“Does it have a cinema room?” he asked, barely lifting his head.
Rafael nodded, swigging water.
“A pool?”
“Of course,” said Bea, and tossed him a towel.
“A fridge that’s not empty like my barracks?”
“I made brownies,” she said with a slow smile. “They were supposed to be for tomorrow. Choc-peanut-butter ones, with Reese’s on top.”
Nico popped up like a meerkat. “I’ll be ten minutes max!” He was already sprinting.
Rafael watched him vanish down the hall, then reached out and caught her wrist. His voice dropped. “You let him off the hook.”
“He was tired,” she said, suddenly wary.
“Now I need another outlet.” His lips brushed her ear, and goosebumps rose along her arms like a chorus of alarm bells. “You bought yourself a very hard night.”
“That’s…a big portrait,” Nico said around a mouthful of brownie. He held a piece in each hand as though he didn’t trust them to still be there by the time they finished touring.
The east-side rec room was still bare, which was why the portrait had been propped against the far wall. One of the new staff had offered to unwrap it that morning. Bea was still adjusting to the idea of live-in helpers. People who materialized with lint rollers and lemon water. Boundaries were pending.
Rafael had excused himself earlier to get something from the garage and hadn’t returned yet. Bea didn’t think twice about it. Nico was already halfway through a breathless breakdown of military training politics, gesturing wildly with chocolate-covered fingers, licking them clean between points.
He stopped midsentence and glanced up. “Why does it feel like he’s judging us?”
“Right?” Bea followed his gaze.
Nico took a step back, as if taking it in from a little farther away. “Imagine being the intern who had to mix enough beige for that forehead.”
“I hope they were compensated for the overtime.”
They turned in time to see the doorframe fill. Laurent Duret stepped in first, travel creasing at the collar of his shirt. Rafael was right behind him.
Nico went still. Then: “You’re back!”
He crossed the room in four strides.
Laurent caught him easily, pulling him into a hug and thumping his back once. “Mon petit officier.”
“Petit?” Nico scoffed, flexing both arms. “That’s outdated intel.”
Laurent’s mouth curved. “Did you finally win a game against Jefe?”
“No, but only because he had home-court advantage.”
“That’s why you’re stillmon petit.”
Rafael glanced at Laurent. “He didn’t beat me, but he did make Command. They took less than five percent.”
Laurent scruffed his hair. “I knew you wouldn’t embarrass us.”
Nico tried for nonchalance and almost managed it. He straightened, chest puffing out on instinct. The place behind Bea’s nose stung as she watched him bask in the casual praise of his idols, still nineteen beneath all that bravado.
Laurent’s gaze moved from Nico to Bea, who had joined them. “You appear to have broken a journalist.”
“Not by myself.” Bea glanced at Rafael. He was watching her with quiet satisfaction. “It was more Mission Impossible than Batman.”
