We’ve never really been friends. Not really.
We knew of one another. Worked around each other.
I can admit she’s a good shot and I’m a territorial bastard. I’m not happy with some woman-hating British asshole putting a hit out for her in New York City.
That’s the reason for the gnawing pit in my stomach. It’s got to be.
“He doesn’t like him either,” Ren pipes up, drawing me into the conversation. Anything to deflect.
Ben falls for it, glancing my way. “And why does Mr. Hot Bodyguard hate him?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’ve never once said I hate Hadrian Hallow.”
Ren snorts. “Right, you just continue to look at him like that.”
I’m sitting in the booth Ren prefers, my back to the kitchen. It gives me the perfect vantage to sit and watch Isolde eat dinner with Hadrian.
“You’re jealous,” Ben says, and I’m so distracted from thinking about this afternoon that my stomach lurches at his words. A second later, I realize he’s talking to his cousin again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ren mumbles, pressing the tip of her pencil harder against her planner.
“You want me to spell it out?” Ben asks. At the noncommittal noise his cousin makes, he does, in fact, spell it out. “You get a funny look on your face every time that guy comes around.”
“That guy,” Ren says, pausing her doodling, “is the son of the guy who just tried to fuck with my business. The Hallows are rich, arrogant bastards that have very few friends.”
That’s true and not true at the same time. William Hallow, Hadrian’s father, does have friends. The type of friends that come from high places. Now, whether those friends actually like William and vice versa is up for debate. William cares about his business. He only cares about you if you can help with that.
“Right, and he’s also best friends with your best friend.”
“Why did she turn my job offer down?”
She says this last part quietly, glancing my way.
I’d been the one who told her Isolde would make a good business partner. It was clear Ren needed more help, especially if she wanted to scale up.
I still stand by the opinion, but I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “You showed up at seven in the morning, thinking she’d throw some confetti around in response to an idea you sprung on her.”
Ren frowns, not liking this assessment.
“She needs time,” I say, preempting her nagging. “Your best friend keeps a chore chart on her fridge. You know she needs time to think through things.”
This silences Ren for a second before she asks, “Has she told you anything about. . .”
“No.” The one time I actually want Isolde to talk to me, she won’t.
Abe appears, refilling his boyfriend’s coffee mug. “You need some, Mr. Hot Bodyguard?”
“That nickname is not happening.”
“Mr. Grumpy Hot Bodyguard.” Abe fills my cup up with more coffee.
“He really likes you because he’s not lecturing you about caffeine intake,” Ren whispers to me.
“At least he means well. What exactly did you hate about my kale smoothies?” I ask, and she retreats back in her seat. “Was it the vegetables or protein I added?”
She’s grumbling about traitors when my phone lights up.
Ciaran O'Connell: Your client is the blonde triggerman.
