He’s the kind of friend who’d bail you out of jail no problem and ask questions later. Fortunately, he’s never had to do that for me. Like me, he’s also laser-focused on growing this business.
“The crew arrives tomorrow—Saturday,” I say, recapping the plans for the upcoming shoot starting this weekend. “Vega the director, the rest of the cast, and so on. We have our best-practices briefing scheduled then. And everything’s a go for securing the location for the first shots on Sunday afternoon, which is a pretty basic, no principal cast, just beauty shots.”
“Great. And we’ve got Wanda Rodriguez on Haven,” he says.
“It was a lucky break she was available,” I say of the former CIAfield agent, who’s been protecting several high-profile clients since leaving the agency.
“I’d like to think it was my magic touch at convincing her,” he says.
He’s never been short on confidence. “Yeah. It was you, Dean.”
“I know,” he deadpans, then shifts to a more serious tone. “But it’s a damn good thing. Tabitha was happy to hear we could get a woman on the job.”
The logistics producer made it clear that since the film is helmed by a female director, written by a woman, and produced by a woman-owned company, it’d sure be nice to see some women in the security team too.
Done.
We have backup coming in as well, so I’ll have some other close protection officers covering Haven and Ripley from time to time, since Wanda and I can’t do twenty-four-seven security. After Dean and I cover the prep work, as well as the assignments for our team on site, then cover the projects he’s handling in Los Angeles for corporate clients, he clears his throat and says, “How’s it going so far? You seemed a little…before you left.”
I bristle as I walk past the white fence hemming in row after row of purple flowers with that soft, powdery, woodsy scent that’s supposed to be calming. “A little what?”
“A little tense every time the job came up,” he says, getting straight to the point now.
How the fuck could he tell? I thought I was playing it cool. Iroll my shoulders like I can shrug it off. Maybe I need a lavender eye mask. “Just because it’s a big job.”
“That’s what I meant,” he says. Oh. So he thought I was stressed about the importance of the job. Not that I might fuck it up beyond all recognition thanks to this unchecked attraction.
“Hell, I’m a little tense about the job,” he continues.
“Yeah?”
“I’m so over working for other people,” he says as I reach the corner of the fields, then turn up the street that runs along the back of the farm. “Did that long enough for Stan. Don’t want to do it again.”
There it is. The reminder. “Same, brother. Same.”
He blows out a breath. If a breath could sound hopeful, this one does. “It’ll be good,” he says, like he’s reassuring himself more than me.
“Absolutely,” I say, because it fucking will, I’ll make sure of it. We won’t miss a thing. No one in the whole damn world is more organized than I am. Being a little bit of a control freak goes a long way in my field.
“And how’s the sister?” he asks.
It’s a standard business question. A normal check-in about the client. A conversation we’ve had a hundred times before in the last year as we’ve worked together, running our firm. But also in the years before when we were working for Stan Withers and our didn’t-give-a-shit boss sent us too-thin briefs without any real research, leaving Dean and me to sink or swim, whether it came to field work or cybersecurity.
Plus side though? We learned by doing, because we had no other choice but to figure out the jobs all on our own.
No job, though, has ever been this tempting.
In all my years in close protection, I’ve never warred with desire for a client. I think about the answer I can’t give to Dean’s question.
Ripley Addison is sexy. Fiery. Challenging. All the things she was the night I met her and even more. But I don’t say any of that because I don’t want Dean to worry. Like it’s no big deal, since really, it has to be no big deal, I say, “She’s a typical non-celeb client. Doesn’t think she needs a bodyguard. But it’s fine.”
He chuckles. “Know the type well.”
“Yup. How are things with the McKellar project?” I ask, shifting gears to a corporate client, since I don’t want to dwell on me and these feelings I can’t entertain.
He slides into those details easily and when I’ve rounded the property a third time, we’re done. “Keep me posted,” he says.
“You know I will.”
