“That is, unfortunately, a very accurate summary.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
“I do. I sound unwell.”
“It sounds like the beginning of a deeply unsafe romance novel.”
I laugh. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m trying to understand the level of trouble we’re working with.” I pause. “Are you okay, though? Really. The van, the tires, all of it. I need the real answer, not your hot-men-on-fire summary.”
That quickly removes the shine from the whole day. “I’m worried that Daniel found me. I mean, he must know that I heard him have that conversation about getting rid of Thomas Cassidy, and then two days later, that name was all over the news when his body was found. It has to be him, and now he wants to silence me before I report him or something,” I say, quieter now. “Random creeps don’t slash four tires. That takes planning. Someone wanting me to know they can still find me. It has Daniel written all over it.”
Clio exhales hard. “Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“And what happens if he tracks you to that house?” she asks.
I press my mouth thin. “I’d rather not build that scenario out in my head tonight.”
“You still need to think about it.”
“I know.” I grab a throw pillow and press it tight to my chest. “Which is why I’m thinking maybe I should tell them all of it. About Daniel and Lumen. Everything.”
Clio doesn’t answer straight away. That’s when I know she’s taking it seriously, not just reacting. Finally she says, “You trust them?”
I glance around the little guest place. Solid locks. Ocean beyond the doors. The quiet weight of that house behind me. Three men who stepped in without making me beg for help.
“More than I trust anyone else who can keep me protected,” I say.
“And the house?”
I rub a hand over my forehead. “Clio, these men are not just surfers.”
“No?”
“They said surfing and luau work, and then Luca drove me through gates into what can only be described as a sexy Alpha compound. There are cameras everywhere. Stone walls. The beach is basically their backyard, but there’s a high security fence and a door to access it. Oh, and their kitchen looks like it belongs to someone who cooks everything with olive oil.”
“Oh, I hate them already.”
I chuckle and shift on the couch, trying not to smile too much because if I let myself enjoy this conversation fully, I might have to acknowledge how much better I feel than I did this morning.
“Please don’t tell me you’re falling for them.”
The laugh that comes out of me is ugly and immediate. “I mean…”
“Oh God.”
“I’m not saying I am.”
“You absolutely already did, didn’t you?”
“I’m saying,” I correct, “that they smell deliciously good, as if my body has already formed several terrible opinions without consulting me first.”
Clio groans so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
“So Ace really is your scent match.”
