Page 13 of Gunnar

“You’re very bossy.”

“It’s one of my better qualities.”

“It absolutely isn’t.”

His expression remains perfectly serious, but his eyes grow warmer. “Agree to disagree.”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

Neither of us budges, locked in this ridiculous standoff that feels less like a security consultation and more a battle of wills and a negotiation of territory. I point toward the hallway, desperate to regain control of this situation. “Go. Sweep.”

One eyebrow lifts, that almost-smile threatening to show itself again. “Bossy.”

“It’s one of my better qualities,” I teasingly mock him, and the smile that spreads across his face reaches his eyes, transforming his face.

Wonderful…

He’s bossy, rude, and undeniably attractive. Exactly what my life needs.

I’ve dealt with diplomats who treated security protocols as optional suggestions. I’ve protected CEOs who genuinely believed kidnapping was something that happened to other people. I’ve worked with professional athletes who thought their physical prowess translated to threat assessment. None of them tested my patience as thoroughly as Devyn Martin—and I’ve known her for less than an hour.

I walk slowly through the second-floor hallway, documenting security weaknesses while she follows several paces behind me. More correctly, she stalks behind me, her footsteps sharp and deliberate, with irritation radiating off her like heat off asphalt in August.

The house itself is beautiful. Expensive yet tasteful. It’s the kind of place that gets featured in architectural magazines, with spreads titled “Celebrities at Home” or “Malibu Coastal Living.” The hardwood floors and custom fixtures alone probably cost more than my entire home. Floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the ocean views like paintings, inviting the outside in, erasing the boundary between private and public.

It’s also a security nightmare. The house is a glass box sitting on a hillside, visible from multiple angles and accessible from as many approaches. Devyn Martin lives inside it like a display piece.

The two things aren’t mutually exclusive. In fact, they’re often directly related, with an inverse correlation between aesthetic appeal and practical protection. Large windows that flood rooms with natural light also provide sight-lines for observers. Numerous entry points that create flow and openness also create vulnerabilities. Landscaping designed for privacy provides concealment for intruders. An electronic security system that’s decent but not exceptional, probably installed by the same contractor who did the home theater and the smart lighting.

I stop beside a hallway window, one overlooking the side garden, with its fountain and carefully arranged greenery. “How often is this open?”

“Sometimes.”

I glance over my shoulder. She’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, her expression daring me to challenge her. “Sometimes isn’t an answer, Devyn.”

She lifts her chin, a stubborn angle I’ve already learned to recognize. “It’s a very flexible answer.”

“It’s not.” I stare at her. She stares back, her hazel eyes defiant and lips set in a line that suggests she’s enjoying this conflict far more than she should be. For someone who found flowers from her trash arranged on her kitchen island, she’s remarkably determined to fight me on absolutely everything. “Do you want me to make assumptions? Because I can. I can assume this window is always open. I can assume you leave it unlocked. I can assume the security system is armed inconsistently, if at all. I can build an entire threat model based on those assumptions, and every protocol I recommend will reflect them.”

She shifts slightly, her bravado cracking just enough to show uncertainty beneath. “No.”

“Then answer the questions.”

She sighs dramatically, the kind of sigh normally reserved for sullen teenagers. “Occasionally,” she admits, the word dragged out, like it’s being pulled from her against her will. “When I want fresh air. When it’s nice outside. Occasionally.”

“We’ll need window sensors.”

“It already has sensors.”

“New sensors,” I insist, making my way down the hallway. “The existing sensors are of a basic grade, probably whatever came with the initial security installation.”

Behind me, I hear muttering. I don’t quite catch everything. Impossible. Ridiculous. Insufferable. It’s probably for the best that I don’t actually hear her. My job is keeping her safe, not making her like me.

At the door to the master suite, I pause at the threshold. “May I?”

She gestures with one hand, begrudgingly granting me permission.