One

ONE

I t was Monday night, and I was having dinner. A nice dinner. Outside. In an area with just enough heaters to cut the chill but not enough to make perspire in my cashmere sweater over a dress shirt. March in Chicago was chilly, but not the arctic blast it was in January or February. It was so lovely that I even took off my suit jacket. In fact, it was perfect. And because it was, and because the appetizers had just been brought to the table and I was about to begin the seduction part of my evening, that was when I heard someone—two someones—screaming my name.

This was how my luck had been working lately, and I had no idea why.

My date, Matt something—very nice, very hot, corporate tax attorney—looked up, fork halfway to his mouth, and asked, "Are those guys yelling your name?"

"Absolutely not," I assured him as Owen Moss and Benji Grace, both of whom worked with me at Torus Intercession, bolted across eight lanes of Monday night downtown Chicago traffic. They were running as fast as they could, toward me, darting between cars, the cacophony of honking, screeching brakes, and obscenities yelled out of windows trailing behind them like a parade.

Really, why did the universe not want me to get laid?

"I really think they—oh, they're coming right?—"

"Cooper!" Owen gasped, reaching the decorative metal fence that separated the restaurant from the sidewalk and grabbing hold of it, panting hard.

Standing, I moved quickly over to him as Benji came flying up, seconds behind him, vaulted over the fence, and launched himself at me. Fortunately he was not a big man or he would have knocked me on my ass. Owen took that moment to scramble over and slip behind me, which wasn't like him. He didn't need anyone to protect him—he could easily take care of himself—plus I couldn't imagine he wasn't carrying. That was what his ankle holster was for. And Benji could normally talk himself out of any predicament, and he wasn't unskilled in the art of self-defense either, so him hurling himself into my arms was out of character as well.

Catching Benji, I set him on his feet as four men in really good suits—labels that I wore myself—came hurtling over to the fence, one of them leaning over, trying to grab Owen. Everyone was yelling, and the noise got to that deafening state where it was overlapping, which I hated, before one guy got a hold of Benji. Instantly, I wrenched him off my colleague and shoved him back. Hard.

"Who the hell're you?" the guy I pushed yelled at me.

I took a breath. I never let people see me flustered. Even during my breakup with the guy I thought I loved, I never yelled or raised my voice. It was a lesson I'd learned young from having four older sisters. What was the point of volume when all it did was tick people off? All yelling did was add to the noise level when cooler heads should have prevailed.

"Who the hell are you?" I retorted. My patience was good. Like long. So long. Again, sisters. But that didn't mean I wasn't annoyed, and he could hear that in my voice. Because whoever these guys were had interrupted my dinner and tried to hurt Benji—who was like a warm, sugary confection mixed up into a person—and that was a mistake.

"I'm Raglan Olivet, and these two assholes just told my buddy Patrick's mother that the place she wanted to give him is haunted."

Not what I was expecting, but also not the weirdest thing I would have expected from Benji or Owen. The paranormal was in their wheelhouse. Well, Benji's. I was fairly certain Owen was more that rare breed who didn't judge.

"I mean, what the fuck?" Raglan concluded.

I sifted through what I had so far: Raglan was talking to me, Patrick was there somewhere, and they were upset with my colleagues because they had delivered news of a haunting.

This was going to kill my evening; I just knew it.

I took a moment to absorb the ridiculousness. Did I think Benji was a gifted psychiatrist? Yes. He'd proven he was on a number of occasions and was excellent at vetting new clients for the company. Did I think his skills translated to paranormal investigator? That would be absurd. Did I think there was a need for such a thing to begin with or that paranormal anything should be a job? Absolutely not. Did Raglan have a stupid name? Without question. Because really, his nickname had to be Rag, and that was terrible. But that wasn't the matter at hand. "May I ask why it matters if the space Patrick's mother wants to give him is haunted or not?"

"Because now Patrick can't have the warehouse because his mother doesn't want him to have something that's cursed," Raglan explained.

"Got it. Thank you for bringing me up to speed. Now, may I ask why this situation concerns anyone outside of Patrick and his mother?"

"Because we're all supposed to be going in together on a club we've been planning on for years," Raglan said dejectedly.

Ah. The prospect of money.

I turned to Owen. "Why didn't you stand your ground and defend yourself? There are only four of them."

"I didn't want to hurt anyone, yeah?" Owen shrugged. "I thought running would be better."

And now I understood where he was coming from.

"What about you?" I asked Benji.

"I felt bad delivering upsetting news and didn't want to injure anyone on top of that. I mean, that's like adding insult to injury, don't you think?"

I squinted at him.

"Actually," Benji amended, "that would be adding injury to bad news, if we're being literal. That idiom doesn't really work here, does it?"

"No," I agreed, and now was fully rounded out with how and why the situation had escalated. I always liked to know the whole story before I offered any insights.

The four guys were looking to start their business, and between them and their envisioned success stood Benji and Owen. I would have been pissed off too, especially since the paranormal component was what was getting in the way, which was, absolutely, a pile of crap. On the flipside, Owen, who didn't want to harm anyone, had gotten Benji to go on a however long mad dash through the city in hopes of tiring the guys out to the point where they could engage in dialogue about their present predicament. It was a good plan. Physically drained people normally weren't homicidal and were far more likely to be reasonable.

Returning my attention to the guys chasing my friends, I cleared my throat. "Would you all like to sit down, join us, and we'll eat something, have some drinks, and discuss?"

The four men stared at me, then glanced around, took the temperature of the upscale restaurant they were at, and then all returned their attention to me. I was waiting. Staring at them and appearing, I was certain, somewhere between resigned and annoyed.

They all nodded and started around the fence toward the entrance. Owen and Benji followed me to the table, where Matt…Mark…Mace?…was staring at me wide-eyed.

"That was amazing. You single-handedly avoided disaster."

"Not yet," I replied as the excited waiter brought over more tables so six more people could be seated with us. Normally that wasn't the case at most restaurants, but it was a Monday night, and we were outside. I was guessing that had a lot to do with it.

"Hi, I'm Benji," my friend said cheerfully, offering Maybe Micah his hand. "Sorry to be ruining your dinner."

"Oh no, not at all, this is very exciting," he replied, smiling at Benji because everyone, always, smiled at Benji. "I'm Miles."

Miles … God, me with the names. Miles introduced himself to everyone, and there was water all around because they'd all run for blocks, and cocktails ordered before Owen began to explain that there was no scientific reason for the cold spots, flickering lights, strange sounds, and the odd smells in the industrial space.

"What does that mean?" Miles asked, riveted.

Owen shrugged. "I checked the wiring, the plumbing, the furnace, the AC unit, the water heater… I checked everything, and nothing physical is wrong with it."

"On the other hand," Benji chimed in, "I did the lemon test where you cut a lemon into quarters, cover it in salt, and put several bowls of them all around the space. They all molded."

"Why does that matter?" Miles was into it now.

"It should simply dry up," Benji explained, and everyone seemed fascinated. "But they all molded, which means there's a presence there that needs to be cleansed."

"Won't any food, left out, eventually mold?" one of the guys asked.

"Not if it's infused with enough salt, as it's a preservation agent," Benji said. "But more importantly, never in one day or two. That couldn't happen."

I was thinking it could happen, just as it had in this instance. There were far too many mitigating factors that might have occurred.

"He's not saying the negative entity—energy—will remain," Owen clarified for everyone. "He's just saying that at the moment, you have something in there."

Three men turned to Raglan, who, it appeared, was the ringleader of this particular circus. Even with it being Patrick's mother's space to give, or not, that didn't matter. Raglan was the one in charge of the venture. "So you're saying," he began, questioning Benji, "that once whatever it is, is out, Patrick's mother could then turn over the property to him?"

"Unless you have a haunting, as opposed to a ghost or poltergeist," Benji clarified. "I'll have to do some research on the building and get back to you."

"But only if you want," Owen told Benji, then to Raglan, "You and your buddies can just go buy something else if you don't want to wait on us."

Raglan had to decide.

I just wanted to eat, leave, and go to Miles's place and have sex. But from how interested he was in the conversation, I could feel our alone time slipping away.

It was funny, but I wasn't all that upset at the prospect of going home by myself. There were shows I needed to catch up on, and the books were stacking up as well. I could maybe even get in a late-night run before the rain started.

Things had not always been like that. There had been a time, a year and a half ago now, when I thought I'd found the one. But it turned out I was a horrific judge of character and had not just been wrong, but horribly so. I'd fallen hard, and the man in question had kept me hidden, not telling a soul about me. I had no idea he was in the closet; I thought he was just busy. He was a corporate lawyer, after all. Of course he had to be on a call with Hong Kong when I wanted him to meet my friends, go to the movies, the ballet, or just have dinner at a new place I wanted to try. I finally understood precisely where I stood when I was introduced to his work colleagues as a friend and his wingman and nothing more. I never even noticed the closet door closing behind me. I'd had no idea I was his dirty little secret.

Everything made sense after that: His reticence to move in with me, his hatred of even the smallest PDA, his inability to be with me for the holidays, my birthday, or anything else. There would be other people there, my family, my friends, and he couldn't meet them because then they would know him and greet him in public. He couldn't have that.

It was easy to end us since, it turned out, our lives were in no way commingled. I had nothing at his place, and he had nothing at mine. Our relationship was basically a series of one-night stands where we went back to our own lives until it was time to hook up again. I was a booty call, plain and simple. I'd been floating around on a cloud of delusion, and he was going about his life, having his needs met, giving nothing, staking no claim, and when it was over, he left without a backward glance.

Love was stupid, and though I hadn't sworn off it forever—I was a romantic at heart and a believer in the true and forever kind, for which I blamed my sisters with their romance novels and the rom-coms I was dragged to as a child—I was definitely not in the market for finding the one anytime soon. While I didn't despair of there ever being someone out there for me, I had my parents as a glowing example of soulmates. Plus, the idea of growing old and living with one of my sisters—they all wanted me to help take care of their kids—really didn't sound all that bad. Already, I found myself slowly slipping into my curmudgeon phase, even if I did go on the occasional date.

"Are you gonna get that?" Owen asked me, bringing me from my thoughts to the phone ringing in the breast pocket of my suit.

"Oh, look who it is," I grumbled, pulling my cell and turning it so Owen could see that it was his intended—the wedding would be in June—my boss, Jared Colter.

"That's a terrible picture," Owen groused. "I have much better ones," he suddenly grinned. "Of course, most of those are of him naked."

"Gross," I muttered, passing my phone to Owen. "Here, take it."

His smile lit his face. "Hello there," he answered in a sultry voice I'd never heard from him before.

I'd let Owen take the call because for one, it was easier than saying later, Oh, Owen's here , and having to explain the whole thing when Owen could just tell him now. Second, ever since the announcement came about my boss and our tech guy getting married, both of them were different, more open, and I liked the new reality.

It was funny to look back at what I—and everyone else—thought about them before we were all told the story of what happened to Owen's parents.

All of us, current and former fixers, thought Owen was young, around twenty-four at most, but he was actually a worldly thirty-two. For guys who were supposed to be observant, we all sucked at noticing things that were right in front of us.

Locryn Barnes, another fixer who'd left, thought Owen had blue eyes when they were very clearly green, and Barnes used to be a cop. I'd found that unless you really looked at people, something like eye color wasn't something anyone retained. Like Benji. I had no idea what color his eyes were. If someone had a gun in my face and threatened to kill me unless I told them, I'd be dead. It was why, when I used to take witness statements at crime scenes back in the day, it had always been hit or miss. People saw what they conjured in their minds, not what actually occurred in front of them. That had been my whole problem with my last relationship. I'd only seen what I wanted to.

My boss, badass Army Intelligence supersoldier, was no better. Jared Colter had seen nothing at all past friendship with Owen until Owen was kidnapped and Jared had to save him. Somewhere during their adventure, my boss's eyes had been opened to what was right under his nose, and I couldn't be happier for them. Watching Owen smile as he talked into my phone gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest. Just because love wasn't currently in the cards for me didn't mean seeing it in full bloom wasn't nice.

"Here you go," Owen said with such forced cheerfulness that I couldn't miss it, giving me a look of sympathy like I was going to the guillotine.

I groaned. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, using a creepy happy tone, his smile more of a grimace.

"You're a terrible liar," I assured him.

"What?" So much over-the-top mock surprise, I rolled my eyes at him.

Clearly, whatever my boss was about to say was going to be a horror. "Hello," I greeted him briskly, girding for bad news.

"Are Owen and Benji really injury-free?" my boss asked first. Owen was the love of his life and Benji worked for him, so I understood his concern.

"Yeah. They're good. I promise."

Quick breath. "Okay, then listen. I'm sorry for the late call, but I need you in Maine tomorrow, so you should probably get home and pack."

It took me a moment to process his words.

"Davis? Are you there?" he said, using my last name. I was pretty sure it was a habit picked up from the military that he saw no reason to break.

I had to reboot. "I'm sorry, did you say Maine?"

"I did."

There were questions. So many questions. But my boss didn't like those. And all I could think was, Maine? In early March? Was it raining? Was it cold? Colder than Chicago? And why on earth did I need to go there?

"Listen, I know what you're thinking, but it won't take long. It's a few days. Five in all. There's a wedding, and I think a small amount of time after that or before, I'm not sure. The timeline is a bit up in the air."

A wedding? Oh dear God. And what the hell did "a bit up in the air" mean?

"Why is that?"

"It's because we were hired by our client's agent, Mr. Klein, and he didn't have all the details to give me, just that it's Tuesday through Saturday."

This was getting better and better. "Who is our client?"

"Ashford Lennox, the actor. Levi Klein, who hired us, is his agent. Have you heard of Lennox or seen him in anything?"

Only my boss would ask if I'd heard of one of the biggest actors in Hollywood. What was impressive about Lennox was that seven years ago, he was not yet a household name, even after a very successful series on HBO and many big-budget Hollywood blockbusters. What changed things for him and put him on everyone's radar was first a turn as the intrepid Jack Ryan, and then playing a gay doctor dealing with an opioid addiction after he and several others had been attacked in the hospital where they worked. I'd seen that same scenario played out in other movies and on TV, but somehow, Ashford Lennox breathed new life into that trope. When he received his Oscar for best actor, he officially came out, though he hadn't been hiding the truth before.

Like most people, I thought he'd do a lot of indie films after that, maybe more TV, and perhaps end up playing the best friend, dependable sidekick, and voice of reason to the big, muscle-bound hero. But lo and behold, that wasn't the case. Women loved him, gay men loved him, and straight men were good with him too. I had a feeling it was because he looked like a guy you could count on to have your back in a fight, and at the same time, you never had to worry he'd make a move on your wife or girlfriend. He was the perfect wingman. Somehow, someway, Ashford Lennox was openly gay and his career just kept building with no downside in sight.

"Yes, sir, I've heard of him," I said without groaning, which I was proud of. I would have needed to be living under a rock not to know who Ashford Lennox was.

"Apparently, Mr. Lennox had a regular bodyguard, but he is no longer with Mr. Lennox."

"What happened there?"

"Mr. Klein either didn't know or didn't want to tell me."

"What does your gut say?"

"From all the hedging, I'm guessing the bodyguard hit on Lennox, but Lennox left it open if the man wanted to return."

"His bodyguard hit on him and he's giving the guy another chance?"

"That's what it sounds like to me, but as Mr. Klein pointed out, he didn't need to know what went on, and neither do we. What we do need to know is only that he needs a new person."

"Why doesn't Klein just hire Lennox one?"

"He has a whole team for events, but for simply the day-to-day, Lennox only has one person with him, and he's always hired that person himself."

"Okay…"

"So since he can't at the moment, as there's no time, he asked his agent to find him a suitable replacement."

"I'm surprised he had his agent do that and not his manager."

"I was told there is no manager, only an agent."

This was sounding worse and worse. If I needed something, how was I supposed to get in touch with a busy agent?

"And as he's going to his niece's wedding, you won't be going as a bodyguard, but as his plus-one."

I couldn't have heard him correctly.

"Keep an open mind."

"Sir—"

"It'll be easy."

Had he just said that? Easy? Did he even listen to himself? He'd just given me the kiss of death right there.

"It's a simple protection detail where you will be undercover as his boyfriend."

"Why? I can just go as his bodyguard since that's what I'll be."

"I guess—and it makes sense, he's a very handsome man—that if he goes anywhere without someone on his arm, he becomes the focus of attention."

Of course he did. Because really, handsome didn't do the man justice—those forest-green eyes, jet-black hair, chiseled features, sculpted physique… He was stunning. Whenever he walked the red carpet, all eyes were on him. When I watched him on TV or in movies, inevitably I had to go back and watch it again because my eyes were riveted on him and I missed what everyone else was doing. So truly, I had no doubt that if he showed up to things alone, he'd be mobbed.

"Apparently, he even turned down his niece's wedding invitation when she first invited him for that very reason. He wanted her to be the one in the spotlight, not him."

"Very thoughtful of him."

"Yes, but the niece wants him there since he's the one paying for the wedding."

"Oh?"

"Her father has made some bad investments or something, or wouldn't pay—I don't know. Mr. Klein was very light on the details, and again, those aren't things we need to know."

"So Lennox is bailing out his…?"

"Half brother. Technically. But their father, Coleman Walder, never married Lennox's mother, Barbara, so?—"

"He's illegitimate."

"Yes."

"Which is why his last name isn't Walder. Interesting."

"Rich families always are."

"But he's done the best out of the whole group, I'm assuming, so when they need money, they hit him up for it."

"I don't know about that. Walder Industrial is a huge conglomerate that is not, in any way, suffering. I don't know why Lennox is paying for his niece's wedding, but I'm sure there's a story there."

"So in a nutshell, he's going to a wedding he's paying for and will be there to see all his extended family."

"Correct. Plus, his father died five years ago, and he was made executor of the estate, so he's the one who doles out the money to the rest of his relatives."

"This sounds like it's going to be a horror show for him."

"I agree. No wonder he needs a buffer."

It made sense that the person between Lennox and his family needed to at least appear to be of the romantic persuasion. A bodyguard, his family could get around, claiming they weren't endangering him. A lover, a partner, a significant other, they could not.

"Really, though, when all is said and done, this is going to be easy," my boss assured me. "You'll see."

First off, no job was ever easy. That was a given. Something was always going to go wrong. Second, my boss had a tendency to downplay things when he thought one of his fixers would balk, especially unspeakable, brain-numbing horrors like, say, Maine in early March.

"It's not like you're going as a caretaker. You're simply the man's plus-one."

I was concerned he was having a stroke, and before his nuptials too. I coughed softly. "Aren't weddings normally two-day affairs at most? Rehearsal dinner, then wedding?"

"No, they're normally four days long and filled with different activities," he informed me, and I noted a trace of judgment in his voice, like I should have known that.

"Great," I said instead of I'd rather sit through another of Owen's tech seminars . In my opinion, Owen was missing his calling by not working with people with insomnia. He could put anyone to sleep in seconds when he started talking about gadgets. "So what you're telling me is that Lennox is not in any danger at this wedding."

"Probably not. The venue in Castine has been completely rented out for the nuptials, and they have a regular on-site security team."

"They rented the whole hotel?"

"Inn. It's an inn."

Of course it was. "This is a tag-along-and-guard situation."

"Correct."

I took a breath. "Sir, if this man?—"

"Ashford Lennox."

"If Lennox needs a fake boyfriend and not an actual bodyguard, wouldn't it be better if we handed this off to?—"

"He's a huge movie star, so there could always be danger."

I could tell from his clipped tone that I was treading dangerously close to questioning him, and that wasn't what I meant to do. My boss was not in the habit of wasting our time, or his, so if he was sending me, there was reason in his mind.

"I expect this to be simple, Cooper."

I should have let it drop there. "You know who loves weddings? Rais. I bet he would do really well in?—"

"I just shipped him off to pick up a bounty hunter who ran off with the woman he was supposed to bring in. That might take a bit."

Of course it would.

"Everyone is assigned to something except you."

"Do you know how much I hate other people's families?" I asked my boss.

"Families are wonderful. You're going to love meeting all the people I consider family who are coming in for my wedding."

That was what had been taking so long. It was a daunting task, coordinating schedules for people who worked at the State Department, who worked for the CIA, Army Intelligence, the FBI and all the other alphabet agencies, plus the folks working with black-ops extraction teams and some who, to put it gently, were contractors who killed others for a living. June had been the earliest it could be done. There were also all the flowers. I had listened to Owen explain how this specific one from Greece would honor his mother, and this one from Ireland his father, and how they would be woven together along with one for Jared and another for Owen to signify union and happiness… and on and on. The whole thing was unnerving. In the past, my conversations with Owen had been about technology and muscle cars. Now they were about boutonnieres and orchids and how black tie the event would be. It was weird.

"Make sure you pack a tuxedo, as I understand the wedding is formal, but the rest of the time, other than the rehearsal dinner, it sounds like business casual will get you through."

"I—"

"It might even be relaxing."

It would not.

"Maine in the off-season will be lovely."

I had to bite my tongue so I didn't say anything snarky.

"It'll be fine," my boss said, completely jinxing me. "You'll be fine."

Why did he hate me?

"Did Owen tell you the whole story about how far and why he and Benji were running from trust-fund babies? I mean, you asked me if they were okay, and they are, but if they hadn't run into me, there might have been real trouble."

Was that true? Not at all. Did I think Owen could have kicked the shit out of at least three of those guys, leaving the last one for Benji? I did, yes. But I could see everyone, and Jared could not. He had no idea what they looked like. The sudden silence on the other end of the call told me that Owen had, most assuredly, left out some pertinent details about his and Benji's flight from the four men.

It took a moment for all of it to sink in.

"Boss?"

Nothing.

"You want to talk to Owen again?"

He grunted, which I took as affirmative.

Walking back to the table, I held my phone out to Owen. He looked up at me in question.

"My boss would like a word."

Instant scowl. "What did you say to him?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

He growled, snatched the phone from my hand, and was immediately in defuse mode. "No, no, everything's fine. It was just a misunder—running? Who said we were running?"

I scoffed, and Benji scowled at me.

"This kind of behavior is not designed to bring on good karma," Benji reminded me.

My shrug told him I didn't give a crap.

"No," Owen said quickly. "You don't need to send Shaw down here."

I couldn't have stifled the cackle if he'd paid me.

My night was made at that point. Owen and Benji interfered and cockblocked me, so they got to deal with overly concerned, overly protective partners.

Karma my ass.