12. Chapter 12
SEAN
MANHATTAN NEVER FUCKING SLEEPS, WHICH is great for insomniacs and terrible for anyone who values their sanity.
The streets have a relentless energy, even on a weekday evening like this.
Yellow cabs cut through traffic like sharks, motorcyclists weave between them with complete disregard for their lives, and pedestrians spill off sidewalks.
The city's heartbeat is chaotic and insistent.
I'm fifteen feet behind Londyn, making mental notes of every civilian who passes her. Every lingering look. Every potential threat.
She's a high-value target.
"—and then Noah kicked the ball straight into his team's net," Mike continues from beside me.
His voice is a steady background to my surveillance.
"Mona said the coach's face turned purple.
Like, actual purple. But the other team was nice enough to not count the point.
Kid sports are much better than adult sports. "
"That's cool," I say, my eyes tracking a guy in a business suit who just did a complete one-eighty to watch Londyn walk past. Not a threat. Just another hot-blooded male struck stupid by the view.
And fuck what a view.
When she stepped out of her apartment earlier, I nearly forgot how to breathe. The woman who emerged from that door was nothing like the Londyn I've come to know—the woman who drowns herself in shapeless shirts and hides behind oversized glasses.
This Londyn is… fuck.
Her dress is black and form-fitting, with a neckline that dips into a V just low enough to be elegant rather than provocative.
On her, it's devastating, teasing the soft curves of her breasts and threatening to give me a heart attack.
Her legs seem impossibly long in those black heels, and her dark hair falls in thick waves around her shoulders.
No glasses tonight. Nothing to hide the delicate structure of her face, those slender cheekbones, those eyes that hold entire worlds.
When she looked at me and asked if I was ready to go, I managed to nod like a professional and not like a man who was slowly coming apart at the seams.
Mike gives me a side-eyed look, apparently noticing my distracted state. "You listening, man?"
"Noah. Soccer. Coach turned purple. I'm tracking."
He sighs like I'm his kid who just got suspended from school. "You're tracking something alright."
I ignore the comment because there's a guy up ahead, sitting on a stoop, eyes locked on Londyn as she approaches. My body tenses, ready to close the distance between us if needed, but he pulls out his phone and starts texting as she passes. False alarm. Just another admirer.
That's been the pattern for the six blocks we've walked: man sees Londyn, man stares at Londyn like he's noticing the magnificence of women for the first time, man eventually returns to whatever he was doing. Rinse and repeat.
"This is going to be harder than I thought," I mutter.
"What is?"
"Determining which men are actually suspicious versus just staring."
Mike laughs but the sound quickly cuts off. "Just don't be one of the gawkers."
"Stop already."
"I will when you do."
I grit my teeth. Doesn't he get that I'm fucking trying? I'm trying to turn off my brain and other parts of me, but I have eyes. Londyn is like the apple in the Garden of Eden; I can't stop thinking about the forbidden fruit.
I ignore Mike and watch Londyn navigate through a crowded section of sidewalk.
The evening rush creates a steady stream of commuters heading home from the subway.
And we're all swimming in the aroma of garlic from nearby pizza joints, mixed with exhaust fumes and hot concrete.
Londyn moves with sophistication, despite her ankles wobbling in those heels.
There's a flow to her movements I didn't notice before, like she's performing out here for the world.
Actress, I keep thinking, and I really want to look her up. I also don't. Her past isn't my business. My business is keeping her safe in the present.
"Three more blocks to the restaurant," Mike says, checking his phone.
I nod as another guy stops in his tracks as Londyn passes. This one actually turns completely around. He watches her walk away with such focus that he nearly collides with a fire hydrant. Jesus, can dudes be any more obvious?
"You're doing that thing with your jaw," Mike comments.
"What thing?"
"Clenching it. Makes you look like you're about to bite through steel."
I consciously relax my face. "Just focusing."
"On the job? Or on our client's dress?"
"The job," I snap, though the fire in my voice gives me away. Once again, I try to ignore his persistent reminders. "So far, nothing seems unusual. Just typical Upper Manhattan. Everyone's looking at everyone else."
Mike lets out a quiet 'hmm.'
Up ahead, Londyn pauses at an intersection to wait for the stoplight to change. The setting sun catches in her hair, turning the dark waves into a halo of warm light. She's so damn distracting I almost miss the guy who lingers too long next to her.
Almost.
My steps quicken. The man is middle-aged, average build, with the haggard look of someone who's spent years grinding away at a desk job.
There's something in the way he's looking at Londyn—not admiring, but calculating—that makes me worry he could be a walking red flag.
He says something to her that I can't hear.
My pulse kicks up, adrenaline sharp in my veins. Mike senses danger too because he's suddenly alert beside me, his casual demeanor evaporating.
Londyn shakes her head at the man, then steps away to put distance between them. Her body language shifts; her shoulders tighten and she folds in on herself. The stoplight changes, and she crosses quickly to leave the man behind.
He doesn't follow. After a moment, he turns and walks in the opposite direction, phone in hand.
"Just a creep asking for her number," Mike says.
"Yeah." I'm relieved but the tension doesn't leave my body. The casual way he approached her, the entitlement… it sets my teeth on edge. How many times has she dealt with that kind of intrusion? How many men have forced their attention on her when she clearly didn't want it?
And why does all this make me want to punch something?
This is going to be a long night.
I shift back to recon mode, scanning for anything suspicious and beyond the obvious fucking distraction that is Londyn in that dress.
Christ, this isn't like me. When we talked earlier about her date, I sounded like some territorial caveman. Not my usual style at all. I've always been laid-back with women. If they're interested, great. If not, I move on. No drama, no possessiveness, definitely no jealousy.
Londyn has me off-balance. There's a heaviness in my chest I can't explain away as simple attraction.
And why the hell did I feel relieved when she said it was just a first date?
Not my business. Not my concern. Not my place.
Focus on the job.
"Split up here?" Mike asks as we reach the intersection before the restaurant.
"Yeah. You take Broadway, I'll continue on one-hundred-fifty-first. Keep your earpiece on."
Mike taps his ear where the small communication device sits. "Roger that." He peels off down Broadway. His voice comes through clear in my ear a moment later. "So what do you do for fun these days?"
I scoff. "What kind of weird question is that?" I adjust my path to follow Londyn without being obvious.
"Well, haven't talked to you in a few years. You call me up out of nowhere with a job. Just trying to see what's new in life."
"I read books."
"That's not new."
"Now you know how my life is."
His hearty laugh fills my ear.
Thankfully, Londyn reaches the Italian restaurant up ahead. It's only 6:30, a half hour before her date. She mentioned wanting to arrive early to scope out the place before her date showed. Can't fault her for that.
She pauses at the entrance, her shoulders visibly lifting toward her ears like her head needs extra support. I move toward a nearby sneaker shop and pretend to examine a display of overpriced shoes while watching her from my peripherals.
Something's off. She's standing just outside the restaurant, peering through the windows while wringing her hands. It's like she's twisting an invisible handkerchief.
I pull out my phone and text her.
Me: Everything okay?
She startles slightly at the notification, then glances around before checking her phone.
Londyn: Yes, just being silly. It's fine.
I don't buy it. Something's bothering her.
Me: What's up?
Her fingers hover over her screen. I can see the hesitation even from this distance.
Londyn: The booth by the exit is taken. I usually sit near exits. It's stupid. I'm fine.
My gut reacts with a sharp jolt like I ate something bad. It's not stupid. It's a survival instinct. One I understand too well.
Me: Step around the corner and pretend to take a call.
She looks confused but follows my instructions. She lifts her phone to her ear and walks around the corner of the building, out of sight from the restaurant's main entrance.
"Mike," I say into my lapel mic. "Slight change of plans. I'm going in. You hang across the street, pretend you're waiting for the bus. Keep eyes on anyone suspicious."
There's a brief pause. "Something wrong?"
"No. Adjusting the approach." I walk toward the restaurant, already formulating a plan.
"Will do," Mike responds, no questions asked. That's what makes him such a good partner. He trusts my judgment, even when I don't entirely trust it myself.
Actually, I wish he'd question me because I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
Something just snapped in my brain when Londyn mentioned the booth by the exit.
That discomfort in her voice burrowed straight through my professional detachment and the need to fix her problem was instant and overwhelming.
Now here I am, walking into this overpriced pasta joint to do something stupid.
The hostess, who is a woman with curly hair and a fake smile, spots me the moment I enter. "Good evening. How many?"
I scan the restaurant quickly. Exposed brick walls. Soft lighting. Candles on every table. The kind of place that thinks ambiance justifies charging $30 for a Caesar salad.
My eyes lock on a family of four seated at the booth Londyn wants. There are two parents, two teenagers, and everyone is dressed well enough to suggest this is a special occasion.
"Actually," I say, gesturing over the hostess's shoulder, "I see my party. Thanks."
Before she can respond, I move past her with the confident stride of someone who belongs. Years of security work have taught me that walking with purpose gets you past most gatekeepers.
I approach the family's booth and crouch down, bringing myself to eye level with the father. No looming. No intimidation. Just a friendly stranger about to ask for a favor.
"Hi there," I say, keeping my voice warm. The smile I offer feels strange on my face because it's wider than my usual reserved expression. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I have a huge favor to ask."
The family exchanges glances, ranging from curious to wary.
"A close friend of mine is celebrating her birthday tonight.
She always reserves this exact spot. It's kind of her tradition.
But there was a mix-up." I let my smile fade slightly, adding a touch of concern.
"She's been going through a really tough time, and I was hoping to make tonight special for her. "
Fuck, I'm laying it on thick. Surprised I didn't mention a dead grandma.
The mother's expression softens first. Bingo.
"Would you be willing to switch to another table?" I continue, then quickly add, "I'd be happy to cover your entire meal as thanks for your generosity. Whatever you'd like. Appetizers, desserts, the works. My treat."
The family exchanges a look again. The mother, who I've clearly won over, whispers something to her husband. He shrugs and then nods slowly. "I don't see why not. Our food's not here yet, so it's fine."
I exhale, happy I didn't have to kill grandma to make this happen. "Thank you. Seriously, you have no idea how much this means to me."
My words create a strange resonance in my chest because helping Londyn feel comfortable does mean something to me.
Within minutes, a server has guided the family to another table.
It's arguably better since it's closer to restaurant's central fountain.
I intercept the hostess and explain that my friend and her date will be arriving shortly for this specific booth.
Then I make my way to the bar, slide onto a stool with a clear view of both the entrance and Londyn's reserved spot, and hand my credit card to the bartender.
"Whatever that family orders," I tell him, nodding toward their new table. "And I'll start with water."
He nods, looking slightly impressed by the gesture. If he only knew how happy I am to spend my money on others.
After discreetly adjusting my bulletproof vest under my clothes, I pull out my phone and text Londyn.
Me: Problem solved. Your booth awaits.
Through the front windows, I can see her reading the message before her eyes widen. She's typing a response furiously when a man approaches her.