Chapter 9

Ibrush my hands off on my apron and follow Trixie out to her truck, parked in the side alley by the bakery. She grabs a cardboard box of supplies and motions for me to take another.

“Seriously, I left you alone with her for that long and you were justnow making a move? What is this, amateur hour? I figured you military types would be all ‘target acquired’ and dive right in. Charlotte needs a good fucking, for damn sure,” Trixie says, needling me.

I grin at her bluntness and heft a bag onto my shoulder. “Me too, but I want more, and I respect that she’s got other priorities right now. Besides, target acquired is some tanker shit, not SEAL.”

Trixie’s brows furrow, and she side-eyes me through slits so narrow you can’t even see the color of her eyes. “You one of those romantic gentlemanly types?” I don’t answer, not willing to open the curtain around my heart to just anyone, and she hums, like she’s trying to decide. “Hell, maybe I need to up my estimation. I was just happy for her to get a little sumpthin’-sumpthin’ and for a warm body to help with the busy times.”

It’s a friend evaluation if ever I’ve heard one. She might as well have asked me my intentions with Charlotte. But I’m a man of action, not words. At least not words with Trixie. I’ll save whatever sweet talk I have for Charlotte herself. So I heft the bag a little higher and make a move toward the door, giving Trixie a wink instead of an answer. She smirks in return like she’s got my number, loud and clear.

Back inside, Charlotte has turned into a drill sergeant. “Trix, honey, we’ve gotta get our asses in gear. I need these dirty-frosted, refrigerated, and ready for frosting ay-sap.” Every word is sharp and crisp, and I have to smile. I know that tone.

“On it, Boss,” Trixie replies, haphazardly saluting and clicking her heels together.

“I’ll get the rest of the supplies while you two get to work.”

It seems playtime is over for us all. Outside, I grab a bag of flour, slinging it over my shoulder and carrying it inside. Charlotte looks up, a grateful look on her face, and she jerks her chin toward the supply closet. I nod and put the big bag on top of the stack of three others. Charlotte was right. They had plenty of supplies.

I head back out for another load and the blistering sun glints off a window across the street, grabbing my attention. There’s a big, black Suburban sitting at the curb, angled just right to keep watch on the bakery.

I remember that Steven’s not here, so this must be the overnight or off-day guard. Questions I’ve been squashing down float back to the surface.

I walk across the street, holding my hands out at my side to show I’m no threat. Well, I’m still a threat, but I’m unarmed, at least. And I’d bet my right hand the guys in the SUV are packing, so I err on the side of caution, hoping I don’t get shot in the street based on a misunderstanding.

The window rolls down with a smooth whir. “Good day, Commander Jacobs. Can I help you?”

The guy knows who I am. Not sure if I think that’s invasive or thorough. But I can see that they’re professionals, though they’re in jeans and generic black polos.

“Who are you? Name, rank, serial number?” I deadpan, well aware that the Geneva Convention doesn’t hold sway here.

“Need to know only, sir,” the driver says, putting his forearm on the window sill purposefully, and I see the trident tattoo he’s flashing me. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I reply, nodding my chin toward him. “What Team?” It’s the question he wants me to ask, and an answer will at least give me something to go on.

“Four,” he says with a smirk.

“Did you like San Diego?” I ask, and he laughs. It’s an easy check for ‘fake’ SEALs. The even-numbered teams are in Virginia.

He shakes his head, his grin growing. “The East Coast is beautiful this time of year. You ever been?”

“Nah, Team Three. I fucking loved San Diego.”

It’s not a perfect check. There’s enough information on the internet that people can fake being a SEAL halfway decently, but it’s a start and lets me know what kind of guys I’m working with here.

“Can you give me anything? Charlotte doesn’t quite seem the type to warrant the royal treatment.” Well, at least not with security. I could give her a damn fine pampering like a princess.

The driver looks to the passenger, who shrugs. At least I know who the high rank is of the two now, and my hard look returns to the driver, who’s clenching his teeth like he wants to say more, but he barely gives me a crumb.

“It’s a security gig, sir. For Miss Dunn’s protection. That’s all I can say.”

The look in his eyes says that’s all I’m going to get. But I try once more, laying my cards on the table, so to speak.

“I’m here daily, along with Steven. And inside, when he’s gone in the evenings sometimes, hopefully more often, if she’ll have me.” I glance over my shoulder at the pink and white awnings, the glass letting me see into the dining area of the bakery, but my eyes track to the covered windows upstairs, hoping that we’ll eventually get to that point. “If there’s anything going down, I can be a resource. I’ll protect her. Even if you can’t tell me what’s going on, can you tell me if I should be armed?”

The driver presses his lips together. “If you’d like. Won’t be needed though. We’ll do our job.”

I nod, offering him a handshake and then reaching across to shake the passenger’s hand as well. I walk back across the street, feeling their eyes on my back as I grab the last bag and take it inside.

I’ve got no more answers than I had before. In fact, I might have even more questions.