"By the fireplace, Tommy!"She turns back to me."Look, I'll make you a deal.You and your team pretend to be wedding guests for a few hours, and I'll give you full access once the reception moves outside.Plus, free food."
"We don't need?—"
"It's from La Famiglia," she adds."Nonna Flora's secret recipe lasagna."
My team makes a collective sound of interest.
Traitors.
"This is highly unprofessional," I say.
"So was showing up at midnight convinced I was catfishing you, but we moved past that."
She has a point.
An annoying one, but still.
I look at my team—five of Sterling Security's best technical minds, now apparently swayed by the promise of Italian food.Then I look at Sage, who's practically vibrating with nervous energy.
She grabs my arm.Again.
Which is becoming a bit of a habit.
“You and your team need to blend in,” Sage says, tugging me toward the porch like this is a completely reasonable solution and not total madness.“And to do that, you’ll need tuxedos.”
I arch a brow, glancing at the tech team currently unpacking routers and Ethernet cables like they're about to wire the Pentagon.“We didn’t exactly bring formalwear in the van.”
“Not just formalwear.”Her grin turns evil.“Tuxes.”
"Tuxes."
"Very nice ones.The groomsmen are all different sizes, so I'm sure we can find something that fits.You’re a standard ‘tall and broody,’ right?I’ve got at least two tuxes in that size.”
I gently disengage her hand from my arm.“I appreciate the enthusiasm, Miss Winters, but I’m not wearing someone’s rejected groomsman rental.”
“Oh?Too many ghosts of canceled weddings past?”
“No,” I say calmly, pulling out my phone.“Because I have a logistics team that can drop tailored suits from a helicopter if necessary.”
She blinks.“That’s not a thing.”
“It is when you pay extra for rush delivery and air clearance.”
She blinks again.
“I’m texting them now,” I say, tapping a message to my assistant.“We’ll have tuxedos for the team within the hour.”
“Of course you will.God forbid you settle for polyester blend like the rest of us.”
I glance at her then—really look at her.
Long lashes.Pine-green eyes.
My eyes travel lower, to the disheveled flannel.The smudge of something (spackle?) on her collarbone.The dark ruby hair threatening to escape its bun entirely.
And still, something inside me kicks like a tripwire.
“You’ll want to keep that sass to a minimum,” I murmur, slipping my phone back into my coat.“I might enjoy it a tad too much.”
