He was also the smartest person I'd ever met.
He spotted me and jabbed a finger toward the chair. "She just walked in. I'll call you back." He hung up and turned to me, face red. "Sit."
"Who was that?"
"Your new babysitter."
I stayed standing. "Excuse me?"
"Don't start with me, Charlotte." He only used my full name when he was done with my shit. "You've got a target on your back the size of this city, and I'm not letting you get killed on my watch."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine! Someone shot at you!"
"Shot at me. Didn't hit me. Important distinction."
Morty slammed his hand on the desk, making three monitors jump. "This isn't a joke! The threats are escalating. First the graffiti, then the break-in, then the bridge, now bullets. What's next? A car bomb? A knife in a dark alley?"
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being realistic." He grabbed his vape pen and took a long drag, blowing mango-scented clouds toward the ceiling. "You've pissed off half the city. Could be anyone you've ever pointed that camera at."
"I didn't ruin anyone's life. I reported facts. If their lives fell apart, that's on them for being corrupt assholes."
"Great. Write that on your tombstone." He pointed at me. "You're getting protection whether you like it or not. I already hired them."
My stomach dropped. "Hired who?"
"Heartline Security Group."
I'd heard of them. Everyone had. Heartline was the security company in Cupid City—the kind rich people hired to make problems disappear quietly. Politicians, CEOs, witnesses who knew too much. They didn't advertise. Didn't need to. If you had Heartline, you had the best.
Which also meant they were expensive as hell.
"Morty, I can't afford—"
"I'm paying. Consider it a business expense. You die, my site traffic tanks." He said it like he was doing me a favor, but his eyes were worried. Morty hid his heart under forty layers ofcynicism, but it was there. Somewhere. "They're sending their best guy. Former Marine. Eight years active duty. He doesn't lose clients."
"Tonight?"
"You think I'm waiting until someone actually succeeds in killing you?"
"I don't need—"
The door opened behind me.
I turned.
And immediately understood why Morty hadn't asked my opinion.
The man who walked into the office was a problem.
Six-three, solid muscle, intimidating as hell. Broad shoulders that filled the doorway. Dark hair cut military-short, sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, and eyes the color of gunmetal. He moved like a predator—quiet, controlled, every step deliberate. Black tactical pants. Dark henley that hugged his chest. Leather jacket that probably concealed more weapons than I wanted to know about.
He looked like he could kill someone with his pinky and then file the paperwork without blinking.
Also: unfairly hot.
