It’s a lot.
Alot.
Like more than my entire yearly salary just for a few days of protection.
“But you’re a pro-bono client,” Tyler insisted. “So we won’t charge you for anything. That’s how B and A works. We take on higher paying jobs so we can afford to provide services for the people who really need them.”
I felt kind of weird about that initially. Like it was charity. But when I mentioned it to my mom during our phone call this morning, she got kind of snippy and said, “They didn’t exactly give you a choice, now, did they? So I don’t think you should worry about paying them.”
She’s glad I’m safe. And she’s notmad, exactly. Indy joined in on the first call with my parents to explain the situation, which, honestly, earned a lot of points with me.
Facing two very protective and worried parents, telling them that you smuggled their only daughter across the country to keep her from going to jail? I’m not sure there’s a good way to present it. But once Indy outlined the team’s plan and detailed all the ways they’re protecting me, it mollified my parents a little. But before the call ended, my dad sternly warned Indy, “We’ll go along with this plan of yours for now, but if I get any inkling of Bea being mistreated, I’ll come out to get her myself.”
To me, my dad is a big softie. But while he was talking to Indy, I could see my dad’s military background come out. It was in the commanding tone of his voice and the set of his shoulders, so similar to Indy and his friends.
It got me thinking; my dad and Indy have a lot in common, really. They were both in the military—my dad the Marines and Indy the Army—and they both lost a limb in battle. My dad lost his right leg below the knee when his Humvee hit a mine, and Indy lost his hand and lower arm when the building his team was searching collapsed.
They’re both protective, too—something I’m discovering about Indy the more time I spend with him. In the week I’ve been at B and A, as I’ve taken to calling it, Indy’s gone above and beyond to take care of me. Checking on my concussion all the time, bringing me food, buying me clothes, arranging to get all the accessories for my implants, and even cooking with me, which, I have to say, might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
Tough, tattooed, heavily muscled Indy, meticulously chopping vegetables and watching sauce cook with the intensity of a hawk? Listening to him pepper me with questions about the difference between regular olive oil and extra virgin, or why we use whole bay leaves in sauce instead of crumbling them? And being gently led back to my seat whenever I try to help, accompanied by a gentle but stern warning that I need my rest?
Cute.
Socute.
A man like Indy shouldn’t be cute. But to me, he is.
So, yeah, I guess I’m really not mad at him anymore.
“Bea?” Indy catches my gloved hand and tugs me to a stop. “Do you want to turn back?”
Before I answer, I just stare at him for a second, admiring.
The blue fleece he’s wearing brings out the color of his eyes, and his cheeks are flushed from the cold. His hair looks extrawavy today, probably from the dampness in the air, and his beard is neatly trimmed so it accentuates the angles of his jaw and chin. I have to tilt my head back to look at him, given that he’s a good six inches taller than my five-foot-seven, and if I wanted to kiss him, I’d have to go up on my tiptoes to reach.
Not that we’ve kissed. Or come even close to it.
But as the days pass, and the initial shock of everything has faded into a dull acceptance, I’ve spent a good amount of time thinking about it.
Kissing Indy. Finding out how his lips feel against mine. Being held in his very muscly arms and pressed against an impressively broad chest. Running my fingers through his hair. Tasting him. Feeling his arousal growing the longer we kiss, jutting hard against my belly. My core aching for him, throbbing?—
“Okay, we’re going back,” Indy announces. He wraps his arm around my waist and turns me back towards the direction we came. “I knew this was too far. And it’s much too cold.”
“I’m fine,” I reply hurriedly. “I was just…”
Thinking about kissing him? Wondering how big his muscles really are? Thinking about how much I’m attracted to him and wishing things could be different?
I can’t give any of those as a response.
“Appreciating the scenery,” I finish after casting about for something appropriate to say. “It’s so pretty out here. Never having been on the West Coast, I didn’t realize how nice it is.”
“It is nice, isn’t it?” Indy rests his fingers on my cheek for a moment. “Still. You’re definitely chilled. We should probably head back.”
Instinct makes me want to lean into his touch. To soak up the sensation of his skin against mine; to memorize how good it feels.
But that’s not why he’s touching me. And I’m not here for a relationship.
Indy just brought me here out of some sense of obligation—a way of paying me back for helping him. He’s protective, yes. But he’s protective of his sister, too.
