Page 5 of Her Grumpy Protector

He doesn’t laugh out loud, but his eyes crinkle at the corners, and that feels like winning the lottery.

Maybe today isn’t the worst Tuesday after all.

Maybe it’s the start of something that’s going to get me in a lot more trouble than just a ruined shirt.

And the scariest part? I think I might be okay with that.

THREE

BANKS

I know exactly who she is the second her coffee explodes across my chest. Anniston Wells. The whistleblower. The woman whose file is still open on my tablet back at the safe house. The assignment Halo Protective Group slipped me under the table this morning with a fat retainer and a single line of instructions: Keep her alive. Don’t let her know you’re on the payroll until it’s necessary.

I like this anyway.

I like the way she’s rambling at warp speed, cheeks flushed pink, blonde hair sticking to her forehead from the morning humidity. I like how she dabs at my shirt like she’s trying to erase the last thirty seconds of her life. I like that she has no idea the man she just baptized in oat milk is here to stand between her and whatever shadow is hunting her. She’s cute in a way that should not hit me this hard. Bright. Chaotic. The kind of light that makes the gray zones I live in feel a little less dark.

We walk side by side down the wide plaza sidewalk, her shorter legs working twice as fast to keep up with mine. Sunlight bounces off the glass towers around us. Tourists snap photos.Delivery bikes weave through traffic. Normal city noise. But my eyes are cataloging everything: the black SUV idling too long at the curb two blocks back, the guy in the gray hoodie who has matched our pace for the last ninety seconds, the way Anniston keeps glancing over her shoulder even while she’s telling me about spilling soup on a federal judge.

“You’re laughing at me inside your head,” she says, poking my arm with one finger. “Admit it. You’re thinking this is the most unprofessional first impression in the history of first impressions.”

“I’m thinking you talk faster than most people type,” I answer. My voice stays even, but the corner of my mouth lifts. She notices. Her eyes light up like I just handed her a winning lottery ticket.

She has a pretty smile.

The boutique is fifty yards ahead, a sleek storefront tucked between a high-end watch dealer and a private bank. I scan the entrance: glass doors, security cameras angled down, one bored employee visible through the window folding silk scarves. Clean sight lines. Good exit options. My hand brushes the small of her back as we step off the curb, guiding her around a puddle. She doesn’t pull away. Instead she leans into it for half a second, like the touch is the most natural thing in the world.

We reach the door. I pull it open for her. She flashes me a grin that feels like sunlight on bare skin.

“After you, coffee victim,” she says, stepping inside.

The attack comes before the door even swings shut behind us.

A man in a black ball cap and sunglasses bursts from the side alley that runs alongside the boutique. He’s on her in three strides, knife already out, blade catching the light. No warning shout. No hesitation. Nothing.

Anniston screams.

I move.

My left hand snaps out, catches her shoulder, and yanks her behind me so hard her back hits the glass display case. Scarves tumble. The employee shrieks. I step into the attacker’s path, forearm blocking the downward knife strike. The blade skims my sleeve, slicing fabric but missing skin. I drive my elbow into his throat. Cartilage crunches. He staggers.

Fuck, he recovers fast. He’s definitely trained. He swings again, low this time, aiming for my ribs. I pivot, catch his wrist, and twist until the knife clatters to the marble floor. My boot comes down on his instep. He grunts. I follow with a knee to the solar plexus that folds him in half. He crashes into a rack of designer jackets, metal clanging like gunfire.

Anniston’s breathing hard behind me. “Banks, what the hell?”

The attacker lunges up one more time, wild now, grabbing for her ankle through the fallen clothes. I stomp down on his forearm. The bone snaps and he howls. I drop, pin him with my knee in his spine, and zip-tie his wrists with the restraints I keep in my back pocket for exactly this reason. His cap falls off. Young face. Scar across the left eyebrow. I pat him down fast: burner phone, two extra magazines, no wallet. Hired help.

Sirens wail in the distance. Halo City PD response time is fast when the rich feel threatened.

I stand, and turn to Anniston.

She’s pressed against the wall, eyes huge, hands over her mouth. Her bag is clutched to her chest like a life raft. The cute, rambling woman from the sidewalk is gone. In her place is someone who looks like the ground just opened up beneath her feet.

I step close, keeping my voice low and steady. “Anniston. Look at me.”

She does. Her gaze locks on mine, wide and disbelieving.

“I was hired to protect you,” I say. “Halo Protective Group. This morning. You were never supposed to know like this, but that just changed.”