“Wait.” Edwin steps between us, irritation animating his face. “You are not allowed to go with these men. You are not allowed to make agreements without?—”
Anger flares. I push between them. “Ms. Love’s spoken.”
I glower.
He caves.
Mia’s body relaxes.
“She’ll be in touch when she’s ready.”
“This isn’t how these things usually end,” he says quietly. “You’re going to regret this.”
I glare.
Edwin narrows his eyes, then he turns and strides away, the rest of the suits following like a pack of hyenas.
Chapter
Three
MIA
Iron, wood, and stone greet us as we pass through a massive gate, headlights illuminating the billowing dust clouds kicked up in the train of black Ford F-350s that make their way to Lone Star Security’s headquarters.
“Is it pretty during the day?” I ask, shifting uneasily in the passenger seat next to Maverick.
He side-eyes me, too intense, a low sound—almost a growl—humming from his chest.
I finger the hem of my black floral sundress, hands fidgeting nervously. I want something to hold, something to comfort me.
Country music blares. My hand comes up to adjust the station, but the big man shoots me a warning glare.
“Really?” I glance at the radio. “Your way or the highway when it comes to music?”
The corners of his mouth tip down.
I chuckle, staring at my tangled fingers. “What you did back there—” I look up, but his eyes never leave the road. “Covering me like that … risking your life. I can’t begin to?—”
“No need.”
Minutes tick by.
“So, today was your first day on the job? And already dodging bullets…”
I shift again, and the leather seat squeaks. “You said something earlier. Bulls or bullets. What did you mean?”
His hands grip the steering wheel tighter.
I cross my arms. “You know, this is going to be boring as hell if you refuse to talk.”
Silence.
“Fortunately, I have plenty to say. I basically never stop talking, according to Edwin and the other gray suits. I’m silly, loudmouthed, superficial—only good for entertainment. What do you think about that?”
He grunts, pulling up in front of a large two-story structure. He jumps out, slamming the driver’s door. Rounding the front of the truck, he opens mine, hand outstretched to help me out of the boosted vehicle.
I’m used to riding in limos with tailored drivers. Not launching myself out of all-terrain vehicles. I’m used to polite nods and formal greetings, not a calloused hand that trails sparks of heat up my arm. Not a man who smells of pine sap and something darker, almost primitive.
