Page 9 of Working for the Enemy

"Fine, have it your way," I mutter. I scoop up a massive forkful of hashbrowns and lift it across the table, holding it right in front of his lips.

He still doesn't budge, his brow twitching slightly.

"Oh, come on," I tease, let out a ridiculous whirring airplane sound, and glide the fork through the air, gently tapping it against his bottom lip.

Kane parts his lips, clearly about to ask, "What is happening right now?" but the moment his mouth opens, I shove the fork inside to shut him up.

Exactly as planned.

The utter, profound shock in his dark blue eyes is priceless. His jaw moves mechanically as he chews, looking at me like I've completely lost my mind. A genuine, breathless laugh bubbles up from my chest, the lingering weight of the panic attack completely evaporating.

The waitress timidly returns a few minutes later, dropping the bill onto the edge of the table. Kane catches my eye, slowly raising a single eyebrow. It’s a silent, heavy question. Do we have a deal?

It feels like a total ultimatum from the man I thought of as "the enemy." But as I look at the bill, and then think about my empty bank account and the dangerous road ahead, I realize I'm not exactly drowning in other options. Forced proximity with a grumpy, overprotective giant it is.

I let out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh and turn to the waitress with a bright smile. "He’ll foot the bill, thanks. Oh, and I’d love a piece of pie and a giant cup of coffee to go, please."

I turn back to Kane, grinning cheekily at him across the table. For a split second, the harsh lines around his mouth soften, and he almost looks like he's about to smile.

6

KANE

The bell above the diner door chimes as we step out into the humid morning air. Marlowe walks beside me, clutching the paper bag containing her pie like it’s a shield, a massive cup of coffee cradled in her other hand. The cheeky grin she wore inside is still plastered on her face, but I don't miss the subtle tremor in her fingers or the way her eyes dart to the edges of the parking lot.

"So, boss man," she says, her voice loud and bright, entirely too forced. "What exactly does a personal assistant to the head of Forge Creek Municipal Contractors do? Am I picking up your dry cleaning? Screening calls from your adoring fans? Polishing your gold stars?"

"You're organizing my schedule, handling the invoicing, and keeping the office from looking like a bomb went off," I say, keeping my pace slow so she doesn't have to jog to keep up with my longer stride. "And you start today. Right now."

Marlowe blinks, stopping short beside the passenger side of my truck. "Today? Like, this very minute? Don't I get an orientation? A handbook? A safety briefing on how to handle a grumpy giant before coffee?"

"You just had the coffee," I grunt, opening the truck door for her. "Get in. We're going to the yard."

She huffs, a tiny, defiant sound that does dangerous things to my chest, and climbs inside.

Ten minutes later, I’m steering her into my office at the contractor yard. The space is small, functional, and completely buried under a mountain of blueprints, field reports, and mismatched files. I don't actually need an assistant to sort through this mess. I know exactly which pile holds what. But the thought of letting my woman out of my sight makes a knot tighten in my gut. I need her where I can see her. Where I can protect her.

"Alright," I say, clearing off a corner of the heavy oak desk and dumping a massive stack of unorganized field invoices in front of her. "Sort these by date. Then alphabetize the client files in that cabinet."

Marlowe looks at the stack, then up at me, one eyebrow arched. "Wow. You really are a tyrant. Are you sure you didn't just hire me to torture me with paperwork?"

"Sort the files, Marlowe."

I sit at my desk, pretending to look over a schematics blueprint, but my eyes keep tracking her every movement. She moves around the cramped office, her hips swaying slightly as she reaches for the filing cabinet. She’s trying to keep things light, humming a mindless tune under her breath, but the nervous tension radiating off her is palpable.

When she finishes the first stack, she leans against the desk, crossing her arms. "So, Kane. Do all your employees get the brooding-silent-treatment treatment, or am I special?"

I push the blueprints aside and lean forward, locking my eyes onto hers. "Why did you panic in the diner, Marlowe?"

She flinches, just a fraction, before a bright, fake smile graces her lips. "Oh, you know, I just have a very dramatic relationship with carbs. Pancakes make me emotional."

"Don't lie to me," I say, my voice dropping an octave. I stand up, the sheer size of my body instantly making the small office feel microscopic. I walk around the desk, closing the distance between us. I lean down, resting my hands on the desk behind her, trapping her between the heavy wood and my chest. "You looked like you saw a goddamn ghost. Who is chasing you?"

"I'm a free spirit, Kane, nobody's chasing⁠—"

"Stop joking," I growl, tilting my head down so my lips brush against the shell of her ear. The scent of sweet vanilla and diner coffee floods my senses, driving me feral. The possessiveness hits me like a freight train, dark and absolute. "You're mine now,” I rasp into her ear. “My employee. My responsibility. If someone is trying to hurt you, I will tear them apart. Tell me."

Marlowe’s breath hitches. Her eyes widen, turning dark and liquid as she stares up at me, her lips parting slightly. The humor completely drains from her face, replaced by a raw, electric tension that snaps the last thread of my control.