He raised his hands. “Ian, go finish your homework in your room, please. I’ll come get you in a minute.”

The book slammed shut. Ian grabbed it and stormed out. Twelve years old, and he was already tired of playing referee.

“See?” Lorraine said, crossing her arms. “That’s all I deal with. But you wouldn’t know because you’re never here.”

Which was a massive exaggeration like she’d been prone to do.

“You’ve always known what my job meant,” he said. “Two years. That’s all I have left.”

Even if it felt like cutting off a limb.

Even if he was damn good at what he did.

Even if it was what he’d wanted his whole damn life.

But sometimes you had to put other people first and he knew that.

And he was doing it. He wouldn’t break that promise.

“Do you mean it?” she asked quietly. “Because I’m alone in this.”

“You’re not alone,” he said. There she was, exaggerating again. “You never have been.”

It didn’t feel true to her though, not with the way she threw the words at him nonstop.

“I’m just tired of it all,” she mumbled.

He pulled her close again, and this time she let him. “This is a good thing. It’s only two more years. You’ve done it for eighteen.”

Too late. Wrong thing to say.

Her eyes narrowed. Cool and distant. Not the woman he remembered, but the one he’d been witness to for a few years now.

“We’ll see,” she said, kissing his cheek without warmth before walking away.

He blew out a breath and turned to the other side of the apartment to talk to his son.

When he got to the door, he knocked before opening it and announced himself.

“I knew it was you,” Ian said.

“Why’s that?”

“Mom never knocks.”

He pushed the bottom of his suit jacket away and sat on the edge of the bed. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” Ian mumbled and looked back toward his textbook.

“Something,” he said, nudging his son’s arm.

Ian hesitated. He hated that too. That his son felt he couldn’t talk to him when something was wrong or bothering him. “She’s the one who’s never home. Not you. I’m used to it with you.”

No kid should be used to their father not being home. Those words cut deeper than anything Lorraine had said. “She’s working,” he said. Or so she claimed.

“She goes out with coworkers,” Ian said. “That’s what she says. Or what I hear her saying on the phone.”

He hated the question before it left his mouth. “Do you know who?”

“A bunch of women.”

He nodded. “She’s allowed friends just like you. If you’re scared being home alone, you should tell me. Let me know what is going on.”

His son tensed. He’d damaged that fragile pride with those words, but they still had to be said. “I’m not scared,” Ian argued. “Just…there’s pizza again. She didn’t cook.”

It was eight. He had been home less than twenty minutes.

“You love pizza.”

“I do. Just not all the time.”

He smiled and ruffled his son’s hair, but missed most of it as Ian dodged away. “Says no kid ever. So what’s this really about? I didn’t know you were so bent on home-cooked meals.”

Ian hedged for a beat. “We really aren’t moving, right?”

“Nope.”

“Good. I like it here.”

“So do I.” He stood. “Do you need help with homework?”

“Nah.” As he turned, Ian stopped him. “Thanks, Dad.”

“For what?”

“For being on my side.”

He felt the tightness in his throat. His son could always do that to him at the worst of times. Make things feel not so bad.

“It’s only two years, bud. Then we’ve got all the time in the world to do things.”

“You’ll hate it,” Ian said. “You’re going to be bored. You love your job. Why doesn’t Mom get that?”

His son saw more than his wife did.

“Because she cares,” he said, though even he wasn’t convinced. “Someday you’ll understand.”

“She’s bad at showing it,” Ian muttered.

He didn’t argue.

This time, his son wasn’t wrong.