Page 12 of Working for the Enemy

“I’m safe,” I assure my oldest friend. This time, I actually mean it. She must sense this, too.

Soraya lets out a huge sigh, and I can practically see her collapsing onto whatever thrift store couch she has in her apartment. My friend has been living in Washington state, right on the coast, for a few months now. She stumbled her way into taking over a rundown floral shop, which unfortunately, is in a bad neighborhood.

“Thank Goddess,” she breathes out, making me smile. “I don’t have a lot of extra room at my place, but you know you’re always welcome.”

“I know. Thank you. I’m… I’m actually, truly safe,” I tell her, thinking of Kane’s promise to tear apart anyone threatening to hurt me. “But what about you? I know you were excited to oversee renovations and order new flowers for the shop, but if it’s too dangerous…”

“You’re not the only one who can tough it out,” Soraya informs me.

I nod even though she can’t see me. She’s right. We’ve both survived some pretty shitty situations. Still, my bestie is… soft. Pure. Innocent. I’d hate for that tiny, gritty coastal town to chew her up and spit her out. Then again, lots of people told me I’d never make it out of Denver.

“I’ve earned the right to worry about you, too, you know,” I tease.

Soraya tells me about her store, loading me up with all the details on her inventory and how she wants to expand and get a delivery truck one day. She breezes past an “incident” that happened last week involving a store window and a Molotov Cocktail, but she’s already onto another topic before I can investigate further.

After a few minutes, we hang up with the promise of another call soon.

By the time I get dressed and head out to the kitchen, Kane is leaning against the counter, two travel mugs of coffee sitting beside him.

We never talked about the kiss, or my moment of panic when I was trying to leave the yard yesterday. Kane must have sensed it was all too much, and gave me space all night. I appreciated the room to breathe while processing, but now in the bright morning light, how is he going to react?

The wall of muscle uncrosses his arms and nods toward the coffee. “Better drink up before talking to the grump,” he deadpans, echoing my words from yesterday.

“Thanks!” I say, a little too cheerfully. Damn this man, I really can’t read him at all. Is he ashamed of our kiss? Does he regret it? Oh, God, does he regret hiring me? As much as I resisted this job, I’m desperate for cash. Play it cool, I tell myself.

After a tension-filled, painfully silent drive to work, Kane sent me straight to his office to start organizing. The man himself hasn’t checked in on me all morning, and I’m starting to think he’s not going to. I’ll just have to take matters into my own hands.

Stepping out of the crowded office, I make my way to the center of the FCMC construction yard, clutching a clipboard like a shield. The air is thick with the scent of hot diesel, ozone, and ground metal. Heavy machinery hums around us, and workers in hardhats move like clockwork, carrying steel beams and maneuvering forklifts.

And then there's Kane.

He’s back to his usual stoic, stern demeanor, locked completely into his commander persona. Clad in a dark fitted work shirt that stretches obscenely over his broad chest, heavy boots, and dirty canvas pants, he looks like he was carved out of the very mountain we’re standing on. He’s barking brief, efficient orders to a welder, his thick eyebrows pulled into a lethal furrow.

I’m over here trying to forget how good his lips taste and wondering if my livelihood is in jeopardy, and he’s just... working.

I press my lips together, my feisty streak flaring to life. If he thinks he can play the silent, brooding tyrant all day, he’s got another thing coming.

I march over to where he’s reviewing a set of laminated blueprints draped over the hood of a dusty pickup truck.

"Excuse me, Commander," I say, stepping into his personal space with a sugary, perky tone. I hold up my clipboard. "I’ve re-indexed the inventory sheets, cross-referenced the delivery schedules, and organized your desk to within an inch of its life. Do you have another menial task for your lowly, helpless assistant, or should I start polishing the gravel?"

Kane doesn't even lift his head at first, though I see the muscle in his scarred jaw flex sharply. His dark blue eyes flick up, cold and hard as steel, settling on my face.

"Go check the structural fasteners in Bay Three," he rumbles, his voice like gravel grinding under a heavy tire. "And stop talking like a customer service hotline."

I flash him a dazzling, blinding smile, letting my dimples dig in. I lean slightly over the hood of the truck, placing a hand on my hip.

"Right away, boss," I drawl, dropping my voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, with a scowl that deep, I’m starting to think you don't actually hate people—you’re just worried if you crack a smile, your face will shatter into a million pieces. Should I call a paramedic just in case?"

Kane freezes. His dark eyes narrow at me, his thick brows knitting together as he tries to hold his usual grimace. He tries to fight it. He really does. His jaw sets, his lips lock into a hard line, and for a second, I think he’s going to order me to march straight back to the office.

Then, the barrier cracks.

A low, deep, reluctant sound rumbles straight from his massive chest, a grunted, quiet laugh that he catches halfway through. His chest rises and falls, and the corners of his mouth twitch just enough to reveal the slight, barely noticeable softening of his hard features.

A sudden rush of warmth floods my chest. It feels like a massive, glorious victory. I made the unshakeable mountain man break. The rigid tension between us instantly melts away, replaced by something warm, electric, and dangerously playful.

"Bay Three," he growls, but the hostility is completely gone, replaced by a dark, simmering warmth that sets my pulse racing. "Before I find something really tedious for you to do."