"There is no 'yet.' There is no 'when this happens.' There is no." I broke off, shaking my head. "Whatever you think is going to happen between us, it's not."
"Okay."
His easy agreement should have made me feel better. It didn't. Because he wasn't agreeing, he was humoring me. Biding his time. Waiting for me to crack.
And the worst part? I wasn't entirely sure he was wrong.
I ate my breakfast in stubborn silence, refusing to acknowledge how good the eggs were or how nice it was to have someone cook for me. When I was done, I carried my plate to the sink and turned to face him.
"I need to be at the bar by eleven. Are you coming?"
"Where you go, I go." He pushed off the counter. "That's how this works."
"And your security people?"
"Martinez will meet us there. He's going to assess the bar, figure out what upgrades we need. Cameras, better locks, the works."
"That sounds expensive."
"Don't worry about the cost."
"I can pay."
"This isn't a negotiation." His voice was firm. "Your safety isn't something I'm willing to cut corners on. The cost doesn't matter."
I wanted to argue. To tell him I didn't need his money, didn't want his charity, and didn't want to owe him anything.
But I was tired. And scared. And honestly, the thought of having real security, cameras and locks and people who knew what they were doing, was the first thing that had made me feel safer since this whole nightmare began.
"Fine," I said finally. "But you're going to let me pay you back. Eventually."
"We can discuss that later." Which meant never. "Ready to go?"
"Let me grab my stuff."
I retreated to my bedroom to get my purse and keys, taking a moment to breathe. To center myself.
I could do this. I could spend the day with Hudson, work alongside him, exist in his orbit without losing my mind or my self-control.
I was a strong, independent woman. I'd survived worse than an attractive ex-boyfriend with control issues and a hero complex.
I just had to keep my walls up. Keep my distance. Keep reminding myself of all the reasons I had to hate him.
The problem was, every time I looked at him, those reasons seemed a little less important than the way he made me feel.
The Flame felt different with Hudson in it.
Smaller, somehow. Like his presence took up more space than one man should. He moved through the bar with a tactical precision that should have been ridiculous in a dive bar with a broken jukebox and beer signs on the walls.
But it wasn't ridiculous. It was... reassuring.
I hated that it was reassuring.
"Two exits," he said, more to himself than to me. "Front and back. Back exit leads to the alley where you witnessed the shooting. Windows are small but accessible. Good sight lines from behind the bar."
"Are you assessing my bar?"
"Every building is a potential battlefield." He turned to look at me. "Knowing the layout, the exits, the vulnerable points. It could save your life."
