And somehow, his stubbornness keeps landing in Vesper’s lap.
That part makes my jaw ache.
Not because Vesper can’t handle it.She can handle anything.That’s the problem.People see her competence and start piling their burdens on her like it’s a compliment.
Her family should be protecting her.Not treating her like the fixer they can outsource their guilt to.I’m yet to get in contact with her brothers so they can take responsibility.Though, I won’t because this isn’t my circus—at least not officially.When it is, then I’ll give them a piece of my mind.
I’m in the middle of telling a mover that yes, the couch goes there and no, we are not rotating it “for better flow” because the couch is not a piece of art, it’s a security blanket with legs—when I notice him.
Monty stands in the entryway.
Black hoodie.Cap pulled low.Hands jammed into his pockets like he’s holding himself back.Shoulders tight.He looks like a man who could vanish if he wanted to ...except he’s six-foot-five and built like a warning sign.
Monty doesn’t do subtle.
He does contained.
His eyes move over the room with that goalie focus—tracking sightlines, cameras, windows.Cataloging exits.Mapping danger.It’s muscle memory.Survival language.
“Nice place,” he says finally, voice flat.“Vesper sent me.She thought you might need help.”
“From Seattle?”I lift a brow.“I thought she had back-to-back interviews with Transcend Productions.”
He pulls out his phone like evidence.“She can still worry via text.”His mouth twists.“It’s her superpower.”
The fact that she’s trying to build a future while she’s also growing a human makes me want to break something and also kneel.
“Is she okay?”I ask, and I hate how fast the question comes out.
He nods once.“Excited.Terrified.Vesper.”
That’s the most Vesper and honest answer anyone’s given me all week.
“She’s excited about the prospect of either getting a job or starting a business that helps TPC with editing and writing without having to leave Oregon,” he adds, like he’s reciting her dreams with care.
“Me too,” I say quietly.“She wants independence.She wants to feel like she’s earning it, even when she doesn’t have to.Thank you for getting her this opportunity.”
Monty’s shrug is small.“It was really the security guy.”
“Which is totally weird that you had a conversation.”I scoff.“You both seem very ...uptight.”
He glares at me but says, “During the walkthrough, he mentioned his wife’s family.Big hockey fans.Then he mentioned his brother-in-law—Keith Cooperson—played when he was younger.Anyway.”Another shrug.“I know Keith, his twin ...actually the entire family.”
He says it like it’s no big deal.
Like it’s not shocking that Mr.I’d-Rather-Die-Than-Small-Talk has an entire web of connections he never uses.Like he didn’t just quietly open a door for Vesper.
“She’s coming straight from the appointment,” he says.“The bodyguard is flying her from Seattle and will drive her from the airport.”
My stomach tightens.“Is she going to the OB too?”
“No.”Monty’s voice turns clipped, like he hates the reminder.“Next week.”
I watch his face for a second too long.“You seem bothered.”
“We’ll be out of town,” he says.Away game, implied.“I don’t like missing things.”
Honestly, it bothers me too.That’s something I have to talk about with my teammates.How do they handle appointments and morning sickness while on the road?
