“No, you don’t.”
He looked at the boss who called the shots but always accepted input from his team. Guilt curled in his gut. Although he had a suspicion, he asked anyway, “Why not?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Dev replied.
“I fucked up with Cari and let my guard down. I own that. It doesn’t happen twice,” he said into the silence that had settled over the room.
“I wasn’t referring to that,” he said. “That’s been settled. I meant your relationship to Emily. You’re too close, which makes her a distraction. Why do you think I never did body duty for Cari?”
He stared at Nick Devlin—former FBI and a damn fine investigator, a man he respected. He’d forgiven him for letting the mob take his fiancée on his watch. Dev’s gaze held no doubt. No mistrust. Just quiet certainty.
Alec hated being benched. Hated that Dev was right. Last night, when it wasn’t life or death, he’d let emotion cloud his judgment. Emily deserved better than that.
With gritted teeth, he nodded. “I’ll need to explain why a dom she met at the club is following her around.”
“See to it,” Dev said.
“Hate to put a damper on planning, but we’re stretched thin,” Mateo said. “This makes five active protection cases. We’re bleeding manpower.”
“That’s been my reality for three years,” Dev muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Referral bonus for licensed PIs. Training’s a luxury when we’re in crisis. I need seasoned men, not hopefuls. Meeting adjourned.”
As the others filed out, Alec glanced at the clock then at Rhys—still seated, calm as ever.
With a PhD in forensic psychology, Rhys had a knack for getting inside a criminal’s mind. He’d seen him in action and knew he was a crack shot, too. There wasn’t a man more qualified to protect Emily. Himself included.
“She gets off work in thirty minutes,” Alec said. “If we hurry, we can catch her before she leaves.”
Rhys’s brows lifted. “What kind of job ends at nine in the morning?”
“She’s a waitress. Breakfast shift.”
“Right,” he said, rising. “I could use a proper cup of tea. And if they’ve got anything resembling bangers and mash, I might just die happy.”
Alec snorted. “I don’t know about that. But they make great waffles.”
“How’s that?”
“You’ll see.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, they pushed through the double doors of the Waffle House in Miami Gardens. Rhys looked around, his expression caught somewhere between fascination and alarm.
“Isn’t this what you Americans call a greasy spoon?”
Alec arched a brow. “I thought you were born in the states.”
“Yes, but try not to hold that against me.”
“Seat yourselves,” the man at the registers hollered over the breakfast chaos.
“We’re friends of Emily’s. Which section is hers?”
The man sized them up—two solidly built men who clearly weren’t regulars—then jerked his chin to the right. “Last booth. All she’s got open.”
They wove through sticky tables, clattering plates, and the scent of sizzling bacon. Alec slid into the booth first. Rhys hesitated, visibly pained, then took the opposite seat and immediately began scrubbing the table with a fistful of napkins like a germophobic surgeon prepping for heart surgery. He even wiped down the laminated menu. Twice.
Alec looked on with a grin. “Your elitism is showing. Don’t they have diners in London?”
