“The plants... Right.”
I stare at Rhys, all six-foot-four of him. “What is your favorite side dish from Thanksgiving?”
He pulls his brows together. “I’m from Ireland, we don’t celebrate that.”
“Right.”
Rhys glances at Ivy. “Any suggestions about what I should wear to Potsgiving?”
I roll my eyes. “Friendsgiving. Potluck. But Basil says to wear your softest sweater, so people find you nonthreatening.”
He blinks. “And you know for a fact people usually find me threatening?”
“Yes,” I say, nearly scoffing. “Everyone does.”
Basil leans slightly toward Rhys as if to agree. Rhys looks at him like he might punt the poor thing out my window.
“Do you find me threatening?” Rhys asks me, voice low and husky.
I think about that and reach into my brain to the first time I saw him. He was rushing down the hall, head lowered and muttering into his phone:I’ll rip your head right off your fucking neck, mate.
“I agree that you look threatening.” I draw a breath. “But you’d never hurt me, would you?”
“No,” he says without hesitation, then stares at Ivy. “Any requests for color?”
“Themes, not color,” I exhale. “We’ll be matching. I’ll send you a text with the options. Santa, Rudolph, or a Christmas tree with bows.” I grip my chin, staring at the whiteboard. “I need to add outfits to this.”
“I feel like I’ve been conscripted,” he mutters.
“Holiday military uniforms,” I scoff and add that to the list. “See, you’re contributing. We’re doing this together.” I bend over and hug him.
He stiffens at first, but then gently hugs me back. “What if I don’t like any of the sweaters you pick?”
“Then we have to work in shopping days.” I walk backto the calendar.
“Just the thing I want to do during the holidays in Manhattan.” He sits back and crosses his long legs. “Go shopping.”
“Now the rules,” I add, handing him a new printout. “You must stand near me at all times. People try to talk to me. Sometimes they…touch me. I don’t… I don’t like that.”
His jaw tightens. “No one’s going to touch you. That I can assure you, or they won’t make it to Black Friday.” When he stands up and towers over me, chills go through me. “Only,Itouch you.”
“I think we can agree to that one without a vote.” I go breathless, drinking in his stare.
I lean into the whiteboard and add a new box:
Personal Security: HANDLED.
Chapter 20
Rhys
Isit in Shane’s office, a half-million-dollar trailer parked on the new UN construction site, while Trace gives a detailed report of the bloodbath in my flat. I was not looking forward to this.
“Fuck,” Shane mutters and starts typing into his laptop.
I debate telling them how that kill also drafted me into a Friendsgiving potluck by a girl who talks to a plant she calls Basil, but I decide against it at the last minute.
“I’m having a hard time believing Zervas didn’t sic that dog on Rhys,” Trace says.
