Page 16 of Yours to Keep


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He grins, “I might have found my future husband.”

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “For fuck’s sake.”

I didn’t bother hiding my reaction. Outside of work, he spent most of his time on what he called romantic reconnaissance, which mostly involved confusing strangers and calling it destiny.

Personally, I think his soulmate is already sitting on our conference table scrolling through his phone, but I’m not telling him that. Some lessons have to be learned the hard way.

“How many is that now?”

He holds up three fingers.

“Try four this month,” I say.

Deck corrects me immediately, “Three and a half.”

“That is not how numbers work.”

“It is when they’re little and cute.” He says, a grin wide across his face.

I stare at him. What the fuck. “You’re impossible.”

He just grins wider, bright blue eyes full of trouble. A walking contradiction, chaos wrapped in loyalty, but he is also the person I trust when things go bad.

Outside of work, he looks like a stereotype that escaped HR’s worst nightmares: Ripped jeans, black Henley, leather jacket, tattoos layered over old scars, and a red beard that somehow makes him look even more untrustworthy.

“Why are you really here?” I ask, rubbing my temple. “It’s too early for whatever this is.” Waving my hand at him.

“My cheerful personality?”

“Sure,” I say, rolling my eyes.

He ignores that entirely. “Your new brother-in-law works at the coffee shop down the street. He’s the barista, and his name is Toby.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it, and Deck points at me like he’s caught me in something.

“There it is.” He says loudly.

“What?”

He motions at me with his head, “That smile.”

“Get out.”

But he sinks further into the chair instead.

“Nope. Business.”

The humor drains from his face so fast the room shifts with it when he drops the file on my desk.

“Mason Sterling.”

I open it and look at his photo. My stomach tightens as I study it. Something cold slides beneath my ribs, the kind of instinct that never lies. My jaw locks as I take Mason in.

“Twenty-two. Five foot eight. Dark blonde hair. Green eyes. Missing from Seattle.”

Three months.

I read faster.