He shifts his stance, and I catch the subtle movement of his gaze again. He’s watching the cars, the terminal, the perimeter fence. He’s not just looking at me. He’s looking through me. “Sinclair Hawthorne,” he says, like that should mean something.
It doesn’t. But my mother’s tone when she said his name did. Like she’d reached into the bottom drawer where she keeps her most terrifying options and pulled out a person.
I tilt my head. “Sinclair. Like the gas station?”
His eyes narrow. “Like the man who’s getting you out of here.” Ah. Great. He has humor too. It’s just locked behind a wall of irritation.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, then add, “I expected you to be older.”
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second, then back to my eyes. “I expected you to be less… shiny.”
I blink. “Shiny?”
He gestures vaguely at my entire existence. “Sunglasses. Jewelry. Bag that should have its own security detail.”
I glance down at my tote. “It’s called self-care.”
“It’s called a beacon.”
“Wow,” I say, slow and sweet. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You want special, buy a cupcake. I’m here because someone tried to run you off the road.”
“I handled it.”
He studies me, and I get the distinct feeling he’s mentally cataloging every bruise I don’t have. “Handling it isn’t the goal,” he says. “Surviving it is.”
My throat tightens, and I hate that he’s right. I also hate that he looks like that while being right.
I lift my chin. “So what’s the plan, Sinclair Hawthorne?”
“Sin,” he corrects.
“That’s unfortunate,” I say. “I was going to call you Mr. Hawthorne like a Victorian governess.”
His eyes go flat. “Rowan.”
“What?”
He leans in just a fraction. “You can keep trying to be cute. It won’t change the fact that you’re coming with me. And you’re going to do what I say.”
I laugh, because if I don’t laugh, I will throw my phone at his forehead. “You were hired by my mother,” I say. “Not by me.”
He holds my gaze. “Your mother wants you alive.”
“So do I.”
“Then cooperate.”
My pulse hops again, irritatingly, because the word “cooperate” coming out of his mouth feels like an invitation to a fight I might enjoy.
Enemies to lovers? No, thank you. I’ve read that book. It ends with me making compromises and him learning emotions. I do not have time for character development while someone is trying to murder me.
Still, my mouth opens before my brain can rein it in. “You always this bossy or is it a special treat because I’m a damsel in designer sunglasses?”
His gaze flicks to the runway behind me. “Damsels don’t investigate organized crime.”
“Finally,” I mutter. “Someone sees my depth.”
